I ran my hand over the eatables mindlessly changing their places. I would poke my face, pulling at the door of the refrigerator and dashing it carelessly. As I caught my grandparents snoring in the afternoon nap, my mind would turn into the devil’s workshop instantly. I avoided sleeping during the day and sneaked out of my mother’s room. My mother would thrust water in my mouth while granny ran her hand on my back. The entire family would gather throwing curious glances at me. Why don’t you bite it and eat slowly? Why do you gulp everything down without chewing?’ I would count and choose the biggest one from the shining, rotund figures of India’s most desired sweet item. My mother would bring the earthen pot out from the refrigerator and hold it before me. Your mother has kept it inside the refrigerator. “Arjun, I have brought your favorite thing. When I stepped inside our house, he would uncover his face from the sheets of newspaper and showed his toothless smile. My grandfather waited almost with bated breath for my return from the school. As a child, often I would cry for eating the best Rasgoolla, which was my favorite sweet among other sweet items. I was only child of my father and almost my entire family lavished its affection on me. I was born in a hamlet in the remote corner of Odisha, where my father was working as the branch manager in a bank. Family Short Story – Confession of an Indian
