The Hot Rotis (Indian Bread)

                                                        The Hot Rotis (Indian Bread)

© mulshankar13.

All articles, scripts, poetry, prose, reviews written here are exclusive copyrights of mulshankar13. Any article, poetry, prose, story or reviews may be reused, quoted in full or as an excerpt only with attribution to "Source: mulshankar13".

"Kiran, were the rotis hot when you gave them to Dad”, squeaked in Amit having just returned from office.

"Go and check yourself, he is still eating”, retorted Kiran, Amit's wife.

"Oh no, I was just asking. Let's have the dinner now; I need to wake up early tomorrow."

It was one of those bitter chilly nights of December and Dublin was five degrees below normal temperature.

"Kiran sleep closer to me, its cold!"

"May I ask you something, Amit?” Kiran lifts her head up from Amit's chest and gazes into his eyes.

"You may ask me anything, honey!"

"Why even after five years of our marriage does my husband questions my commitment to the well-being of my in laws?" snapped Kiran with moist eyes.

"But I never did so, Kiran!"

"Then why do you come and ask me every day that if the rotis served to dad were hot enough? Do you think that I am that mean a lady that I will serve my seventy years old father-in-law cold rotis to eat?"

"It's not about your commitment to take the best care of your father-in-law that I question. Rather I question myself if I am being a good son!"

"Excuse me Kiran, I need a small drink!", and with a kiss on the forehead of his beloved wife who is now actually perplexed, Amit gets off the bed for that one small peg of blended scotch from the Scotland Highlands, his favourite drink and so his father's.

"Wait! You need to tell me how this question over my commitment to my duties to my father-in-law is related to you being a good or a bad son!"

"Mom died when I was just twelve. Dad could have remarried and in fact wanted to remarry but somehow I had got into my head that a step-mom is the worst thing that can happen to me and so..."

"So.... complete it now!"
"I told Dad that he must not remarry otherwise I cannot stay with him and must be placed in a boarding school! Dad could never imagine a life without me.

I am his best friend till now and so he gave up any wish to remarry again."

"But then you should be proud of having an extraordinary dad. Not many men would have done that in his place. It's good that you show so much of care to him but then every evening asking me the same question that if the rotis were hot enough....I still don't understand...I mean it's paranoid."

"Well then it goes like this......

I grew up in a government jute mill.

Life in a jute mill in the late 90's could be imagined with palatial bungalows, refined recreational houses also known as Club-Houses, the Sahibs, the bearers, the sickening dust and noise in the jute mill and also the always increasing turmoil in the factory due to labour unrest, low productions and poor jute market.
Dad's workaholism had a compounding increase after Mom's death. And so he being late for dinner wasn't surprise at all. Neither was I very keen to have an early dinner as post-dinner I wouldn't be able to study much and feel sleepy.

Dad ordered our dinner from the club-house of the jute mill where the bearer would prepare rotis and some curry for the officer's at night-shift.
The bearer used to pack the rotis usually eight in number in an envelope of clean newspaper into a steel container. Curry was in a separate container.

9:30 at night and Dad used to be just in at that time for dinner. He asked me to wind up my studies and hurry up to the dinner table and I used to ask him to just wait for another five minutes and I'll soon join.
Dad did use to arrange the plates and start the dinner before me. However after five-seven minutes when I did join, to my surprise Dad had already finished his dinner in a record time.

This angered me and I always complained that how could he be so selfish that he could not wait for me.
"I can't wait for you on and on....now go and finish your dinner", replied Dad.

Well if Dad didn't feel necessary to wait for his only son for dinner for just five minutes...then so be it, I sulked.
This was a daily routine into the life of father and son after my mother's death until that unusually rainy night in the winter of Calcutta.

I was preparing for my board exams which were only a few months away and Dad was not yet in for dinner. The clock struck 10 o' clock at night.
With a hungry stomach I decided to arrange the dinner and wait for dad.

As I unpacked the wrapped rotis onto the plate I discovered that the last of the two rotis were wet. The rotis were all packed hot. Hence the moisture from the paper and the container had made it wet.

But then to my surprise why did I never find these wet rotis on my plate until today.

A guilt ran down my spine and made me cold.

The answer was simple! Dad ate them all. No father would like his children to eat cold rotis. Nor would the father ever like to speak of the sacrifices he had had made for his children.

"Maybe if only I had been ok with a step-mom, my dad would never have had to eat those cold rotis. That's why I come and ask you everyday if the rotis were hot enough!"
"Well then....I take care of my father-in-law as good as I would have taken for my son", snapped Kiran.

"Yes I know but....” Amit interrupted.

"And next time ask that question whether the rotis were hot only to your second wife when I am gone from this world. And ask it for your father, your son and yourself as well.

Now can we have some sleep, honey! I am having an early morning meeting tomorrow in office" and Kiran jumped into the bed with a kiss on her husband's cheek.