Dear ole dad, a renowned intellectual and distinguished man of letters can look a bit forlorn when it comes to his quest for night-time desserts.
Last week as the palaces of Pakistani politicos were in a state of upheaval and ‘history was being made’, Dad started shooting me these painstaking looks. I was not sure whether it was Jaffer Bhai’s biryani or the state of the nation. Both can have a profound, at times painful effect on Dad. Jaffer Bhai, our roly-poly elderly cook is a man of few words. Mostly the words are: “Hum ko chutti peh jaana hai” (We must go on a break” or “Dahi khatam ho gaya hai” (We have run out of yoghurt).
As to the state of our nation, my Abajan, being the most passionate patriot, feels for Pakistan the way most people only feel for their deeply loved ones.
Hence dear readers, you will understand that when at around 9.30 pm, on a moist July evening, Dad was looking at me as if life was somewhat bereft of something, I was not sure if it was Jaffer Bhai’s shenanigans or something to do with our fascinating, yet turbulent nation.
“Kya hua, Abajan”? (What happened, Father dear?) I asked in what I hoped was a gentle, daughterly kind of tone...
“Bachchi ab dekhein”, he began... (my parents called each other ‘Mian’ and ‘Biwi’, I am ‘Bachchi’, my brother is ‘Bachchey’...lest there be any confusion, ever!
“Fox sweets bilkull khatam ho gaee hain aur woh ras-malai, woh purani ho gaee hai...” (The Fox sweets are finished and the ras-malai has gone stale).
I then realised that the issue had nothing to do with cook or country (Jaffer Bhai or Pakistan).
It had everything to do with the diminishing number of Fox sweets. These are pastel colored fruity drops which Dad enjoys post dinner time. A man of great discipline, he has no more than two at a time. And when the sweetie tin is empty, as sweetie tins often are, then Dad looks deeply hurt. Ras-malai is generally consumed one at a time – and is had only on occasion. On this particular night, the sweets appeared to have finished and the ras malai had acquired a suspicious odour, lurking around, as it had done for a few more days than necessary in Jaffer Bhai’s fridge. Dad was despondent.
Dear ole Dad, who had been asleep, was looking somewhat reluctant to leave during the earthquake. "Biwi", said he, in a concerned tone, "woh Mackintosh toffees ka dabba zaroor ley leyna!"
I eagerly offered him plain cake but he looked quite hurt. Not as bad as if I had offered Kashmir to the neighbours but still quite obviously offended. Dear ole Dad, normally known as Abajan, then proceeded to discuss the lack of moistness in the plain cake...”Bacchi, him aap ko bata nahin sakte woh kaisa cake tha...” (I cannot begin to tell you what sort of cake it was!)
As if there was some deliberate ploy on the part of the bakers to make it a less-than-acceptable plain cake!
My favorite Dad and Dessert incident however takes me back to the month of August many years ago.
In my comfortably pregnant state, I happened to be staying with my parents: me, belly, baby and all.
Cuddled under a quilt in my old (pre-wedded state) bed-room, I was happily munching on some nocturnal snack, gazing at a can of Coke which I had valiantly sworn not to have. Suddenly there was a shifting sensation, a swaying movement. I leapt out of bed, big tummy and all, and went knocking on my parents door, “Mummy, Abajan, there’s an earthquake...quick let’s get out!”
Motichoor Laddoos
Mummy, forever the able sportswoman, was galvanized into action – she headed for the main door but after making sure that I, her pregnant and thus somewhat imbalanced daughter, was safely ushered outside. Worried about my father, she wondered why he didn’t look like he was in too much of a hurry to leaving the shaking building, “Mian,” said Mummy, “Hurry up, it’s an earthquake!”
Dear ole Dad, who had been asleep, was still in their darkened bed-room, looking somewhat reluctant to leave. “Biwi”, said he, in a concerned tone, “woh Mackintosh toffees ka dabba zaroor ley leyna!” (Wife, do get that box of Mackintosh toffees!)
Dad was finding it hard to leave the toffees behind.
Fortunately they were found, and we all found ourselves standing outside our house, on the roadside along with our terrified neighbours. Quite the get-together, Khayabane Bahria was (literally) a rocking sight!
We watched our house quiver with the impact of the tremour, heavily pregnant me, worried Mummy on Xanax and Dear Ole Dad with the tin of Mackintosh toffees tucked under his arm. Dad was smiling serenely while the rest of us shuddered. Toffees were intact.
Interesting to note is that while Dad will spend much time reflecting on issues dessert-related, the amount that is actually consumed is extremely moderate and the result of deep consideration. Dad is a man of much discipline. Sadly I have inherited none of it.
While Dad contemplates and considers, I inhale stuff (food, just to be clear) with the speed of light.
Quite content in my high cholesterol, pre-diabetic, irritable bowelled state, I have always been low on willpower when it comes to snacking.
I can consume large packets of potato chips, gallons of Coke and other munchies in small amounts of time. Last night I had kulfi as an appetiser, biryani as the main course and then moti-choor ladoo as dessert. I did have flashes of panic as I felt my blood sugar rising, but these were short lived. I’ve been told that walks are good for pre-diabetics and so I binge, then walk. Quite regularly and merrily, a two-step remedy.
I hold my Sohailio somewhat responsible for this laddoo fascination. Shortly after our son was born, my mother left the house in a hurry (she realised that baby needed a pram). It was a sultry summer afternoon, the kind that Karachi does best and Sohailio and I were siesta-ing, the rattling whirr of the AC, a comforting Karachi sound.
Hubby looks at me pensively, “Do you think Aunty (my mother) has gone to buy laddoos? I wonder whether she will get motichoor or ‘beysan key laddoo.”
Hubby and I contemplated this interesting situation and tried to hide our disappointment when my Mummy returned with a pram for baby – laddoo-less.
So you see, dear reader, I was exposed to the options of how luscious laddoos could be, available in varied types.
The problem is while Hubby and Dear ole Dad contemplate dessert options, I act – or rather, eat.
I sat there one day, wondering where this dare-devil attitude of mine comes from. And then Tehseen Aunty, (my totally adorable and extremely elderly) Phuppi dropped in for a visit and much came to light.
She stoically informed me that she had gone through two large Cadbury bars that morning. And then had some kheer too.
After we had a cosy, chatty lunch, I hesitantly and fearfully told her that I had forgotten about dessert. With a casual flourish of the hand, she waved my fears aside and said, “When there’s no dessert, I just eat spoonfuls of sugar.”
Despite her age, my Phuppo remains vibrant, affectionate and interested in the world. I wonder if this has anything to do with her ability to consume copious amounts of sugary substances with not a worry in the world.
I have a heartbreaking memory of one gorgeous winter evening when Dad and my Phuppi (Tehseen) came for dinner. I was basking in the warmth of familial coziness – Dad reflecting on life, Tehseen Aunty looking on fondly and asking pertinent, significant politically-inclined questions.
Dinner came to an end and the plates were cleared away. We continued to chat and I continued to look happy, curled up on a dining room chair, basking in the glow of Dad and Phuppi’s nuggets of political wisdom.
Eventually, I sensed that Dad and Tehseen were looking a bit woebegone. I realised that I had forgotten dessert. This resulted in Dad and his dearest sis going from a bit woebegone to totally shattered. Too gracious to lodge an actual complaint, they sat there looked deeply unhappy. Fortunately I was able to send Zain Bhai (cook of the moment) running to the store for ice-cream. Tehseen Aunty looked relieved, like a dwindling, disaster of an evening had been rescued but my Abajan looked at me like I had toyed with some serious injustice and said “Magar, bachchi hum ice-cream to kabhi nahin khaatey!”
So you see dear reader, I come from a place of varying attitudes to sweet substances.
There is my dear father’s exemplary sense of discipline when it comes to actual consumption. However, he remains capable of long dialogues about what sweet stuff may be in the fridge and how long it has been there. There have been instances of the staff lined up, maid, cook and driver. All in sharp, tailored attire, lined up as if for inspection. But they are actually just being questioned about the well-being of the ras malai and it’s potential for a long shelf (fridge) life.
All the employees will offer scintillating opinions except for Jaffer Bhai, the cook who manages to look serene (i.e. uninterested) and say ‘Dahi khatam ho gaya hai’. (The yoghurt has run out)
Then there is my husband’s interest in laddoos and ice-lollies, yet once again like Dear ole Dad, he manages to exert some self-control and be somewhat rational about his consumption. When eating an ice-lolly, he will usually look at it with some affection and then devour it with a thoughtful air. A process of subliminal love, if you will...(look up Freud’s theories of Thanatos and Eros.)
There is my somewhat outrageous behaviour when it comes to dangerous snacking and eager walking. And of course my lovely Phuppo’s gay abandon when it comes to all things sweet and sugary.
The fact remains that whether one is contemplative and cautious or given to crazy snacking impulses, it’s a heady turbulent relationship: my family and other sweet delights!
