Mom swiftly rolls the dough into a perfect two-inch round, stuffs it with sweetened powder of cashews, almonds, raisins, folds it into an elegant half-moon karanji and hands it to me. To crimp its curve, an artistic touch.
Fumbling fingers search for the pinch-pull motion mastered as a young girl, atrophied over the years, like other traditions left behind with the native land. Nah, mom says to the first with an uneven fringe. Naaah, to the second. Both defective goods, set aside.
A memory surfaces: Mom, aunts, grandmas chatting, chuckling in the kitchen, week before Diwali, the festival of lights. Their ample frames shaking with merriment. Deft fingers rolling and filling, folding and sealing plump semi-circles. One leaning toward seven-year-old me: Here child, here’s how. Fold-pinch-pull. Tight folds, tiny pinches.
Then in the years following: Let the child crimp, she does it best. The sweet fragrance of the fried delicacy swirling, wrapping around us.
I find myself humming and try again. Fingers catch the old rhythm: fold - - pinch - - pull. An arc of neat pleats begins to crown the half-moons.
Preeti Chandan grew up in Mumbai, India. She is a former journalist who now works as a sales and marketing professional in Southern California. Her micros and flash have appeared in 101 Words, 50-Word Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine and other online journals.
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