Oop, hooli, kara

It’s officially fall at Duke. The weather is a little cooler, sweaters and scarves are in fashion and book bagging is on the horizon. It’s also the same time of year that every one gets a little anxious. We’re worried about jobs and internships, and we’re worried about what our latest midterm grade means for our final course grade. We’re worried about the unrest in Syria and the violence in Israel and Palestine. The novelty of being back on campus is wearing off, and all the realities of campus life are sinking in.

For me, fall break is always a really reflective time. Enough of the year has gone by that I’ve become settled and invested into Duke. On the other hand, I have a semester and a half left of my sophomore year to go and no idea how I want to shape it. I’m sure that one day when I’m older and wiser I’ll talk about college as a transformative time when I had no worries and could just take classes and explore. But right now, everything feels like it’s high stakes. I manage my days on iCal meticulously, whether its classes, meetings, lunches or homework. Like everyone else at Duke, I’m “busy.” I want to make sure that I take the right classes and meet the right people I’ll never get to meet anywhere else in the world. I’m so excited and thrilled about the incredible opportunities that going to Duke affords that I almost don’t even know how to start taking advantage of it all.

This frenzy of life is fun and overwhelming. It’s easy to get lost in the day-to-day. But how do I find meaning in all of this noise? At what point do I mix all of these things together and discover my personal calling, my story? There is so much energy and excitement and responsibility that comes with being at this university that we have to focus to handle it all. This fall break, I had a bit of an epiphany. It came from three little words, whispered in a South Indian language, in my kitchen at home: Oop, hooli, kara.

Allow me to explain: When I went home for break, my mom decided to make one of my favorite dishes. It’s just a simple dish made from chopped green beans and mild Indian spices, but it instantly makes me feel at home. We washed and prepped the vegetables together and then I watched her cook the rest while we chatted about school and everything that I had missed over the past few weeks. The aroma of the beans filled the house and the smell alone comforted me from everything I was worried about. When she was almost done, she put a few of the beans on the end of her wooden spoon and waved me over, asking me to taste it.

Like always, they were delicious. And then she asked me, as she always does, “Oop, hooli kara?” It’s a Kannada phrase, in my native language, and loosely translated it means “Salt, sour, spice?” My mom’s cooking philosophy believes that great food has all three of these facets in perfect balance. Every meal she’s ever made throughout my childhood has ended in her calling me over and asking me those three little words.

I’ve actually never tasted something that doesn’t have a perfect balance of these three. When I was standing in my kitchen, smelling these delicious beans, I couldn’t help but think how beautiful that whole concept was. Salt. Sour. Spice. Just three things that in balance make my mom’s food delicious. Indian food is central to my household. In fact, its one of the only strong connections to Indian culture that we have since we now mostly speak English and aren’t very religious.

So maybe I stress out about the classes I’m taking or that I didn’t go to enough campus talks or that I shouldn’t have missed a dinner with a friend. But that’s okay. Because life isn’t always totally balanced. In fact, balance is an art. And if someone as incredible as my mom has got it figured out, then surely I can too.

Shruti Rao is a Trinity sophomore. Her column runs on alternate Tuesdays.