Bad smell, good times…

[This article is my entry for "Smelly To Smiley!", held by AmbiPur and Indiblogger]

Seven days. That was how long I was to stay in my home. When I had approached my boss for a leave, he said he would approve my ‘vacation’. I was pleasantly surprised. I hadn’t asked for a vacation. I had asked for a week off. The word ‘vacation’ somehow still evoked images of fun-filled month-long summer holidays. When I was back to consciousness, my colleagues had a good time laughing at my interpretation of the word. I was bent on making the most of my hard-earned vacation. Yes, I had worked weekends. No, I didn’t tell my parents about it, lest they worry.

Anyway, when I got home, I was somewhat disappointed to find my parents fighting over small things. However, I soon found out that those small things were their idea of making me happy in those seven days.

Maa screamed at Baba, “Why did you bring chicken? Don’t you know that he doesn’t get to eat fish when he’s away? You should have brought Hilsa!”

Baba retorted, “What is wrong with you? You forgot that he loves chicken more than Hilsa…”

Arguments went back and forth as I lay tinkering in bed. No one thought of soliciting my opinion!

These little things stopped bothering me in a couple of days.

Now, one of these days, as my mother was away chatting with a neighbor, I smelt something. It did not take me long to identify the smell of scorching milk. Initially I ignored, thinking that the smell might have been from a neighbor’s house, and went back to reading the novel. As the odor grew stronger, I bookmarked the page I was reading, got up and ran toward the kitchen.

What I saw next was something I had seen all my life- milk left for scalding was scorched by overheating. The pan had turned black by the scathed milk, which now dry, held on to the container like an injured seeking help. The smell was not a stranger to me.

As I shouted from the kitchen, inviting Maa to witness the not-so-glorious sight, she came running, with her tongue stuck out between her jaws, having already realized how silly it was of her to leave the milk boiling for so long! She knew she would be forgiven for this misdemeanor. All her life, that’s what she had experienced.

I was angry. “You left it unattended again?”

She defended, “Aha, you see, I have so many things to do…I forgot about it totally! What does your father do all day...”
And then I knew what was to follow: an elaborate explanation of what all things Baba should be doing to help her out. I took my mind away.

Black and white frames zipped past me. Some fifteen years back, when I was a kid in school, my mother had kept me guard to see that milk didn’t get spilled from over-boiling. In some time, I was bored of this duty. A monkey chewing on a piece of jackfruit by our window had distracted me. I walked toward the window. It was immensely entertaining for a boy of ten. I observed it keenly. I was brought to senses only by the smell of burning milk. It wasn’t pungent. It was different. But it meant disaster. Since my mother was near, the odor got to her sooner than I had expected. She was approaching me. She admonished, “How many times did I tell you? Why do you get distracted so easily? Learn to be more patient or you’ll be in trouble later on!”

As my mother shook me up, I traveled forward in time to the present. Nostalgia had engulfed me completely.

I realized that over these years, there has been reversal of role. I had started advising and even scolding my mother. The odor of scathing milk was witness to my growth. Never did I feel so overwhelmed for having been rude to Maa. I wanted the roles to revert. I wanted to go back in time. To be reprimanded. And back to her caring canopy.