Fond memories of a forbidden meal
It had been raining incessantly, keeping me confined to the house except for school hours. I was only eight years old and loved to wander in the narrow winding streets and green fields of the village that was our home.
The village was a safe haven, full of familiar faces. If I was ever off for long or not back home before sunset, the house maid or a trusted cattle farm worker would be sent on a search mission. Once brought back home, a stern warning would be issued by the elders, the effect of which lasted barely a few days.
I woke up on Sunday morning following the rains and was relieved to find a clear sky. Carefully avoiding the eye of family members, I sneaked out, vacillating between the different directions the alleys turned to, before finally turning towards a house on the dead end.
The dilapidated yet neat and clean house held a particular fascination for me. Perhaps because of the family that lived there, headed by a widowed woman and her four children, always cheerful despite their adversity. To make ends meet, she would diligently stitch clothes and make paper bags out of borrowed newspapers. My friends and I would include her children in our playgroup at our sweet will.
This morning, I opened the creaky door and walked in. The whole family was seated on the floor in their tiny kitchen. Aunty sat on the hearth, rolling out paranthas. The aroma of paranthas and tea bubbling in a pan suddenly made me hungry. Sensing this, she poured some tea for me in a glass, folded a parantha like a roll and handed it to me. I gladly accepted it and thus began a meal that has remained etched in my memory.
The paranthas were plain, seasoned with salt and carom seeds (ajwain). There was no one here forcing dollops of butter on my plate or keeping a stern watch on me to ensure I finished the bowl of curd, the way it happened at home. Tea was forbidden for children in my family as it could turn them away from the less appetising yet mandatory glass of milk. I took bites of the greasy, salty parantha and sipped the generously sugared tea.
Returning home, I declined the breakfast offered, giving an evasive reply, leading everyone to believe that I had had it at one of my uncle’s house.
I followed up my visit to that house with a few more, before we moved to city, ending my street explorations and clandestine meals.
Remembering that special breakfast, a few days ago, I called up my mother to know how the family is doing now.
“Guess what!”, she replied, “They bought your uncle’s house when he moved abroad and are now living there.”
Delighted about this reversal of fortunes, I thank the Almighty and decide to narrate this heartwarming memory as a bedtime story to my sevenyear-old daughter. She giggled and said, “Just like you, I also secretly went to Meenu aunty’s (our domestic help) room and had rasgullas.” She chuckled as she noticed the appalled look on my face. Another full circle in life!
SHE POURED TEA FOR ME IN A GLASS, FOLDED A PARANTHA INTO A ROLL AND THUS BEGAN A MEAL ETCHED IN MY MEMORY