Away from Home...
Away from Home…
“I want to eat that, Mom,” uttered a faint voice, as I arose from the unconscious darkness of sleep, struggling to open my eyes against the dazzling sun waiting right outside the window. Even before I could get a clear sight of where I was, an enchanting smell invaded my nostrils, and I knew it was Mom cooking in the kitchen, giving me a momentary sense of immense pleasure, before my conscience fought back and reminded me of the agonizing truth of the day. I parted my eyelids to find myself lying on the distinctively cluttered bed in my room. “Yes,” I sighed, “this is my last day at home.”
A couple of months back, it was a similar morning, when mom woke me up with a delicate kiss on my forehead and whispered into my ears, “You’ve got a letter. You’re going where you wanted to”. I was selected for admission to the Indian Institute of Science—an institute known for cultivating the best minds in the country, and studying there was my greatest aspiration. I probably cannot put into words how I felt at that moment, when I read the letter, and immediately started jumping ecstatically on my bed. I knew it was a substantial step in my life towards achieving my dreams. Amidst the frantic dance I had begun to perform, I looked back towards my mom, standing in front of the door, with a gloomy expression on her face. I didn’t realize why she too didn’t share my delight until I went up to her and asked. “You’re going away from home, son. Who will enjoy the food that I cook after you leave?” she asked.
The question smote me as a stroke of lightning, and I realized that though I have my dad and siblings who share the same food, I was probably the one who enjoyed it the most, and as all mothers do, Mom knew this better than anyone else on the planet. With an elder brother and a younger sister, I had emerged to become the most notorious individual in the family in terms of food habits, and somehow, to my astonishment, my mom seemed to love my puerile food demands. As one might expect, I happily made full use of my mom’s indulgences to have all sorts of food items that I craved for. In particular, the food that she cooked seemed to me more delectable than any sort of junk food that I cherished. “You’re a young man, and as long as I can cook, you deserve to get the luxury of delicious food at this age,” she used to say. I raised myself into a somewhat sitting posture and looked around to find the train ticket lying on the shelf adjoining the bed. “Departure time: 4:00 p.m.,” read the ticket. I never had the habit of having breakfast, as I was a late riser, and used to have a sumptuous lunch regularly. “I’ll miss mom’s cooked lunch,” I thought to myself. I stood up, and went out of my room, and as I drew near to the kitchen, I could feel the strengthening aroma of the fare that had woken me up. Mom was there, as I had expected, standing in front of the stove, and cooking. She turned back and gave a smile when I greeted her, but somehow, I knew it wasn’t the same smile I was used to seeing. The next couple of hours or so passed by in getting things ready for my departure—packing was something I detested as being too much hard work, and usually left most of it for the last day. It was about 12 o’clock when Mom came into the room with her familiar, comfortable face and asked me to get ready for lunch.
I had arranged my entire luggage when I went into the dining hall, and found the rest of my family….
To read the full story, check out the 2nd edition.