Today is one of those days. Anything that can go wrong, has
gone wrong. Today is my new beginning – the day I re-commit myself to my
writing. I woke up excited. Started breakfast. Went on to the chores. My son’s
fever was not abating so we had it checked and he tested positive for dengue. I
was expecting it since I just got over a bout of dengue myself but it still is
hard to watch him in this condition. I settled him in his room with plenty of
juices and went upstairs to get into my writing zone. Lots of calls and
interruptions followed. Lunch happened. The maid came in 2 hours early. I
sighed to myself. When would I have the little window of alone time I needed,
to write?
And then I decided. It didn’t matter. I would just write in
the middle of all of this. Life is messy and whatever avenues we need to pursue;
we need to do so while still immersed in life. Few of us have the luxury to
escape to some beautiful deserted spot and write or paint or do whatever it is
we want to do. So right here, right now, in the midst of the messiness, I
write.
When I was lying in my room for more than a week, I let my
mind roam over old memories. I remembered the oddest things from my childhood.
I was constantly hungry but everything tasted like sawdust so I couldn’t eat. I
had cravings for the food I ate as a child but who would make it for me? So I
sat eating dry toast and drinking loads of juice that my patient husband and
son kept making.
And one day when I was able to sit up for longer periods, I
remembered something my dad used to do. He was not fond of visiting my maternal
grandmother’s home so on the rare occasions that my mother and the three of us
kids would go there, he stayed back home. When we returned after a not-too-long
bus journey, he would be at the door waiting for us. And on the table would be
a huge bowl piled high with pooris and a dish of aloo (potatoes) to go with it.
We would dive in. And it tasted so good.
I could imagine my father carefully kneading the dough and
trying to flatten it out into perfect circles (I was picky enough to point out
if they weren’t just so) and then frying them up. I could imagine my father
mashing the potatoes just so, so that the flavour would seep into each and
every bit of the dish. I could imagine him setting the table and waiting for us
in the days before we had a telephone and when he would have just guessed and
hoped he got the timing right.
Always he made this dish when we were away and he was
waiting. Always it tasted of love and homecoming. Always the sight of pooris
reminds me of Acha.
So that is what I wanted to eat when I started to recover
from the fever. For just one moment, I wanted to be a child again. A child who
could rest easy in the fact that her parents knew her mind so well that even
before she needed to ask, they would be ready with the answer to her cravings.
I take care of my twosome in the same way but oh, to just be little once more
and stay happily taken care of with so much love and indulgence – that is a
gift we are never entitled to after childhood. At least I have my memories of
golden pooris and sunny yellow aloo to keep me going…
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