After the visit of any family friend or relative to my home, a sweet box would rest at the center of the dining table as a token of their love. My mom and I would stand waiting for the disappearance of the guest beyond the main gate of the apartment after which, we would immediately pounce upon the sweet box. Irrespective of the kind of the sweet, there would always be a fight. And the fights only worsened if the sweets were either rasgullas or kaju katlis.
"You are a mother! You should sacrifice for your son - not snatch from him" I would shout. "I am a mother who has raised her son to be independent. So get your own sweet" she would retort and hurriedly stuff a sweet in her mouth.
A cold-war atmosphere would prevail at home till the sweet box turned empty. The sweets would go decreasing in number but either of us would not know when the other person ate the sweets in question. The most important mission would always be the final sweet - Achieving victory would mean fooling the other person with a closed-and-intact empty sweet box.
During my visit to home last weekend, I noticed a sweet box, filled with assorted milk sweets, resting on the dining table. The day progressed but I did not find the sweets go missing.
Tea time arrived. I opened the sweet box declaring direct war. My mom responded with a smile and walked to the kitchen, returning with a plastic container. She sat down with her tea cup and opened the container. Out came a Vita Marie Gold biscuit packet. I threw a nasty look at her. Noticing my look, she explained, "The doctor has advised me against having sweets".
I threw a nastier look and pushed the sweet box towards her. She refused.
For what maybe the first time in my life, I could not finish the sweet I was eating and placed the rest of the sweet in the sweet box and closed it. "Don't try to act emotional. Just go ahead and have that sweet", my mom teased me. I threw the nastiest look possible and snatched a biscuit from her hand.
The half-eaten sweet did not matter anymore because it had never been about the sweet.
I had always fought with my mom over a sweet or a chocolate without foreseeing that a day would come when our food habits would start differing.
No matter how close a friend a mother stays, time always has the knack of hitting you on your head and making you realize that she is eventually a mother.
"You are a mother! You should sacrifice for your son - not snatch from him" I would shout. "I am a mother who has raised her son to be independent. So get your own sweet" she would retort and hurriedly stuff a sweet in her mouth.
A cold-war atmosphere would prevail at home till the sweet box turned empty. The sweets would go decreasing in number but either of us would not know when the other person ate the sweets in question. The most important mission would always be the final sweet - Achieving victory would mean fooling the other person with a closed-and-intact empty sweet box.
During my visit to home last weekend, I noticed a sweet box, filled with assorted milk sweets, resting on the dining table. The day progressed but I did not find the sweets go missing.
Tea time arrived. I opened the sweet box declaring direct war. My mom responded with a smile and walked to the kitchen, returning with a plastic container. She sat down with her tea cup and opened the container. Out came a Vita Marie Gold biscuit packet. I threw a nasty look at her. Noticing my look, she explained, "The doctor has advised me against having sweets".
I threw a nastier look and pushed the sweet box towards her. She refused.
For what maybe the first time in my life, I could not finish the sweet I was eating and placed the rest of the sweet in the sweet box and closed it. "Don't try to act emotional. Just go ahead and have that sweet", my mom teased me. I threw the nastiest look possible and snatched a biscuit from her hand.
The half-eaten sweet did not matter anymore because it had never been about the sweet.
I had always fought with my mom over a sweet or a chocolate without foreseeing that a day would come when our food habits would start differing.
No matter how close a friend a mother stays, time always has the knack of hitting you on your head and making you realize that she is eventually a mother.
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