Murukku Memories
Mr. Nedunchezhian was at a restaurant on the outskirts of Chennai. Having become a multi-millionaire, it had been years since he had entered anything but a five-star hotel. They were running late but he was told that the coffee was good there. He looked around at the crowded restaurant and noticed something golden brown on the display. His lips curved into a smile and his thoughts immediately raced back.
***
Eleven-year-old Nedunchezhian was walking home from school. On his way, he had the biggest shock of his life. The pati who sold murukkus near the railway crossing had raised the prices of his favourite snack.
"The price of all my ingredients has been raised, Chezhiya. I need at least one rupee," said the old woman politely.
"I save one or two annas every day and it takes me almost two weeks to afford one murukku," said Chezhian hotly. Unlike many of his friends, the tasty snack the pati sold at the roadside was a luxury for him. He stood savouring the smell as she began to make more. The mixture had rice flour, urad dal, butter, ajwain, sesame seeds and asafoetida among other things. The speciality of this shop was the use of groundnut oil. It did not have a long life but it had an enhanced taste. The oil hissed as the old woman fried a murukku.
“Give me two and pack three,” said a tall boy eagerly. The pati packed three hot murukkus in a dried banana leaf and gave him two. The boy put the packet in his bag and took one murukku in each hand. He began to take one bite of each as he happily walked home.
Chezhian winced as he heard the loud crunch of the tall boy biting the murukku. It made him salivate. “Pati! You sold five. You can give me one for twelve annas,” said Chezhian in a low voice. He felt ashamed to ask her for it but the craving made him forego his pride.
The old woman shook her head sadly. She sold a few more in the next ten minutes. By then, the batter was over. She took the frying pan off the clay stove and kept it aside to cool. The smell of the murukkus lingered around the place. It took the old woman fifteen minutes to pack everything. Just as she was about to leave, she turned towards him.
“Chezhiya! I have a few broken murukkus. I’ll give it to you for the money that you have,” she said slowly.
***
Tears rolled down Mr. Nedunchezhian’s cheeks as he took a bite of the murukku in the restaurant. It was crunchy but almost dissolved in his mouth. Exactly like how pati made it. Everything about it was perfect. He was suddenly both proud and humbled by his life. Proud that the price did not matter to him and humbled realizing that he had lost so many little pleasures in his life that hardly costed anything.