Adventures of a Different Kind

Rani ensured that Smriti got settled at the hostel in Delhi, and took a flight back to Bangalore. After the flight, it was the bus. She was to reach till the drop point on the highway, after which I was supposed to pick her up and drive down to our home. It would have taken only about five minutes, so I took the car out at 0015, only to find that a tyre was punctured. I tried to park the car back, but it refused to climb the portico. I had already wasted about two minutes.

There was no further time to lose. I called up Rani and informed her that I was walking down to receive her. I soon realised that if I continued to walk, she would have to wait on the highway with a large suitcase in the dead of the night.

I ran about a quarter of a kilometre in my Bata chappals. Some dogs appreciated my athletic pursuit, some objected to it, and some decided in favour of a closer examination.

After receiving Rani, I played a symphony by dragging her suitcase over the pebbles, the potholes, the speed breakers, etc., throughout the half-a-kilometre walk. The suitcase did not like it and conveyed its displeasure by picking favourite spots on both sides of my ankles for repeated assaults. Not to be cowed down, I cursed the suitcase and its family tree every time my dignity was challenged.

Ever enthusiastic to make things better, I replaced the wheel with the stepney the next morning, only to find that it was in total sympathy with its just ousted sister. I wonder how the stepney became unusable in three years flat when I had got it inflated last.

Just after nine in the morning I was once again on the road holding a deflated wheel. Rani suggested that we should roll it on the road, but I did not succumb to the temptation. The shop was closed, and remained so for about an hour. We sat on the steps of another shop, then talked to the next door butcher, "Bhaiyya, yeh tayar walla kab ayega?", praised the professional approach of the Delhi tayar wallas, shared sweet memories of puncture repair in our yesteryears, drank three glasses of some excellent coffee, spoke to the tayar walla on his cell phone, and waited. Finally the tayar walla arrived, but he decided to attend to an auto walla first who wanted to buy a new tube. So we waited for our turn, and mission accomplished, walked back with the wheel under my arm.

By this time my arms, clothes, legs, etc, were full of the filth that a tyre loves to bite into. Rani decided to serve breakfast, spoonfeeding it, while I divided my time between hushing the dog away and tightening the bolts.

I took half day leave, and was back at the office in the afternoon.

My Child

I dropped Rani and Smriti, and returned. Just fifteen minutes ago the house resonated with activity. And now, it was barren. Fighting tears, I climbed upstairs to Smriti’s room. The blanket was carelessly tossed on one side. The linen was creased. And, the pillow still had a big dimple on it. I caressed the creases and the dimples, and broke into hysterical sobs. How different is Smriti from an ordinary child! She had to lose an academic year on shifting from Delhi to Bangalore, but did not complain. She did not complain when in spite of securing more than 92% marks in the Class XII exam, her name did not figure in the list of candidates shortlisted for medical education. How enthusiastic she was when she appeared in the Design Entrance examination of Symbiosis, and how gracefully she accepted the fact that in spite of being short listed, she did not make it to the final list. I often saw dreams in her eyes – dreams that twinkled like stars, and dreams that died like wrinkled flowers.

I do not know when I will see her next. But I know, things will not be the same any more. It happens with distance. She will be more formal henceforth. She never demanded anything that she felt I would not be able to provide. Now she will be all the more cautious.

Smriti, my child, I wish you the best! I am not a rich man. What I did not give you far outnumbers what I gave you. But, I gave you my love. I will continue giving it till I breathe my last.

A Hearty Meal

With my stock of dostis exhausted, I had a challenge staring at me yesterday night! I had to either cook rice, or make rotis myself, or buy rotis from a shop and eat.

Sleeping with a belly full of rice was not very appealing. Buying just two rotis appeared a little degrading. Moreover, the rotis around my place are mostly made of maida, and are touched by several hands before reaching the customer.

So, I settled for the second option, deciding to make rotis myself.

Though I am well familiar with the nooks and corners of our kitchen, it was difficult to find the tawa (skillet) and the belan (rolling pin). I spent some time looking for that elusive chakla (board), only to realise that we do not possess one! The work is done on the granite slab.

I took some atta and carefully poured some water over it. Then came the stage when it has to be kneaded. It went off well, though a lot of dough got stuck on my fingers, palm, slab, floor, handle of spoon, tap, etc. It required just a dash of water to become perfect. I added water, and to my horror, the thing turned into a solution. I added some more atta, then some more, and then some more. The dough clung to my hand and made it fit to be shot for a scary movie.

Finally, the dough assumed familiar consistency. I cut lois (small portions), and started using the belan. I am very happy to tell you that all rotis turned out to be circular or squarish, and there were absolutely no triangles or rectangles! Usually our rotis are about five inches in diameter. My rotis were varied. The largest turned out to be ten inches in diameter. They were five in all. Had I not added so much of atta, perhaps the dough would have sufficed for only two rotis.

I ate them with relish. They were a little elastic, but were fresh. I saved one for the dogs.

The performance may be repeated tonight!