It was a typical day at work, or so I thought. My cozy, modest restaurant was no Michelan star eat out place, but nevertheless I was extremely proud of it. My birth name is Abdul, but to keep up a universal image and cater to people from all stratas and cultures in the bustling and busy upscale Bandra market, ‘Abby’ was the name I gave my resto baby. I didn’t even realise when my identity also switched from Abdul to Abby, courtesy demands of work. You guessed it right, I’m a chef!

In the predominantly Catholic neighbourhood of Mumbai, I modified my menu to the bestselling ‘Continental’ and ‘American’, you can never go wrong with them, right? Today’s delirious generation would rather stuff themselves with junk and boast about it on social media than adapt and respect their roots and local cuisines. Anyways, who am I to crib? As long as these people set my cash registers rolling, Abby is at their service, literally! 

I had just finished my morning prayers, and before beginning the lunch preparations for breakfast I whipped myself my favourite, kheema and nalli nihari. I inhaled the aromas arising out of the dishes, a mouthwatering blend of savoury spices, rich herbs, and the subtle sweetness of caramelized ingredients. As the scent fills the air, it evokes warmth and comfort, teasing the senses with hints of garlic, rosemary, and a touch of smokiness. The smoke hued kitchen transported me back to a heavenly maze, where with each turn a dish which I grew up savouring from my mom’s delicate hands teased and enticed me. 

My household was ‘chill’ as it’s called today. Dad was a teacher, yes you heard it right, at a local school, Mom the actual bread earner with her ‘dabba service’ which was a hit and facilitated me and sister to complete our education. My sister had both; the brains of our dad and the smartness of mom, she is now a successful Data Analyst and myself; I inherited my mom’s talent for cooking but a pity that I can’t recreate her trademark dishes in Abby. 

Just as I sat to take the first morsel of my meal, a gentleman walked in. He too was dressed like me, in our prayer clothes and said, “Excuse me, I’ve had a hectic morning and skipped my breakfast, there are no other eateries open at this hour. The smell wafting from your restaurant, dragged me and my growling stomach here. If it isn’t too much to ask, can I please be served breakfast and anything that you have ready, nothing to go out of your way; in fact;” he drooled over my breakfast and licked his lips, “I’d be happy to eat what you are.”
The man's request caught me off guard. His eyes sparkled with a mix of hunger and curiosity, and his demeanour, though humble, carried an air of quiet confidence. I hesitated for a moment, considering the oddity of sharing my personal meal with a stranger, but something about him compelled me to say, "Of course, please have a seat."

I quickly set the table for him, placing a plate of kheema and nalli nihari before him. He inhaled deeply, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. "This smells incredible," he said, before taking his first bite. I watched as his expression transformed, his eyes widening with surprise and pleasure. "This is the best meal I've had in a long time Abby," he said, leaning back in his chair, "there's something familiar about your food. It reminds me of something from my past—something I haven't tasted in years."

He finished his meal and wiped his mouth with a napkin, then looked at me with an intensity that made me stand a little straighter. I looked at him curiously, wondering what he meant. 

"Familiar? In what way?"
 

The man smiled, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes. "When I was younger, I lived in a modest neighbourhood not too far from here. My parents were both working, and I often found myself eating out of dabbas that my mother ordered for me during busy days. There was one particular dabba that stood out—the food was always exceptional, rich with the flavours of home-cooked meals. I never knew who made it, but I could tell it was prepared with love and care."

A strange feeling began to stir in my chest as I listened. Could it be? No, of course not, he couldn’t have sampled mom’s dabba and still remembered it? With a lump in his throat, Abdul asked him for his childhood neighbourhood whereabouts and when the man confirmed his area, Abdul had tears streaming down his face. 

"Sir... that dabba service... it was run by my mother."

The man shook his head, smiling in disbelief. "It’s a small world. Your mother’s cooking left a mark on me. It’s no wonder I was drawn to your restaurant today. The same aroma, taste, love and passion she put into her food; I can taste it in yours."

A wave of emotion swept over me as I realized the depth of what he was saying. My mother’s legacy, the flavours she had lovingly crafted, were still alive and well, living on through me and Abby’s.

Just when I thought the day couldn’t have been any better, the man extending his hand, “I’m Noor Ahmed by the way.”
 

Wait, why did the name sound so known? Just as I was trying to process, he continued, "Abby, I believe your restaurant has the potential to be something much bigger. With the right backing, I see this place becoming a global sensation, bringing the authentic flavours of your mom to the world."

My mind raced as I tried to process what he was saying. "But, sir, I’m not sure I am capable of that. The size of the resto, it’s location right amidst these Internation cuisines, I don’t think I would have a chance and honestly, resources."

“Hmmm…It’s not about the size of the place Abdul; it’s about the love and passion that you put into your food, making it your very own distinctive taste and style. Let me make you an offer, I’ll fund your resto and we’ll bring it to a much larger audience. What do you say?", he removed his business card and kept on the table.

Oh, My God! He was THE Noor Ahmed, the business magnate who was the brightest star in the world of Mumbai’s real estate and had announced his decision of entering the culinary market. I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the kind of opportunity that every small business owner like me dreams of, but rarely gets.

After a long moment, I found my voice. Tears welled in my eyes, "I don’t know what to say, sir. This is... unbelievable. I would be honoured, Mr. Ahmed. For allowing me a chance to keep my mother and everything that she ever taught me alive."

He chuckled. "Just say yes, I have a feeling this will be the start of something extraordinary."

And so, with a handshake that sealed our partnership, the small, unassuming Abby’s restaurant in the heart of Bandra began its journey toward success. The restaurant was soon renamed “Mom’s Love” for obvious reasons. The humble eatery that started by catering to others’ tastes would soon become the fruit of Abdul’s labour. And yes, I was no longer "Abby" but Abdul—the name my mother lovingly called me. I no longer felt the need to hide my identity. 

Months passed, and Noor Ahmed proved to be more than just a business partner—he became a mentor and a friend. Under his guidance, the restaurant underwent a transformation. The interior was revamped, blending traditional Indian elements with a modern, global aesthetic. The menu was expanded to include a wider array of my mother’s recipes, each dish carrying a story, a memory, a piece of her.
The day “Mom’s Love” officially reopened was one I will never forget. The restaurant was filled with the familiar faces of loyal customers and new faces drawn by the buzz of something special happening in the heart of Bandra. As I stood at the entrance, greeting each guest with a smile, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by the journey that had brought me here.

Noor Ahmed had gone above and beyond, using his influence to bring in food critics, bloggers, and even a few celebrities. The reviews that followed were nothing short of glowing. Words like “authentic,” “soulful,” and “heartfelt” were used repeatedly, and soon, “Mom’s Love” became the talk of the town.

But the greatest reward wasn’t in the fame or the packed restaurant; it was in the moments when customers, both old and new, would take their first bite and pause, savoring the flavors that had been passed down through generations. They would often look up, their eyes meeting mine, and I knew that they, too, had tasted something more than just food—they had tasted love.

A feeling of pride enveloped me, when ‘Mom’s Love’ was now a name known far beyond the bustling streets of Bandra and had become a symbol of great food served with a sprinkle of, yes you guessed it right, ‘Mom’s Love’.

***

Glossary:
dabba service: a meal/tiffin delivery and return system
resto: slang for restaurant