CHAPTER 7: Have the cake, and eat it too.

As Naaz Miss asks us to make V-shaped crows, soaring the light blue sky- centimetres above the triangular mountains in our drawing books- automated growls are audible from my intestines in the pursuit of Palak Paneer, Hakka noodles and residue of birthday cake.

None belonging to my tiffin box.

One doesn’t need pav bhaji masala advertisements on television to prove that tiffin boxes maketh a friend.

With barely a few minutes to go for the lunch break- the first ten minutes of which are spent in mindless banter in the queue outside the toilet- concentration levels dip while hunger pangs continue to trip.

Triiiiiiiii-iiiiiiiiiiiiii-iiiiiiiiing!!

Aaha! After forcefully channelling my inner Picasso in the art period, it is finally time to turn into the dabba-stealing glutton. I rejoice, and hypothetically rub my palms together in anticipation.

The stained napkin spread underneath the tiffin box replaces the drawing book, a spoon and fork emerge in place of the blunt pencil and the black crayon, and boredom-induced puffy eyes make way for exaggerated potions of twinkle and glitter.  

In no time, the girl-with-a-yummy-lunch box, who offers you morsels with hesitation soon turns into a friend, who accepts your brazenness and adapts to your gastronomic demands.

“My mum has packed two additional chappatis for you.” A statement that promises more than just a delicious meal from the humble tiffin box. 

CHAPTER 6: When Mum's Stare is Law.

Dilated pupils mean different things to different people.

Shock and boredom to some, wonder and excitement to others, and in extreme cases, it could just be a genetic defect.

However, when the pupils in question belong to your Mum’s eyes, it could only mean one thing:

“DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!”

In a room filled with NRI relatives- my respect for who depends on the size of the bag and brands of imported chocolates and multi-coloured wafer biscuits in it- gravity as a force is challenged by the magnetic power of eye contact.

The moment your fingers attempt to unwrap the packet of biscuits in full public view in response to your salivating mouth, a telepathic signal is sent to the brain.

And your washed up eyes meet Mum’s amplified pupils.

“DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!”

Packet down. Chin down. Tears roll down.

Eavesdropping is a stepping stone to maternal policing. 

Boxed thoughts, grounded feet and a zipped mouth are the only ways to tackle these dire stare threats in populous situations.

“Babu’s daughter-in-law is a very modern girl. She has convinced Govind to move out of the house to live separately,” Pushpa aunty updates the ladies at the kitty party, while we children tuck in a few vegetable spring rolls and hara bhara kebabs along with tidbits from the Babu household.

Ideally, by virtue of being a juvenile plus-one at a ladies’ kitty party, one is expected to behave oneself and occasionally smile when he/she is reassured of his/ her cuteness by dolled up aunties. 

Alas, eavesdropping is an evil dragon.

“Aunty, but Govind is having a love affair with his office secretary..,” I proclaim, repeating Usha aunty’s conversation with Mum at the grocery shop last week.  

Taking my cue from nature's magnetism, I look at Mum before I utter another word.  

“DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!”