A Hot Bowl of Rajma –Rice
I was on a ten-day work trip to London. Before going I wanted to enjoy a hot meal of Rajma-Rice but due to time constraints, my dream remained fulfilled. Tomorrow my family was invited to my mother’s place for dinner. My mother is an outstanding cook and I, being a foodie, enjoy every bite on my plate.
My family knows about my weakness and teases me mercilessly for giving it a miss. I was irritated, in a foul mood and angry with myself for not being able to make it. I did my security checks and boarded my flight. I never approved of airplane meals, but beggars are not choosers. With a heavy heart, I had a few morsel bites of food. But my mind and heart were still entangled in the mouthwatering food my family was having.
On reaching my hotel and after settling down I looked at the hotel menu for that hot bowl of Rajma-Rice. But I am in London Hotel, not an Indian Hotel. I had to settle for a hot bowl of soup and sandwiches. Days passed I was enjoying every kind of delicacy assortment of salads, vegetables, chicken, eggs, and desserts. But my heart sang and longed for comfort food (food prepared by my mother Masala Khichdi, Lentil Rice, Mixed Veg and above all Rajma- Rice)
I was in the middle of a presentation and all I could think about was food. I cursed myself and gave myself a long lecture. But to no avail, Dil to bacha Hai ji. Once I finished my work, I rushed to find an Indian Restaurant to satisfy my fetish. I managed to find a hot bowl of the delicacy but........
Icing on the cake my trip got extended by another fortnight. The inner child in me screamed ‘No.’ I am in a beautiful country with all sorts of amenities and food at my disposal24*7 but my heart cries for just one thing. The fortnight seems like an endless era. My friends asked me, “If something is wrong with me?” I wanted to shout “Yes, everything is wrong and felt like sobbing like a child.”
My mother called me up and just by listening to my voice she knew something was wrong with me. She just listened patiently to my babbling without any complaints. Next, I called my husband and told him about my extended trip. He teased me “What will happen to my foodie?” I told him “Not to joke about such a delicate matter and cut short his call.”
The moment I entered my home a familiar smell wafted in my nostrils of Rajma-Rice. My mother looked at me and smiled a knowing smile. She served me the most delicious delicacy I longed for. Together we celebrated my homecoming. Mothers are just mothers.