Glass bangles tinkle, smooching one another momentarily as the hand wearing them wipes the golden flour-dust off the hot, black tavaa. His eyes are now riveted to the flattening dough on the weathered wooden chakla — each rotation is a measured orbit, and with the belan cantilevered over it, the palm presses, stretches, and breathes life into the circle.
Now perfectly thin and heroically round, the hand rises again, sinewed and sure, to smack it on the bold, black tavaa. He admires the tavaa’s thick body — its wooden handle veined and darkened with the years, but the iron-laden hull seems to have only got sturdier with years of sitting on the face of fire. The colourful bangles now glide down the forearm. Another supporting hand appears — one holds the tavaa, putting it aside carefully, and the other pinches the thin chapatti with golden tongs, laying its tender back directly on the fire until it beautifully inflates with a belly full of hot love. The chapatti sighs out a little hotness as the hands cradle onto a round, waiting plate.
Yes!
Ohhhh… Yes!
Yes!
He cups the whole of it in his palms, marvelling at its tender geometry — so round, so pliant, so alive. The chapatti exhales warmth, its belly still burgeoning with heat. He wants to pinch a corner and break a piece, but the heat snaps at him like a living ember. He retracts his fingers, attempts again. The heat hits back with a sharper growl, biting him deeper into the skin. Amused, he turns his gaze down adoringly at the chapatti, only to find that his fingers are flirting not with the soft chapatti, but with the stern, black sternum of the heated tavaa.
“Ouch!” He shrieks.
“Oh ma! Ki holo! What happened? Are you alright?”
He is still blowing the tops of his fingers when Wife, now startled, shakes him back into their world.
“I…uh…nothing… what time is it? There’s so much light!”
“Daylight saving ended today. It’s not even 6, aar dekho, look,” Wife tells him, almost protesting the break of dawn.
Wife gets out of bed and rolls the window down sleepily.
“Hey Siri, wake me up at 7 am,” she yawns into her watch.
Wife used to wear red, white, and gold bangles back at home, but here in Europe, she either wears this Apple watch or her golden Titan Raga when she forgets to ask him to charge it.
“Dear”, he murmurs, “if we buy a tavaa, we will be able to make round-round, hot-hot chapattis na…”
Wife wheezes a snore in response.
*
“Baboo! Love! Will you please come in and check if the rice is done?”
He squeezes two swollen grains between his fingertips.
“All–most… just give it… another 2 minutes,” he announces with scientific precision.
She pushes his spectacles up his nose, pecking the tip with her lips ever so quickly.
“You know how I rarely get it right, that’s why I trust you so much,” Wife beams as she drains the rice water.
“Oh, this Gobhi-Matar would have tasted so much better with chapattis…”
“I know, love,” Wife caresses his hand empathetically.
“But, hey, we belong to the state of rice-growers and rice-lovers, and at least one of us needs her bhaat every day,” Wife digs in. He languidly follows with his hesitantly full spoon.
He swore he could pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with the “other” carbohydrate in Chandigarh — its lithe, ghee-laden, obligingly chewy form had seduced him away from the steaming mounds of white rice he’d grown up revering — served on steel plates with a healthy dose of fried vegetables, fish, and maternal warnings. Far from a dramatic elopement, this was just a low-grade, daily treason. And he still ate rice, of course — dutifully. Albeit with a deep, private longing for another.
“Could we…” he clears his throat like a hesitant auctioneer. “Maybe ask your sister to carry a tavaa for us? She’s coming to Europe next month, right?”
“Ah…ha hahahahah! Not if you want me embalmed.” The grin evaporates, her eyes slice into him, and her face suddenly goes flat like a slate.
He is almost too petrified to revolt, so she leans in and continues, “She’s flying here for an expo and has strictly warned me not to add even so much as a gram to her baggage.”
“Also,” she adds, “why are we so hell-bent on getting one from back home when we have so many great options here?”
“So, will you let me buy the non-stick ones?” his face lights up with childlike innocence.
“AB-solutely not! Those cheap, cancerous wannabes are just horrible in every single way. But, I was looking at Le Creuset and they have this beautiful cast-iron pan! Oh, I’ve always wanted to own a Le Creuset! How do they even pronounce it? Luuhh-croo…khoo…say…” Wife gargles the rest of this fancy brand’s name he has never heard of.
Head down, he has just stuffed a mouthful of rice when the phone buzzes.
“Hello beta!” It’s his mother on the other side.
“Hi Ma!”
“Pranaam Ma” Wife chimes in. “Look, I made your Gobhi-Matar recipe today,” she switches to video call.
“Bab-ba! How nice! You know, I was at the Old Market today. Look what I got!” Ma excitedly turns her camera towards something black.
“Can’t see it, Ma. Steer the phone a bit leftwards… a bit rightwards now…ha!”
“Oh, it’s this iron tavaa that I got for 150 rupees only today! And look how sturdy it is. The old one was fine and served us long, but had collected too much soot. And these days, your Baba also insists on having chapattis only…all these years of having bhaat with everything, and now, at this age, he is saying rice is bad for health!”
“Like father, like son! This one also keeps dreaming of chapattis all day long. Ki fascination aache, I can’t imagine! It seems he is reading the same WhatsApp forwards!”
Both chime into a cross-continental laughter.
Wife continues talking to Ma, but he has mentally checked into ‘what-if’land, wondering what it would have been like to be there at home with Ma and the new tavaa and its gorgeous chapattis. He would miss the old guard, but new is mostly exciting. And of course, Ma knows best.
“Accha, tell him, our flights are now booked! We are coming in two months.”
“Yes, Ma. He’s right here. Listen…” She shakes him out of his dream almost mockingly and thrusts the phone towards his face.
“M…ma! Ma, yes! You are coming here. Will you please, pretty please get that tavaa? I can’t wait to eat soft, soft chapattis with simmering Aaloo-Palak!”
“Ah, hold that saliva now, Sir!” Wife chuckles, wiping his mouth playfully.
Ma can’t stop laughing either, “Alright, baba! I will pack you a brand new tavaa and also make chapattis for you. By the way, I have also taught her how to make chapattis on an inverted pot. The two of you can experiment.”
“Na… no experiment-bheriment, you bring the tavaa and then we will make the best chapattis in the whole whole world! I can wait. I am grown up now.” He proclaims animatedly as Wife pulls his right cheek with a pout.
*
Days turn into weeks, measured less in days and more by the anticipation of the tavaa’s arrival in his chest.
How sweet his dreams look now!
The roundest, loveliest of chapattis ballooning on the open flame, their tops slightly charred, ever-so-slightly powdery, and how they would unfurl the trapped steam on a single tear. How they would scoop and envelope his favourite Aaloo-Palak sabzi and dal and make them meaningful. Worth making, and worth consuming.
Every phone buzz quickens his pulse — maybe it’s news of Ma’s Schengen visa arrival. He could almost visualise how she would get the iron tavaa. Would she secure it under her clothes in the suitcase? The new Safari has an external flap… but perhaps the handle won’t fit. She could probably strap it onto the front of the suitcase…
“Stupid idea, it would fall apart or hurt someone…” Wife interjects.
“Was I thinking loudly again?”
“And doodling your packing methods too! Again. See!”
Revealing too much of yourself is never wise, he makes a mental note.
“Ma, did the visa come in? Is your packing done?” he’d ask over FaceTime, trying to peer over her shoulders, scanning for his beloved iron disk.
“Hain hain, almost, Baboo. I’m just not sure how many jackets to pack…”
“Arey, not that, Ma. It’s summer time now, and she will give you hers if you lack insulation. Or we’ll go shopping.” Patience was never his strongest suit anyway.
“The tavaa… did you pack it yet or not?”
“O Maa, of course.” She raises a hand to her temple. “At this point, I can forget to pack your father, but not the revered tavaa. I have securely wrapped it in an old saree and placed it on the bottom half of the suitcase, right at the very bottom, just like your doodles on WhatsApp. It’s heavy though, so we might indeed have to go shopping!” she complains smilingly.
Wife presses on his shoulders from behind and peers through. “Accha, Ma, I texted my IFS Dada in the embassy. Unfortunately, he has no further access to the application, but he reassured me that it will arrive well in time for your flight.”
“Arey Ma, I will reach out to Rajoo Bhaiyya in the passport office. These IFS-IAS types can’t reach where an office clerk can. What’s that Hindi couplet… dekhan mein chhotan lage…”
“Ghaav kare gambheer!” Ma, the retired high school Hindi teacher, completes his doha with the tallest smile.
“The smallest wounds cut the deepest,” he nudges Wife, proud of the knowledge of the shared proverb and his mastery over Hindi.
“Also, Ma, worry not — when I am here, what to fear!”
He breathes light and gleams differently for the rest of the day.
A real tavaa felt so substantial… it was not cancerous or flimsy like those coated European imports. It was a real, heavy, iron tavaa, born of metal, forged in fire, tempered by desi craftsmanship. And now, it was going to be in his hands, in his kitchen.
All that mockery and teasing aside, Wife was silently gleaming too. And preparing. She ordered fresh atta and Amul ghee from Spice Valley Indian Store. She even experimented on the sly with small batches of atta and water, re-learning different kneading methods to the point of her YouTube and Instagram feed (and her phone) being drenched in atta. Her success with the dough prompted her to try her hand at rolling chapattis, but at some point during the ordeal, she made peace with her part in the process being restricted to the kneading, letting him or Ma take up the job of making the perfect roti — the heat-retentive, soft, charred, dramatically poofing-kind that only a real tavaa could deliver.
*
Ma finally got the passport. The day his parents’ flight was due to land, he took the day off work, tracking the plane’s movement with obsessive attention. Every minute closer felt like a tiny victory. He and Wife stood at the arrival gate. Wife swore he could have bounced in place from excitement — maybe he was embodying the spirit of the chapatti and ballooning up with energy too. He finally spotted Ma and Baba. In the midst of the frantic waves and smiles, however, he didn’t notice at first that their checked-in luggage was missing.
Ma’s face fell as Wife asked her about it.
“Baboo, I am so sorry, re… they said that they didn’t have enough space on our Helsinki connection, so they gave us this voucher.” Two fallen faces glanced at each other and then him.
“They did apologize to us, and said they would send it over on the next flight. They will deliver it straight to your house — no need to come back to the airport…” For a nanosecond, her eyes lit and, then, fell, again.
His shoulders sagged. Wife let out a sigh, and pulled him into a side-hug. She’d never felt more sorry for him and he had never looked so… much like a deflated chapatti. She immediately swatted that sadistic imagery out of her head and lightly kissed his ear.
That night, steamy Aaloo-Palak graced the new Rosenthal dinner plates, the white of the decorated porcelain now complemented by the perfectly-cooked, long, immaculate, grains of white rice.
Vanya Lochan is a published academic, magazine writer, editor, and brand communications professional. She lives in Berlin with her partner and the many tall trees that surround their house.