Shatadru Writes on His Mandatory Sunday Routine

 Sunday morning creeps in and evokes an inevitable sense of indolence. We are done with our mildly brewed Darjeeling tea with toast biscuits from the local bakery and engage in an

olfactory and gustatory delight for Luchi and Sada Aloor Tarkari. A mild flavour of asafoetida with Panch Phoron compels us to savour even the crisps of Luchi with unabashed diligence.

While Ma offers us more, Baba keeps on reminding me and Bhai how the socio-political scenario of the country is evolving. We engage in a hearty conversation that leads to

nowhere.

Once the ceramic plates are clean, our palates are not yet satiated. Baba asks Ma about the Nolen Gurer Rasogolla he brought last night from Suresh Mistanna Bhandar, Dhakuria. He is doing so for the last forty years and becomes more unapologetic, thanks to the

unadulterated Nolen Gur, during winter despite being a diabetic. Baba must rest with two, not being able to ignore the gaze and frown from Ma, whereas Bhai and I finish the entire

container, not realising that nothing is left for Ma!

I never realise how my Sunday breakfast siesta trails on past twelve. Pulling me off the sofa, I inhale deeply the smell of Kochi Panthar Jhol for lunch. “Generations”, I mutter. While the world still gears up, here in our den we four talk about Feluda and Satyajit Ray, licking our fingers as our tastebuds lift up with the smell of garlic, onion and tender mutton pieces.