The Jalebi Lover's Story

My football-crazy demented brother’s charming friend, Komal, nudged me this morning and reminded me that it’s been awhile since I’ve updated my blog. Suitably nudged, here I am, this is me, there is nowhere else on earth I would rather be...you get the drift, right? Komal asked me to write about my days in Stephen’s, but I will leave that for a later day...too many memories to be packed into one post. So a different one today, but one that I was thinking of writing last Sunday in fact, while having lunch with my family...one of the rare occasions when all of us are at home at the same time and are eating together.

My father, or Baba as my brother and I call him, is a very disciplined man...be it about his life, its myriad dimensions, his hobbies, his website, his daily yoga, the number of calls to be made to his daughter in a day (three in all...will I ever find a more devoted man?), the kind of books, movies, music to enjoy and remember...everything. The only exception to the rule? His love for jalebis. They could be piping hot or blandly cold, from the fanciest store or from the shadiest cart, as long as they are jalebis they can and should be revered.

One of Baba’s most endearing habits can be seen at the dining table. The scene is always somewhat like this. Baba sits at the head of the table, flanking him on either side are Ma and I, and beside me my brother. The process of helping ourselves to the food is quite democratic. Either Ma ladles it out or we help ourselves. And when we need second helpings it’s again the same democratic process indeed. But there is an exception to this rule as well. At the time of the second helping, if Ma is not seated with us — maybe she has gone to answer a phone call or is adding a last minute garnish — and my brother or I happen to ask Baba whether we should put some for him, his answer invariably is, “No”. Always, and without fail. Never ever will he say, “Yes”, unless and until the questioner is my mother. Either she will ask him or will directly put food on his plate, and rarely if ever will he protest. She is the only person whose question or insistence can make all the difference between whether my father just eats or eats well.

So to all those of us, who have either found that person whose one sentence alone can make all the difference between contentment and sheer bliss, or are still in search, may the journey be rewarding even if it is as circuitous as a jalebi.