The beat of the Punjabi dolke explodes my heart at Loughborough Mela. The beat plunging me back to my home in the long distant past. Rhythm and excitement course through my veins. Onions make my eyes water, garam masala and chillies catch at the back of my throat. The smell of fresh samosas and dosas perfume the very English air in the Market Square.
In the long, impatient street stall queue, the colour of a glorious sunset catches my eye. Travelled far from a different continent. The swirls and spirals of fresh jalebis, glisten with sugar-water syrup. Mouth drowning, I watch the elderly turbaned Sikh piping art into the vast vat of hot oil. Zen-like he then ladles out the hot jalebis. Gatherings and celebrations rise up like bubbling oil. Births, engagements, weddings, birthdays and Eids, sweetened memories in bright orange.
Addicted again - I refuse to share. 'Get your own!' I growl at my best friend.
Crunching the orange pastry, syrup coating everything, fingers are licked clean twice. Savouring the sugar overload, I run my tongue over my lips yet again.
I remember shouting as a child, 'Dad no!' Laughing as he bizarrely put them in warm milk. The milk became a pale sunrise, from a pale pink to a pale orange, spreading the sweetness. Yummy! What did I know back then?...
Each precious morsel takes me back in time. Running barefoot and wild through my little village, a three-year-old, too young to be in school yet.
Unweighted sheer delight then.
Now orphaned from innocence and family, I swallow the past whole.
Great story, Abida - I could smell, taste, see everything as you were telling it. Such a sweetness throughout the whole piece then a packed punch at the end. Well done!
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