Twenty-eight

The bowl that I picked had remnants of chopped onions in it and so I dropped it where it was and went ahead searching for an unoccupied one.
Poured half a bowl of cold water into the pan, unwrapped the yellow packet of Maggie and dropped the pack of tight stripes into it. Streamed little more water until it leveled. Tore up the corner of the silver packet of masala mix and poured the mixture onto the half boiled noodles. With the fork, the stirring began and before spilling the long worms into the fresh bowl for me to start slurping, I asked my mom who was strolling somewhere out the kitchen, ‘You want some?’
‘No’ and I was glad on hearing that. I never wished to share Maggie with anybody. There had been times when I’d carry them packets to school in my bag, so my brother didn’t find them at home.
The lights were turned off before placing the bowl on the dining table. The only light was from the damp sky through the pillered window to my left. It was 6 pm and pouring heavily. The setting inside reminded me of the days when my cousin brother, Suni and I ate Maggie in the evening. While little Suni and I sat on the dining table, elder cousin sat on one of the chairs before us. And how he would fool us with ‘Look there! Mice!’ and gobbled spoonful of it from our bowls while we turned around to search for the mice that never existed.
I sat there alone today and ate. Rolled the noodles with my fork and stuffed mouthful, the only sound was clink-clank of the fork in the bowl.
Joyfully lapped the fork, the bowl and then the pan, devouring till there was nothing left. After I finished, I sat with both my hands under chin. In agony.
Sometimes you just know it, that talking to friends won’t help little sorrows in life, nor eating your favourite Maggie noodles. When I was 9 year old and my brother was 6 year old, we had alot of things to keep us busy with. After we ate Maggie in the evening, we’d bounce onto the sofa, after couple of bounces we’d grab the remote, watch Pogo and admire at the creamy characters in it, which looked so yummy! We’d draw on the canvas and when we were tired doing so, we’d sharp the crayons and watch the coloured curves fall down. There was always one or the other thing to do that we hadn’t had the time to crib over what we had and what we had not. Over who was ignoring and who wasn’t, who loved us and who didn’t, who liked, who disliked. All that mattered was, happiness

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