Every Sunday I call my parents in Calcutta. I call them every other night of the week as well but the Sunday morning/afternoon call is a ritual that’s been followed since the time I’ve been away from home.
Since Sunday at my parents' means food followed by more food, the conversation naturally revolves around it.
And inevitably plunges me into the depths of gloom and homesickness. At least for sometime.
When I lived with the in-laws in the veggie house, my mom would tactfully refrain from mentioning the non-veg part of the Sunday menu. Since it is usually All Flesh day, with a dal thrown in, I wouldn't be easily fooled.
Knowing fully well the consequences, all I had to do was press dad a bit and he’d start rattling off: chicken curry, two types of fish, and oh I don’t know how I’m going to eat all this because your mom also made keema paranthas for breakfast.
By this time I’d be drooling enough to flood a small country and choking an urge to rush to airport and take first flight out to Cal.
I do this to myself every Sunday. And yesterday was a double dose. Anita lovingly called to ask if I wanted Hilsa, there was an overdose of it at her place. Nope, said I feebly, stomach rumbling. The vegetarians are visiting.
Called the parents afer that. They were lazing after a very very late lunch. Guess what the mother had cooked? Smoked Hilsa.