Sunday Morning Diary Rusha Sil

Sunday Morning Diaries

500gm all-purpose flour, a blob of oil and a dash of salt.

It had been like a Sunday ritual in Mili’s typical Bengali home for more than two generations now, to make the special Luchi with the equally impressive aloo morich side dish. Everyone was well aware of its initial taste but still anticipated it like a man in the desert, finally being able to drink water.

It was a tedious job to organize and make it, one that Mili’s mother did not appreciate much; however, never directly protested against. It was love in the form of food, and it too needed time and attention.

The mother had just taken the ingredients to make the dough in a bowl when the husband enters the drawing-room. The agitation was rolling off in waves when the husband, with an apologetic smile, switched on the stereo, blaring the music to a pitch almost painful and disrupting the serene morning ambience.

Even the birds pecking on the bread crumbs at the balcony must have looked at the man with utter disgust and an eye-roll before flying off.

Knead, water and knead again.

The mother moved to the kitchen. The first Sunday of November yet the humidity was punishing, especially as she puts the oil to heat on the stove. The favourite song of the husband comes, and he raises the volume exceptionally high, waking up the younger girl who had fallen asleep just a few hours back. Life of a college student was written in her dark under-eye bags—no peace at home or workplace—as Mili strolls out in the hall and glares.

Finely diced potatoes and onion. Chop, chop, chop.

The mother and daughter shared a glance, and the mother continued dicing. Only they know what they the mother was imaging while chopping the vegetables (the neck or the fingers perhaps).

“You know you can play the music a little bit softly? It won’t harm anyone.” The mother all but shouted to the uncaring husband.

“I recently bought these 5 in 1 speaker set so that I can listen to music aloud. If I had to play it softly then like our daughter, I would’ve taken a pair of headphones, not waste my money on this. Also, I only get a Sunday to enjoy.” The husband retorted.

“Why are you shouting? Don’t talk to me with that attitude! You are speaking like I don’t do anything the entire day and sit idly!” The mother presses the dough into small rounds with the wooden roller. (Definitely the head!)

The irritating sound of the calling bell rang out in the already chaotic household, and Mili opened the door to a peal of even more ugly laughter. The maid was a healthy woman with too many opinions for anyone to like it.

“Dadababu and Didi are fighting again, heh?” She laughs as if it is the most entertaining show, she had watched in quite some time. In a way, it may be so, but Mili just smiled politely as the maid sanitizes her hand and turns away.

“Oh, you know, the same banter”, she speaks dismissively.

Splash! The luchi had been dipped in the oil.

“You are late Malti. I asked you to come early, haven’t I?” The mother continues to

be busy with making the bread flatter while Malti busies herself to start her

chores.

“The other didi was not letting me go…” she moves around continuing with her same

old lame excuses.

 “Okay, okay, fine!” The irritation is popping in the form of a nerve in the middle of her forehead. “Serve the plates—” the music abruptly stops as the husband takes his phone and moves towards the balcony. “–and then wash last night’s dishes.” She heaved an exasperated sigh.

 Another pan, drizzle of oil, a pinch of salt and spoonful of black-pepper, goes down the diced onion to sizzle.

 As if today everyone was against her working fast, the mother’s phone rang. “Mili check who is it.”

“Spencer.” Came the bored reply.

 “Well then pick it up maybe!” The unwelcomed tone was like a loud bang in the quiet house. It was the husbands turn to glare now as he keeps talking in the phone outside, inaudible to the ones inside.

 “They are asking if you need anything for today. They have an offer going on–”

 “I’ll call them once I am done with this.” The mother speaks in a rush as she looks at the clock. 8:50, oh well.

 Chilli powder on potatoes. Sauté and cover the lid.

“Malti! My… I asked you to serve the plates first and hand me the bigger plate.” She huffed.

 “But didi there is no clean plates.”

 “Just hand me the bigger steel plate.” The mother was at the brink of her sanity when the loud music returned. The mother opened the lid of the vegetables and pinched one potato to see if it’s soft enough. (Eyes.) The potato mashes under her feeble strength. She smiles and puts the lid back on. (Nobody will know if I kill him and then Mili and then myself. Haha.)

“Didi I have served the plates.” The table suddenly is full of steaming luchi and cold sweets.

“Serve the team, Mili. It is already 9:15. All of you just made me waste my time so much.” A chorus of protests amongst the loud saxophone instrumental the husband played. “And you, switch it off and sit down or you wouldn’t get lunch today. Also, switch on the ac.” The mother grunted as wiped her sweat with her sari.

The house was quiet again. The food was finally served, and the gas was off. The husband closed all the windows while the maid started quietly humming and wiping the floors at the other corner of the house. Mili put down her phone, and the mother started serving to the two hungry people out of the three. She felt considerably cooler and sat herself down with her own share of food.

The AC switched on.

The birds returned.