It
started as a very cold autumn’s day. But the clouds that froze the morning’s
chill have cleared and the amber-gold of a gracious sun pour through the large living
room windows.
I
enjoy the comfort with a plate of hot poha – it is stale, a day old, but in the
land of the blind…
There
is also the hygge of a cup of cinnamon tea, the steam of the tawny brew almost
looking magical and mystical.
It
transports me to a very similar setting from long ago: December, peak Winter in
Lucknow, almost 16 years now.
I
was basking in the sun, similarly sunk into a chair, surrounded by beds of saffron
marigolds, with a plate of piping hot food. Not food – rather manna, ambrosia
or whatever the Gods have. That day, the elixir was surprisingly ordinary – rice,
not even Basmati, perfectly soft chana dal, okra and aloo. What felt divine was
perhaps the setting, the serenity and the sojourners around you.
There
were friends all around you – a privilege that makes sense only with time – and
like myself, they were all quiet.
They
were fellow travellers, all beleaguered from three months of semi-backpacking
across Europe, with so much to take in that our senses were inundated to the
point of being numb. Now back home in the cocoon of campus cosiness, the
quietude was reflective, and not at all melancholic.
No
one spoke a word, but also, no one hurried. There was no rush, everyone enjoying
every morsel, each arousing thousands of fragmented memories.
But
the deluge – of taste and tale - was so much, no one bothered to speak a word.
And
yet, there was so much to think about…
I
bit into a hot crispy fritter that immediately opened floodgates.
Beacoup
spending an extravagant 10 euros for a couple of Samosas at the base of Mt.
Titlis. Because we had had enough of sourdough bread and fries…
Myself
going hungry for an entire half day because the sandwich at Lisbon had raw
sardines in it...
Or
us both making onion fritters till 2 am before starting in the dawn as they
were both the most affordable and palatable food we could carry...
The
salvation for the vegetarian folks in the small Mediterranean café near Notre Dame
selling crispy falafel roll.
One
spoonful of hot rice and the first night in our stay came back – extra boiled
starchy rice with burnt dal was the culinary initiation to our stay….
That
most dinners thereafter became incrementally improving rice and dal but which would
be accepted as good enough amongst a group of friends, none of whom knew
cooking, but had immense patience and temperance to see the best in unforeseen times…
As
for really tasty cuisine, were there any memories? I thought as I dug into the
spicy curry.
Of
course! the aubergine fries and tender tandoori chicken in a remote restaurant on
a rainy day in Etretat; shawarma rolls dripping in chicken grease and salt at
that railway station in Munich making it my most preferred stopover in the entire
continent; grilled souvlaki in roadside Athens, hot crispy fries sold at the
university canteen by the ‘Maghrebi Kalua’ as Nishant would call him; McDonald’s
cheeseburgers (What an equalizer for presidents and penny-pinchers!) – and when
everything failed, the chocolate Sondey biscuits that we carried all over Europe
with ourselves as the ration of last resort…
Back
in Lucknow, I went back to the canteen, loaded my plate with extra paneer,
fritters and salad, and came back to my throne in the late afternoon sun,
feeling like a king.
You
could see everyone else having the same invisible smile and similar thoughts.
As
I sat down slurping the dal, Nishant finally spoke what was in everyone’s minds:
‘Isn’t it feeling so good just to sit here and enjoy this meal?’
There
was no dissonance. Bit by bit, the comments and stories started pouring in,
anchored in the comfort of a winter’s lunch - modern day Bedouins at an oasis,
sharing stories of near and afar.
‘Do
you remember that conversation in Marseille explaining we don’t need fish or chicken?’
‘What
about the ice cream pricing indexation across EU?’
‘Snails,
who eats snails? That too, with shells separately, so you can stuff them with
cheese?’
‘Was
the Absinthe worth it?’
Preeti
talked about places they had been to in the far north.
Shipra
talked about places she didn’t want to, for her voluntary exams (on hindsight, trading
knowledge for wisdom?).
Daddu
was still ruminating about the places we couldn’t go to – from Andalusia to the
Arctic, Wales to Warsaw.
A
quiet Prashant talked about his Sinterklaas festivities and stories he had
gathered even without crossing the borders.
What
a melange of colours!
The
rest – me included – just soaked in these songs, enjoying that feeling of satisfaction,
just in being there. Like the fireplace stories on a wintry night that feels so
much cosier with the company.
In
my writer’s mind, it was the perfect closing scene to months of travelling as a
student. With empty pockets but infinite wanderlust. With classes to attend amidst
travel, but also cohesion to divide and conquer among friends. With new experiences
every single day, but also a yearning to return to the old…all closing the curtains
with that winter’s meal.
Back
to the present day. Tea and mystic steam have both been drunk to the lees.
A
ping comes in a shared whatsapp chat.
In
another part of the world, two friends meet across continents and talk of the
same stories.
I
smile, the curtains never closed, the story still goes on. Call it a Sufra in
the Sahara, an Adda in Alipur, or just a luncheon in Lucknow….
16th
May, 2026
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