Once upon a time, there was a young woman….. .


It was the drum roll of thunder that made her put the book down and look outside the window. In the horizon, she could see dark clouds gathering. Rain looked imminent.


She picked up her coffee mug; there was about a quarter of a mug left, but it had gone absolutely cold. She hated drinking coffee that had gone cold.


S*#^, I’ll have to get up and make another one, she sighed.


It would be her third cup in almost two hours – she was getting addicted to drinking coffee – but then, she needed the coffee, especially when she had a book review deadline to meet. Some books went on and on and coffee helped her wade through the pages. A few months ago, it had been cigarettes.
Somewhere, she had read that drinking too much coffee wasn’t good for you and she had been drinking quite a few.


Any day better than smoking cigarettes, she told herself, as she spooned the coffee granules and the sugar into a mug and started beating them with a few drops of milk.


By the time she returned to her rocking chair with the coffee, the wind had picked up, bringing with it the earthy smell of wet mud. On the terrace below her apartment, she spotted Mrs. Joshi collect the papads she had left out in the sun. In the balcony opposite her window, she saw the maid hurriedly gather the clothes left to dry out on the clothes line. The people on the streets too were casting anxious glances toward the rapidly darkening sky and hurrying along.



This was the reason she loved reading by the window. The large French window not only let light in through the day and served as a work desk of sorts, it also afforded her a great view. The scenes of real life on the streets below and around her often offered a welcome respite from the monotony of reading printed words of different sizes.



Get on with the book, she commanded herself. Only 97 pages left, hopefully I should be through with it by 7.


Within minutes, it had started raining in sheets. The wind had changed direction and a fine mist of raindrops started coming in on her face through the open window. She hurriedly shut her book, put it on the window sill and placed her mug right on top of the book, and closed the window.




                                          pic credit: BongMom's Cook Book


How can you treat your books so shabbily, as if they were coasters, he would have said. And what is with this closing of the window? A beautiful shower is meant to be enjoyed. Come lets go for a walk in the rain, he would have insisted.


Mohit. Much like a pebble stuck in the sole of a shoe that you want to but cannot get rid of, Mohit was ever present in her thoughts. She had walked out of his life almost a year ago, but every single time she did or didn’t do something, she was keenly conscious of what he would have said or done.


Please God, make him call me, she would pray. Many a times, she wondered if she should swallow her pride and ego and write to him instead. But she every time she started to write to him, his words came back to her.


Just get the f*#% out of my life. I don’t want to see you again, he had said.


Her mailbox was brimming with mails written to him but never sent; she had decided that she wasn't going to be the one to take the first step.


Call me Mohit, call me. I will come back to you in a heartbeat. Just call me once, she pleaded fervently, opening the window and letting the mist of raindrops wet her face.



………and a young man……..


Thousands of miles away and in the land of the Big Apple, Mohit woke up with a start. It took him a moment to realize that she wasn’t really there with him and that he had dreamt of her, again. He saw her very often in his dreams but this dream seemed so real that he felt as if she was there, right next to him.


After tossing and turning on the bed for a while, he realized that there was no point in trying to sleep again. He lit a cigarette and walked into the kitchen, mixed the coffee granules, sugar and milk together in a mug and blitzed it in the microwave. Even as he did so, he could feel her shake her head in disapproval.


Tch, tch, tch....That is no way to make coffee.. You need to beat it and beat it well. Bring out its flavor.


He could picture her even now, her night suit clinging to her body, her hair short, tousled hair and the complete concentration on her face as she beat the coffee. She was passionate about her ‘one cuppa a day’ and was very particular about how it was made. When the milk came to a simmer, she would add a couple of crushed cardamoms to it and then pour it on the beaten coffee.



Smell it first, she would command. Take in the aroma. Then sip it. Nice, isn’t it? Now that is the way to make and drink coffee.


The microwave’s loud beeps pulled him out of his reverie. As he sipped the tasteless coffee, he wished, once again, that he had never uttered those words. Or at least apologized soon after. Or begged her to come back. But he had done nothing of the sort, forever and, a little arrogantly, hoping that she would call him. She hadn’t and he couldn’t fault her for it.


Like many times before, he contemplated giving her a call. It was a number that was etched on his mind and he punched in each digit with deliberation, but paused before he hit the dial key.


What if she doesn’t take my call? What if she tells me to get lost? What if, horror of horrors, she has found someone else?


And so he went cancel,cancel, cancel on the phone till he had erased each digit of her number.


I am waiting for you to call me, he said,staring into empty space. Call me once and I will be there with you in a jiffy.


…..They were both in love with each other and yet, neither wanted take the first step towards reconciliation. And so, they carried on with their lives hoping and praying that the other one would call. Like they say, sometimes love is just not enough.....



BongMom was hosting Of Chalks and Chopsticks for July, the picture above was the cue she gave us this month around which to spin a yarn.


The moment I saw her picture, I thought of the Pink Floyd song Echoes; this one line kept playing in mind over and over again - So I throw the windows wide and call to you across the sky. That then, has been the huge inspiration for this story.



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Indian Espresso Coffee


I didn't even know it was called "Indian Espresso" until a few years ago. I had always known and called it "beaten coffee". And that's what you need to do to make a cuppa. Beat the coffee and sugar together till it is creamy and frothy.


Here's how you make beaten coffee a.k.a Indian Espresso:






It needs elbow grease.....after a few minutes of continuous beating, the coffee will look pale, thick and creamy, like so:




Pour steaming hot milk (I add a couple of crushed cardamoms to my coffee - but this is completely optional) till the mug is half full and stir well. Then pour the remaining milk. Refrain from stirring too much or it will lose the bubbly, frothy look.




Sip it slowly, savouring the aroma and the robust flavour of coffee. Enjoy!

Butternut squash and Masoor Dhal Kootu from Prabha of For the Love of Cooking


Pop's Peppery Chilli from R & R of Tadka Pasta


Moong Dal Sheera/ Moong Dal Halwa  and Fried and Munchable Moong Dal from Kalyani of Mom Chef



Lasooni Dal Palak from Anamika of Taste Junction


Spinach (Keerai) Vadai and Arachuvitta Sambhar from Vardhini of Vardhini's Kitchen


Sprouted Yellow Peas Sundal, Soya Gobi Manchurian and Red Chori Dumplings Gravy from Priya of Priya's Easy n Tasty Recipes


Veggi Black Bean Patties from Anu Menon of Truth Personified


Vegetarian Chicken Salad by Kalinda of Wheat Free Meat Free

Egg Bajji from Sravani of Srav's Culinary Concepts


Eritrean Lentil Stew from Caffetiera of La Caffetiera Rosa


Baked Banana Blossom Fritters and Spinach Dhal from Krithi of Krithi's Kitchen


Lobia Curry - Black Eye Bean Curry from Jaya of Spice and Curry


Idli Karam Podi from Lubna of Yummy Food


Grilled Sprouts Sandwich from Raji of Vegetarian Tastebuds


Cucumber Fritters, Cucumber Dal, Roasted Chana Dal powder, and Vegan Black Bean Burger from Harini-Jaya of Tamalapaku


Bisibelebhath/ Spicy Rice and Lentil Stew from Champa of Versatile Kitchen


Vegan Grilled Bean Burger from Raven Chelanee of Cook. Eat. Delicious!


Chole Kulche Roll from Vaishali Sabnani of Ribbon's to Pasta's


Rasam - Hot and Sour Vegan Soup from Nashira of Palteful


Grilled Vegetable Lentil Soup and Lentil Mushroom Sliders from Claire of Chez Cayenne


Fenugreek Seeds in Spicy Tangy Tamarind Sauce and Janthikalu - Andhra Savoury Snack from Soujanya of Souji's Home


Chayote Chow Chow Moong Dal Curry from Divya of Exquisite Corner


Fish Stew from Akheela of Torviewtoronto


Quick Cooking Microwave Dhokla from Rajani of My Kitchen Trials


Mango Dal from Sayantani of  A Homemaker's Diary


Mushroom, Puy Lentil and Ale Pie and Leek and Puy Lentil Flan from Shaheen of Allotment 2 Kitchen


Morel and Lentil Carbonara Pasta from Susan of The Well Seasoned Cook

The kitchen was abuzz with activity. I looked on with amazement at the number of things ma was making for me. The puran polis were all done and packed into resealable bags. The cook was frying the chaklis while the maid was rolling the laddoos, even as ma fired instructions to both of them.


Papa kept coming into the kitchen every now and then, sometimes tasting the laddoos or nibbling on the chaklis. “Don’t we have any fruits? Where are the grapes?” he enquired. “Can’t you see the apples and bananas on the table? Look in the fridge, you’ll find some grapes, strawberries and oranges” ma replied sounding very irritated. “Take what you want and sit outside for some time; don’t keep coming in and out of the kitchen so often, it disturbs me no end.”


They seem to be arguing all the time, I thought to myself sadly. They used to be such a gentle couple, quite unlike the cantankerous pair I had seen over the last fortnight. I was really worried for them.


“Your papa,” ma whispered to me, “is losing it. Always interfering….just doesn’t what to do with himself. I just don’t know how to cope with him anymore!”


My heart went out to Papa. Recently retired, he wasn’t used to having time on his hands. He didn’t like watching T.V. and was never into reading. He tried his hand at gardening, but there wasn’t much he could do in the tiny one bedroom apartment with an almost non-existent balcony. So he would just potter around the house to while away the hours.



Ma turned her attention to the grains she planned to roast for making the thalipeeth bhajani. The sheer volume of bhajani that she was planning to pack horrified me. “Are you kidding ma? That bhajani will take up my entire baggage allowance! And can you just stop all this cooking? I don’t want you to tire yourself out.”



“Haven’t I told you so often, let me make all these things while I am physically able to. You have come home after 3 years, god knows when you will come again. Let me pamper you,” she smiled lovingly.
“Listen ma…..” but she cut off my protests with a curt “stop nagging me, go join your father outside.”


So I went and sat with papa who was solving a crossword puzzle, even as he was nibbling on some grapes. “Come beti, sit. Want a fruit? An orange? I’ll peel it for you.” He hadn’t forgotten that I hated peeling oranges.


“No, I’ll peel them myself,” I smiled. He went back to his crossword and as I watched him in amazement as he went from one clue to the next. He looked much healthier and more relaxed since his retirement but in the corners of his eyes, I could detect that vacant look of complete boredom and it troubled me a lot. Poor papa, he really needed to find himself something that would make him happy. I wished there was something I could do for him, but was at a complete loss of ideas.


“ ‘memories preserved, not pickled in jars but frozen forever’, now what kind of a clue is that?” he wondered aloud.


“Ummm..How about ‘photograph’?” I suggested


“8 letters….snapshot.”


“Hey papa, where are the albums? I want to see the old pictures.” But I knew where they would be, they had always been in the shelf in the showcase and I shot out of my chair and grabbed a few.



The albums were neatly labeled according to month, year and occasion – their marriage, their honeymoon, some vacations they had taken, my birth and so forth. Papa was a consummate photographer and for the first time, I realized how good he was. I never seemed to stand still in any pictures, but ma must have loved being his subject. The last of the albums had mostly blurry pictures – no, not taken by him but by a 14 year old me. But after my 15th year, there were no more pictures. I had taken the camera for a school picnic and dropped it, damaging it completely. The lie was easier, so I came back home and claimed that the camera was misplaced, possibly stolen by someone. Papa never replaced that camera, I had been too guilty to ask him to and that was the end of his hobby.



Feeling completely suffocated by the weight of my lie, I decided to step out for a bit. I must have gone out for a couple of hours and when I came back, ma was still in the kitchen, transferring some pickles into smaller bottles and papa was now attacking a Sudoku puzzle.


“Papa…for you,” I said, giving him the DSLR that I had purchased when I went out. “And maybe it is time for me to confess that your old camera wasn’t stolen. I….uh….I dropped it and it….it….broke.”


He nodded. “I’ve always suspected it. That is why this camera now, huh?” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.


In no time, he had figured the camera out and was clicking away endlessly. Pictures of me, our apartment, his plants, of the streets that ran around our apartment, of the skyline…


“Click ma’s pictures,” I said.


“You crazy? She’ll bite my head off if I go in there to take pictures,” he laughed. “This fruit bowl here will make for a better subject!”


Ma, in the meantime, had finished her marathon cooking session and walked out at exactly the moment that papa clicked the strawberries.


“Look at him, taking pictures of everything in this house except mine.”


He winked at me and turned to pacify ma by taking her pictures. He said something, she laughed and after a long time, they looked like the couple they used to be.

It didn’t matter that I didn’t have the camera in my hand to capture that moment - I knew it was an image that would live forever in my heart.



So this is my (as always?) late entry to our food fiction event, Of Chalks and Chopsticks that Sra revived last month. This time, there was a cue - in the form of a photo - of a man taking a picture of a bowl of strawberries.


Bongmom is hosting Of Chalks and Chopsticks for July. Head on over to her blog to know more.