A TRUCE & A PACKET OF BISCUITS
I sat down on the stone bench under the old Bougainvillea tree that sheltered the tiny play area next to what we called the “green gate” -This was the entrance and exit for the primary school kids. I wore a silver metal strapped Casio digital watch. It had been begging for a battery change but other than the display fading slightly, there were no issues with it, and it told the time perfectly. Reliable.
School had ended at 3 and I had stood there for a while now, feeling like a one child farewell squad bidding all my friends goodbye.The last of whom had just left.
It was now 3:30 and the grounds were nearly empty.
The wind blew a gentle gust of cool air my way. It was a bit dusty from the sand in the pit but smelled like…rain! Looking up at the sky I watched as a steady gathering of grey clouds swallowed up all the available sunlight leaving life a little less golden. And before I had time to think, I felt the first drops of rain - cold, heavy splatters with a gentle sting against my arms. I sighed. Without a raincoat and no shelter other than the dense Bougainvillea tree, it was only a matter of time before I was soaked! The old guard at the gate glared at me. I was one of four kids … oops! Now three, keeping him from locking up and leaving his post for dryer environs. I could feel my heart pounding while my shoulders began to suddenly feel the weight of the books I had been carrying. I could of course make a dash for the senior block , all the way across the playground to call home and ask where on earth my dad was and what was holding him up. But that would drench me! It would probably ruin my watch too! That smart silver watch that was given to me for my birthday which I promised to keep safe.
Surely someone had to notice I was not home yet?! My dad was usually on time. But wait. What if it was something else ?! What if something had happened to him? My worry had now turned to fear.
As is the case when too many big thoughts come together and form a nasty tornado in one’s head, my discomfort began to take over...my cheeks flushed a bright red and I could now feel a few warm tears rolling down . They begin to mix with the cool wet surface of my face. My short hair and uniform, the heavy school bag (now heavier for some reason) all began to soak through. It wasn’t long before I was engaging in a full blown ugly cry. The old guard now had an umbrella overhead and the sight of me didn’t seem to make a difference to him. He’d probably seen enough of my kind and was possibly hardened by the sheer boredom I presume was his job. I wasn’t offered shelter and was too scared to ask. I stayed put, looked down so that I could mask some of the tears and in my melancholy, managed to distract myself by twisting the water out of the corner of my dress that was particularly wet from a steady stream of water dripping from an overhead branch. The good news is that the downpour seemed to be getting lighter. The bad news? Well, my watch was no longer showing time. Or anything else for that matter.
That was when I heard the creaking of the green gate and in rushed my father, also soaking wet! I was angry at first but the biggest hug along with his wide toothy smile rid me of the fear and some of my anger. He seemed very amused at the sight of a small, soaking-wet, angry human in her bottle green uniform reflecting a whole range of emotions back at him. Yes, I said bottle green.
As he took me by the hand through an abating drizzle to his bike, I revisited my thoughts from earlier on : how awful it felt to be forgotten, and how terrifying it was to worry that I would never see my dad again. A fresh stream of tears started to flow. My dad couldn't see me now as I climbed up behind him into the passenger seat, but he could sense that I was still very much holding on to a royal sulk with my stoic silence in response to all his desperate attempts to cheer me up.. I rested my head on his back and stared at the world pass us by as we rode along, the fragrance of freshly fallen rain filling my lungs.. I felt a sense of calm riding along. Staring but not really looking. Hearing but not really listening. It was then that I was forced to snap out of my 'empty reverie'. For we had stopped!
"And what have we here ?"
Within seconds the smell of rain & other miscellaneous environmental situations had been mixed and overpowered by the heady scent of buttery treats and baked goodies. "Sneaky" i thought to myself. What a fabulous tactic this was!
I hopped off the side of my dad’s Honda Kinetic and we shot each other a look.
My anger shifted to excitement and while I wanted to stay committed to my stance I was forced to break into a wry smile as we nudged each other by the elbows.
He’d been pulling this one for years and it worked every time! Even I knew resistance was futile.
We had arrived at "HY-LINE Bakery".
The only one in the neighborhood. You’d know it from a mile away by it's tantalising scents. Set in the old confines of Hyderabad's King Koti Area, it sat across from the mysterious “Parda Gate” Which as it’s name suggests (curtain gate) is where the wives of the Nizam and other officials would come to receive an audience or watch a procession through the latticed little windows that line what now is barely a few meters of wall that then blends into smaller office spaces and motor spare part stores.
We walked in like a couple of old pals. My dad, greeting the gentleman at the counter with an “Assalamu Alaykum” as the locals do. A Muslim greeting meaning “Peace be with you”. And he responded with a “Wa Alaykum Assalam” He knew us well. My dad grew up in the same neighborhood as him & speaks some pretty stellar Urdu. They had a wholesome but stunted bonhomie- the kind that limited itself to the exchange of freshly baked bread, cream cones, chicken patties and the like for frequently discounted but steady business.
They exchanged some pleasantries while the man proceeded to pack the usual, a loaf of bread for dinner and an extra something for me. While he reached for a fresh paper bag, I took my place at my usual viewpost. With my forehead pressed against the cool slanted glass of the showcase. Supervising. 500 grams of the “Khari Biscuit” would get us about 12 pieces. Had to be certain we'd get that exact quantity!
He weighed and counted them. 12 solid. He smiled at me as my dad whispered something to him about why this treat needed to be extra special. The man ;et put a knowing "Ahhh!" before he shouted out to someone in the back. A salesboy emerged with a chilled bottle of my favourite malt flavoured Milk! I couldnt believe just how well my fates were turning around!
We sat on the step outside the shop and bit into the fresh Khari’s salty thin glazed crust, the buttery soft center crumbling and melting on my tongue which i'd then wash down with some cold milk.
The sky was clear now and silvery gold…the scent of rain and khari biscuit all hanging in the air. And all the scariness of my afternoon washed away.
I dont know if my opportunism was conscious but it was then that i told my dad that the rain had ruined watch. He smiled and told me I had nothing to worry about because it was waterproof!
PHEW!
Repair, Relief and Recovery. All in a packet of buttery biscuits. Who would’ve thought ?!
We got back on my dad’s bike and headed home.
I'm in town for a few days and as usual my dad is my favourite roaming buddy. I visit Hyderabad only every 4-5 yrs now but when I do I like to go back to the old neighbourhoods and keep up with their latest facades.
On one of our short excursions we pass through a familiar route. I know it from the ruins of Parda gate..the curtain now even more crippled looking but shockingly still intact.There's still something so lucidly stunning about this old structure even in its dilapidated state.
I immediately look for the bakery …but i cant see it!
'Did they move?' i wonder .
Almost as if to read my mind , my dad tells me “The bakery shut down. There was a feud between the brothers that ran the place..”
Im a bit shaken by this news. This place was special to us both.
I spot the old signage - now faded and worn.
Im overwhelmed with sadness but I say nothing.
He pulls over and heads to the boot of the car .
"I was going to give this to you later." He says with that same old toothy grin as he hands me a blue packet.
I look inside and see a box with the word's "Karachi Bakery" in embossed Gold foil and "Premium Chai Biscuit" in smaller red letters..
I look up at my dad, a tad puzzled and he says "It's not the same. But it comes pretty close."
"Tried and tested ?" I ask. "Tried and tested !" He exclaims.
I open up the box right there and then..crumbs littering the seat. I know he hates that but we both ignore the mess. I take one out and offer him some.
Same salty buttery sweetness. Soft flaky centre. I nod in approval as I go in for seconds while my bemused father watches me and chuckles quietly.
We put on some music and sit there for a short while. Eating while the car stays parked in front of that very step we once sat on.
I pull out my phone and take a picture.
"For the memories " I say to him.