A box full of sweet memories

MY maternal grandfather brought a box of mithai for us every month after his retirement. We anticipated the day when he would draw his pension and pedal to his favourite sweetmeat shop in Bengaluru’s Shivajinagar. Secured to the bicycle carrier, a canvas bag would hold the delicious treats. Upon reaching home, he would unpack the box and place it before the deities in the puja room in a gesture of gratitude for receiving pension.

After a quick prayer and a brief wait, the family elders would share the sweets with us. We kids would have our eyes glued to the box. In the 1960s, even after we moved to a new house nearby, grandpa continued to shower us with mithai on his pension day. This monthly ritual proceeded like clockwork until the end of his life.

As they shared the mithai, each family member delighted in the treat. Some, such as the rock-solid, circular Sohan Halwa, my mother’s favourite dessert, had a flavour that would fade very slowly. Dividing Sohan Halwa was a test of complicated geometry, and a scuffle would break out as we scrambled for a larger portion. However, mom’s efforts guaranteed that everyone enjoyed an equal serving. Similarly, whenever we sliced a mango, a skirmish would break out, and we would start bickering over the middle portion, convinced that it was more fleshy.

Grandpa’s pension day was also special because he would drop a handful of gleaming coins into our piggy bank. His shirt pocket clinked with small change. He also rewarded us for good grades, and the better we did, the more coins we got. During joyful times, he would offer a 25-paisa coin, a small fortune back then. We seldom let the piggy bank overflow, opting to crack it open early to treat ourselves to goodies.

His health issues, particularly a liver disease, eventually stopped the sweet-filled meetings. His health declined bit by bit, and he felt his strength wane. It saddened us to see the World War II veteran in a vegetative state. In his last days, he struggled to breathe, each gasp punctuated by agonising moans. And then the inevitable happened when grandpa left us for his heavenly abode.

Guilt overwhelmed me as I was not around when he passed away, caught up in a cricket game with my friends. My father rebuked me for not being present with grandpa. During his final journey, the smell of gunpowder wafted through the air as the Sappers’ guns boomed their salute to the war hero.

As I savoured a mouth-watering sweetmeat the other day, I could almost hear grandpa’s footsteps, bringing home the box of treats. Those were not just mithai boxes; they were fragrant packets filled with love and affection. The aroma strengthened our bond, making us feel closer than ever. His absence made the world seem bland.