Crispy Bread and Potato Stuffing

“She better come back before Papa returns, or there will be hell to pay for it,” Rahim worried for his mother as he futilely hunted for her presence in his giant house for three. His school bag still piggybacked his shoulders and his water bottle skimmed the marble floor as he continued with his daily ritual, searching one room after another. Some days he would find her sitting on the couch next to the French windows in the living room, reading a book. She would look up when he would walk in and for one moment her eyes would light up. On some other days she would be out in the garden, weeding the Dahlia flower beds on sunny winter afternoons. But today would not be one of those days. He knew that the moment he opened his tiffin box to find two extra parathas, his favourite kind of bread, packed in. Parathas that were supposed to tide him over till she got back home. Parathas that he was supposed to eat after he came back from school because Papa had strict rules about boys never entering a kitchen to serve themselves. Parathas that he had no appetite for when he opened his tiffin and realized what they meant. Parathas that he gave to one of the aayas that swept the floors at school but told Abdul that he threw them in the trash can.

“She better come back before Papa returns, or there will be hell to pay for it,” Rahim worried for his mother as he futilely hunted for her presence in his giant house for three. His school bag still piggybacked his shoulders and his water bottle skimmed the marble floor as he continued with his daily ritual, searching one room after another. Some days he would find her sitting on the couch next to the French windows in the living room, reading a book. She would look up when he would walk in and for one moment her eyes would light up. On some other days she would be out in the garden, weeding the Dahlia flower beds on sunny winter afternoons. But today would not be one of those days. He knew that the moment he opened his tiffin box to find two extra parathas, his favourite kind of bread, packed in. Parathas that were supposed to tide him over till she got back home. Parathas that he was supposed to eat after he came back from school because Papa had strict rules about boys never entering a kitchen to serve themselves. Parathas that he had no appetite for when he opened his tiffin and realized what they meant. Parathas that he gave to one of the aayas that swept the floors at school but told Abdul that he threw them in the trash can.

Right on cue, his stomach grumbled. He would send Munne driver to the halwai for some snacks later. He needed to let the familiar taste of disappointment and abandonment fade before he could eat anything.

“Your water is hot now, Rahim babu. Should I take the bucket into the bathroom now?” Pinky Didi interrupted. She was extremely punctual about heating the entire household’s bathwater using immersion rods (which she called in-ver-son rods). Mornings for Papa, mornings and afternoons for Rahim, and evenings for Mumma. She worked like clockwork for each shower timing. It was her only job. In a house for three, with an army of servants.

He let Didi usher him to his room where he finally abandoned his bag and his bottle. Deliberately littering them on the floor in defiance against an imagined presence. He picked out a pair of jeans and t-shirt from the wardrobe, ignoring the ones laid out on his bed. Mumma must have. Mumma must have. He struggled to finish the thought in his own head as he walked towards the bathroom.

One bucket of cold water, one bucket of lukewarm water, one bucket of hot water, and one bucket to mix and experiment waited for him in the bathroom. The lukewarm bucket looked inviting as he stood shivering on the white tiles. He tamped that temptation and reached for the cold bucket. Cold showers in winters translate to catching a cold, he was told. He wanted a cold. Maybe that would teach Mumma a lesson.

The first mug of freezing water shocked his senses, but it became easier from there. By the time he reached the bottom of the bucket, the shivering had almost stopped. He emptied the other two buckets on the floor to avoid Didi’s questions. She was as nosy as she was punctual.

Deciding to make full use of the lack of parental supervision, Rahim switched on the television. It was time for some Shin Chan. He idolized Shin Chan. His craftiness, his daring, even his indecency. One hour into the telecast and he had recovered some of his appetite. So, he sent Munne for some aloo parathas from Netram. The stuffing in the parathas in that store were better than the stuffing at any other store. Not better than the one that Mumma makes though, he petulantly recalled.

Munne was back before Rahim finished watching the next episode. He brought the parathas on a plate to Rahim, sparing him a trip to the kitchen. Everyone had to abide by Papa and his damned rules. Rahim sat with the plate on his lap for a few seconds. Contemplating whether the green chutney from Netram on his plate was worth trying. Probably not. He walked with the plate into the kitchen. Some rules supersede other rules. And the rule that an aloo paratha is only meant to be had with imly chutney supersedes every rule in the universe. Imly chutney is a condiment that’s descended straight from the heavens, in Rahim’s opinion. It makes everything taste better. Even palak paratha, which is bitter otherwise. Fresh tamarind, jaggery, cumin and chilli powder all combine to make this flavorful elixir that he was generously poring onto his plate at that moment.

He walked back into the living room to find his father sitting on the couch in front of the television. His left arm draped the couch and his right held the remote while he inattentively flipped channels. He had come home early today. Rahim’s first thought was for his mother. He considered tiptoeing to the telephone in his parent’s bedroom and calling Nani’s house. But before he could move, Mumma walked in herself, her purse slung across her right shoulder. Her footsteps broke Papa’s reverie.

“And where are you coming from, madam?” Papa asked, eyeing the purse.

Mumma started at the accusatory tone in his voice but quickly regained her composure.

“I had gone to my mother’s. I was bored,” Mumma responded with the same cold and indifferent look that she especially reserved for Papa. Papa hated that look.

“Bored of your own house? Of your duties? Of your husband and your child?” Papa retaliated. He was still seated, which was a good sign. On most evenings, he would be pulling Mumma’s hair after that look. He smelled terribly on those evenings. Maybe he was in better spirits in the afternoon. Or maybe he was just possessed in the evenings. Possessed by the jinns and the shaitans released from the gates of hell when the call for prayer for Maghrib blared from the speakers.

“My house is soulless, and my husband is a good-for-nothing philanderer,” Mumma parried. Rahim didn’t fully understand her insult, but he could sense that whatever it was, it was terrible! Papa looked stunned.

“Go to your room,” Papa commanded, looking at him. His face was devoid of colour.

“No,” Rahim whispered, clearly infected by a mix of his mother’s courage and Shin Chan’s daring. He sensed that his presence was protecting Mumma from some form of unspeakable violence. He determined that he was staying till she walked him out herself.

Papa slowly got up from the couch, almost like a tiger uncoiling itself, and approached Rahim.

“Don’t let me repeat myself,” Papa warned, staring down at him. A familiar stench attacked Rahim’s olfactory senses. The jinns and shaitans were out even before Maghrib today.

“Faarooq, he’s just a kid. Do as your father says, Rahim,” Mumma pleaded, taking a step towards him.

“No!” came the emboldened reply, directed at Papa.

As soon as Rahim finished his monosyllabic sentence, his father’s calloused palm struck his cheek and the plate slipped out of his grip and shattered.

“Allah!” Mumma ran towards him as a tortured shriek came scraping up her windpipe and escaped her lips.

Papa picked up the car keys from the table and stalked out of the room as Mumma engulfed him in a hug, both squatting on the floor now. She was crying. Mumma rarely cried. She screamed, she shrieked she brought the entire house down when she was in the mood for it. But she never cried. And so, Rahim cried too, savouring the unfamiliar feel of her arms around him as the air smelled of wasted aloo parathas and imly chutney.