Ever since I was a little girl, I observed with curious eyes that whenever Mumma fell ill, Papa would take over the house as the misfit captain of a sinking ship. No, he didn't know how to prepare elaborate meals, but he would spend hours in the kitchen trying to get his boiled vegetable soup right, which always was, no matter what, a little too salty. He managed to diligently spread butter on bread and make our hot mugs of Bournvita on the days she felt too weak to get out of bed. He remembered to bring her medicines on time with some water in that specific glass Mumma swore by. For dinner, he brought home take outs from her favorite Chinese place; Hakka Noodles and Paneer Chili dry, the way she liked them. He made chai for her in the evening, with a little adrak and some extra love, and served it with her favourite peanut butter cookies. It never failed to make her smile. I reminisce about the concern in his actions and the adoration in his eyes.
As I walk into our bedroom, and you open your eyes,
"Feeling any better, Mi?" I ask, as I bring you a tray of bread-butter, hot tea and peanut butter biscuits.
I dishevel your already scruffy bed head and feel your forehead.
“It's less warm than last night”.
I smile as you carefully take a sip of the tea.
"Adrak!" you exclaim delightfully.
I laugh and nod my head.
We're feeling better already.
Author ~ Arushi Dubey
Editor ~ Diya Chakraborty