You will need:
- Bread (preferably stale)
- Milk (1L)
- Sugar (1/3 cup)
- Ghee (to fry)
- Cardamom pods (crushed)
- Dry fruits (to decorate)
- A glass of lemonade (for the visitor)
Most of the ingredients are likely to be in your pantry already, except the dry fruits that you never actually include in the final dish. They’re too expensive, too indulgent, saved for more special occasions than casual Thursday afternoons and leftover bread.
•••
- First, prepare the bread by lightly toasting it on the flat tawa. Keep an eye on the lightly browning slices, and flip them with your practiced fingers. Once, the girl you used to be would flinch away from the old smouldering stove in the courtyard. Those were the early days, right before your marriage, when you scarcely knew how to tame the temperamental coal-eating beast residing in it without singeing your fingers. Your mother used to chide you as you watched her hands, viper-quick and efficient, flip breads and rotis without hesitation. You have it easy now, in this tidy kitchen with its gas stove and its demure flame sprites. Still, you use your hands. It’s how the love gets in, after all.
- Next, you need to prepare the rabri—the sweet, thickened milk that goes over the bread. Pour the full-fat milk into a heavy-bottomed pot, and wait for it to boil. At this point, do not be alarmed if someone suddenly pops into existence in your kitchen. Definitely do not try to hit them with the ladle! Let them explain. Observe the familiar shape of her features, marvel at the sing-song cadence of her voice as she speaks your dialect, the sweet, rounded vowels of your homeland rolling in her mouth as she waves her hands around and says incredible things.
- Believe those incredible things. Remember to keep stirring the milk so that it doesn’t boil over. Clockwise, then anti-clockwise, scraping the froth from the sides as you quietly process the fact that you have a grandchild. Or rather, you will. Someday your little girl, who begged for new hair ribbons just yesterday, will have her own little girl. A girl who will have your nose, your curly hair, and her own almond-shaped eyes. And she will become a fine young lady who travels back in time to show up in her grandma’s kitchen. Your kitchen.
- Turn back to the milk, which demands your attention by boiling vigorously. Reduce the heat and let it thicken, stirring continuously until it’s half the original amount. Better yet, put your slightly skittish and overly tall grandchild on stirring duty, while you open the jar of candied lemons to make her some lemonade. Try not to be bothered by her frequent glances and poorly disguised staring. Try not to think about a world that exists so far into the future that it couldn’t possibly still have you in it.
- Don’t freak out in front of your future-grandchild. You have adapted to stranger circumstances. You crossed the border when you were just a teenager, with nothing but the clothes on your back. That night was all darkness and chaos, you couldn’t even risk lighting a lantern. You didn’t know what the next day would bring—let alone the next week or the next month—as you left behind a whole life and started anew. Regardless, you adapted. You’re still adapting. And now your grandchild is there in your kitchen, offering to slice the bread into small squares. Let this reality soothe you.
- Listen to the cuckoo finish three rounds of her song outside before your grandchild speaks again. “I know you like them in squares, though your mom used to cut the bread in triangles,” she says, with the undeniable pride of sharing a secret. “You told me that, the first time you let me help you with this.”
- Realise that she truly does know you. Let her help. Meanwhile, the rabri has thickened in the pot, and coats the back of your ladle in a smooth white film. Add the crushed cardamom pods now, if you wish.
- In a separate pan, add the ghee and wait for it to melt. Wait for her to reveal the reason she’s here. Do not comment upon her nervous fidgeting as she produces the deftly cut bread for your inspection. Instead, tell her that she has done a great job, and watch her face brighten with a genuine smile. It softens her face, pulling a shy dimple out with ease. She reminds you so much of your daughter. Resist the urge to pinch her cheeks.
- Fry the pieces of bread in ghee until they are golden brown. Over the sound of the bread sizzling in the clarified butter, listen to her talk. You expect to hear of some calamitous prophecy that she must prevent. Some thread of disaster which she must’ve traced back to find its source in your time. Instead, she says that she just wanted to see you again.
- “… and maybe tell you… I’m sorry, I thought the words would come to me once I met you, even if you looked decades younger,” she chuckles, sheepish. “I should’ve just said something when you fell sick but… it felt too awkward… too final. We were close, you know.” A tired sigh escapes her. “There are things I regret, things I wish I had expressed better. I tried so hard to remember what was the last thing I ever said to you… maybe we had argued about your meds? Or your meals? Or maybe I hadn’t said anything at all. I wanted to fix it. It wasn’t easy… this was the only time-spell within my budget, and this recipe was the only thing I had with your handwriting. So, I… yeah. I just wanted to have a chance to say goodbye on my own terms.” She smiles again, and it’s a wry, brittle thing. “I thought it would help. Even though you don’t know me yet…”
We were close, she said. Past tense. But you had already anticipated that. Add the sugar to a wide pan with a splash of water, and let it bubble.
- In the middle of your kitchen, suffused in the aroma of ghee and condensed milk, give in to the urge to pinch your grandchild’s cheek. When she startles at your touch, and holds your hand in her feather-light grip, gather her into your arms. Guide that tired, lonely head to your shoulder.
- Hold her. The words that follow ache like a mis-swallowed mango candy, running in circles around her voice as she tries to say: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I miss you so much. I still eat from the steel plate you bought me on my eighth birthday. I still turn back to wave at you when I leave for work. I don’t know why I was so angry all the time. I forget your voice, but I remember your little superstitions. I’m alright, some days, and then suddenly I feel so alone. You’ll love me so much, I’m so jealous of myself.
- When she moves again, say: “The syrup must be ready by now.” Use the soft fabric of your saree to wipe her hot tears and snotty nose. If she cries harder, dismiss the flames, rub her back, and tell her you’re with her now. In some ways, you will always be with her. She’s not alone.
- Let her help you soak the fried bread with syrup, and watch her slowly come back to herself. Press some of the ‘special-occasion’ cashews and pistachios into her palm for her to snack on, while you finish stacking the syrup-soaked pieces into indulgent layers.
- Pour the rabri over the sweet sticky bread. Let her decorate with the rest of the dry fruits as she wishes. It’s no longer an ordinary Thursday after all. Cut her a generous slice.
- Watch her take the first bite, eyes fluttering shut in pure, blissful contentment. The traitorous lower lip of hers wobbles again, but she smiles despite herself, her joy full and complete. “Ah, your Shahi Tukda. It’s just as I remember,” she sighs, blinking back tears. “I thought I would never get to eat this again.” She takes another bite, a helpless smile pulling at her cheeks.
•••
You know that not even magic survives the trials of time. Yet, for a moment, you feel the presence of someone else in that tiny kitchen. The version of you that she must love so much, must miss so dearly. It seems that you will create something beautiful simply by living, and pass on an abundance of sweetness which carries what words cannot.
You will remember this feeling even after she leaves, gone between a moment and the next.
You, in turn, will never be forgotten.
