The Last Roti

And here he was, sitting all by himself, nibbling at the contents of his plate.
Unlike all the meals that he’d ever had, this meant the most. A hundred thoughts in his mind, one roti in hand, he tore it into the numbered thoughts. Were they thoughts, or memories? Yes, memories!

Memory 1 (Age — 6 years): I could hardly wait to get back home today from
school. Ma would’ve made bhindi with roti. She’d promised in the morning.
Leaning out of the auto-rickshaw, I almost jumped out in excitement as I saw
my home approaching. Home is where the heart lies — and that duplex had ma and bhindi; home.

“Bye, uncle! See you tomorrow.” I said to the caring autowallah as I
quickly got off.
“Mummyyyyy, I’m home!” I shouted at the top of my voice.
“Hello, Hrithik Roshan! How was school?” Hrithik she called me,
knowing that I was too fond of him — fond being an understatement. It was pure
awe of his aura.
“Good good. Where’s lunch?” I meant business and thus dismissed all
formalities.
“Yes, it’s almost ready. Change first, then come to the kitchen.” Ma
replied, always amused with my energy.

The granite on the kitchen platform had always been cold, no matter what
the season, yet I enjoyed sitting there the most. Right next to Ma, narrating tales of the day at school as she made hot and fresh rotis for me. The kitchen had enough space for us both — the gas range and me. No matter what the food be, this would be the regular lunch setup. Rotis on rotis would keep coming in, food never getting over, much like the experiences ma and I had to share.

Years passed, I grew, but lunch never changed — same setup, same people, new stories. And then, I grew too much…

Crunchhh… said a tiny pebble that had found its way into his mouth through the dal. His reverie broke and he became aware of his surroundings again. The afternoon sun shone through the window, lighting up dust particles in its beam. The lunch setup had finally changed, he realised. He was still, as nostalgia seeped in again. Today he won’t complain.

Memory 2 (Age — 17 Years): How sweet is first love. Starts with friendship,
followed by confused feelings, one-sidedness and then your first relationship.
Cupid shooting arrows in all directions, the first valentine’s being looked
forward to more than those lunches with Ma.

Might not be the case for you, but that is how it was for me. The
interesting part was that she found me, and not the other way around. Looking forward to the recess and school end is what life had become. Every moment with her was bliss. She loved me, I loved her, and we were to get married.

Oh, those innocent promises! Reality does take a dark turn sometimes.

Going on long rides was something we loved doing. Every opportunity
we got, we were away. Away, at the caring sardarji’s dhaba. We never knew his
name, and neither did he ours. But unlike his customers, he would make rotis
for us with his own hands. He cared for us, thinking of us as his children.
And his fluffy rotis with the matar paneer — mouth-watering. No one in the
entire school knew of this getaway of ours, not even the closest of my friends,
with whom I shared my deepest secrets because this was our place.

Faking extra classes, or extra dance practise for the school annual day,
what not had we said at home to make extra time for each other — and the dhaba. Sometimes I feel it was more for the roti and paneer than her that I would look forward to our time together. Veerji had magic in his fingers, his skill was unachievable, and his food, unmatchable.

Days became months, months became years, but Veerji’s love and rotis
remained consistent. But, did she?

He was still, the spoon half an inch away from his mouth. A dust storm was
brewing up outside, and the sun, gone. Back in the day, a storm of this stature would’ve made the headlines, but now they were commonplace, hardly making the third page. The vegetation was almost gone, and the fauna had become a legend, the planet was in the final stage of its existence, as these men of the past century.

He stared at the half-eaten roti on his plate, tattered like a poor man’s shirt. Rich and poor are phases, and life shows you them both. Sometimes set apart,
sometimes co-existing. He could never tell the difference, especially during that time…

Memory 3 (Age — 29 years): We think we have everything figured out, and then life hits you with reality in the face. It’s not the rosy picture that was shown to you in your childhood. Reality and fiction are two different styles, and you learn that well. Some learn and adapt, others collapse.

With ten years of experience behind me, I’d risen to become the
Executive Sous Chef of the best Indian restaurant in town. People from far and
wide would come to the restaurant for the delicacies that we served. Our food
was lip-smacking, yet, it lacked a key ingredient — Love.

Love was in her hands, the beautiful magic of love. I was a master in my
profession and had trained many in the art of cooking, but this wasn’t my
calling. Some spend their entire lives trying to find out where they belong, still don’t find it. Others know it since day one, and they put their heart and soul to it. I was the former, she, the latter.

My mother would tell me, you can make rotis out of gold, but if you
don’t have your heart in it, you’ll always get a substandard product. I had a hard time understanding this, till the time I met her. Her rotis came from a different world. The food she made would bring the gods down from the heavens. The food in my restaurant was lip-smacking, but hers was divine. I would look forward to my shift to end, just to get home and be with her, and eat the heavenly preparations that she made. The day she cooked for me, I knew she was the one — the one I would want to spend my life with.

That’s the thing with life, takes unexpected turns.

The final pieces of the roti lay in front of him. He wanted the meal to long
forever. After all, this was the last roti that he would ever eat. The blight had
taken all the wheat off the earth’s surface. All that was left was the wheat in the granaries, and now they were running dry too.

Between the two contestants, dystopia had emerged as the clear winner. With
all their tech and powerful brains, the scientists had been unable to find a new
world to colonise. Doomsday was no longer a myth, it was reality.

As the darkness of the storm engulfed the world outside, his nostalgia engulfed him once again.

Memory 4 (Age — 52 years): She had her mother’s eyes. Breath-taking, and
caring. And when both the parents have mastered a beautiful skill, talent is
bound to flow. As she grew, she started showing great promise in the kitchen. It didn’t take time for me to realise that it was her mother’s genes, and not mine, that was at play.

I remember the day when she told me she wanted to make a career in the
kitchen. The very idea put me on cloud 9. She would be the best Chef in the
world, probably a Michelin star too. I put in all my efforts and resources to help her achieve her dreams.

Did her dreams become too big, bigger than her father?

“How’s the roti beta?” asked a familiar voice, as he stared down at the last
piece.
“Amazing, as always!” he replied, as ma sat down next to him, to have her
lunch.
“Have another one! I’m too full, can’t eat much.” She lied, as she placed a fresh roti in his plate.
What followed was a complete meal, with people, love, flavour and
conversation, in the right place. Happiness wasn’t a word that the world was
familiar with anymore, yet this bubble of the twain was heart-warming. He had his mother, her tales, and a dying world outside, to keep him company.

And he had this last roti to enjoy.