The year was 1966 when I was barely ten. We had no electricity in those days in Anta, our tiny village on a canal bank in Haryana. Accordingly, evenings set in with unadulterated darkness and continued through the night until the ambrosial hours were followed by sunrise. I have fond memories of my country home and am filled with nostalgia when I look back on it.Evenings would find the domestic help busy at his assigned chore of refuelling the lanterns and cleaning their chimneys. I used to watch him perform this task and never failed to admire the dexterity with which he did it. Although I had offered him my services as an assistant, he never availed of the offer — fearing no doubt that I would break the glass chimneys and hurt myself. There were pegs for each of these lanterns at different places in our home, including one in our dingy and soot-darkened kitchen.Mother would be in the kitchen twice a day. Although she had a maid, she always cooked the chapattis with her own hands. “Food cooked with affection not only makes it delicious but is good for health too,” she would say.Sitting with mother in the kitchen during the winters was a treat in itself, not only for the warmth of the fireplace, but because it meant that I could play pranks on her. I had this nasty habit of adjusting the firewood to get a stronger blaze and this would invite immediate retribution from mother. “Don’t play with fire,” she would warn me.I never heeded her. Often I would pretend that I had got my fingers burnt and would shriek in pain. This would bring her rushing to my side and I would then burst into loud laughter. Every time I played this trick, mother would rush to my side in alarm. Being her only son, she was taking no chances. Or I would play with the smouldering embers. The glowing patterns in the dark appeared to be as delightful as fireworks. Mother would of course forbid me to do this but I would disconcert her by saying, “But it brightens up your face, Ma!” This would cause her to smile, despite her irritation.When she made the chapattis, mother would take a small lump from the kneaded flour and, before shaping it into a chapatti, would always make sure to return a bit of it to the larger mound of dough. I often asked her why did she did this and she said, “That is for prosperity, son.”Once the chapattis were done, mother would direct the service of the food in the thalis that awaited. I always preferred eating in the kitchen with mother feeding me with her own hands. Dinner over, mother would ask the maid to collect the leftover embers in a pan which would be send to grandpa’s chamber to keep it warm. She then asked for the clay used to refurbish the fireplace. Plastering the hearth that was still hot caused steam to rise and envelop the kitchen.Today, years later, I can still recall the aroma of that kitchen as if it were a part of my present reality!
