It is the RUSH HOUR at Deshpande’s yet again. Dad and his daughters have an early morning today. One has a test, the other CCA. That brings me straight into my kitchen, to pack nutrition-filled calories for the offspring.

And while hot desi-ghee parathas begin cooking and jumping into the casserole, the tea simmers and rises up and down a few times, the breakfast table is more packed that Toast Box in the mornings. And my self-proclaimed guests, the bold and aggressive Javanese Mynas, make their not-so-friendly appearance on the kitchen window parapet, chirping in low tones, as though demanding food. I sometimes wonder if these Myans are hungry Marwaris reincarnated as birds, gawping at my food. The aroma of ghee seems too hard for them to give a miss. I also believe they understand any language I speak in… While they are absolutely unafraid of me, they patiently wait out by the aircon ledge for a freshly cooked brekkie.

In the meanwhile, the bitter half and his royal daughters are seen putting in last minute items inside their bags. That is when the father commits the crime of asking the older princess to pack pickle herself as an accompaniment for the paratha. You can only imagine, how all hell breaks loose. And daddy dearest instantly turns into the tormenting father who has decided to un-love his own flesh and blood.

Shonu – “Until last year, you would come to my room every day and wake me up with so much love. And you would pack pickle for me. And now look at you, Shonu do this, Shonu take that, oh my God…”

That calls for laughter time ladies and gentlemen. We are glad we are all warmed up, tensions if any, have been dissiptated and Shonu is all set for a Geog test later today. Monu, who has been quite on the edge, sleepy and waiting for a cue from her mother to skip school is wide awake too.

As I say goodbye to my loving trio, I think about my Mom. I may be nearing fifty now. But my behaviour is no different from Shonu’s. When back home, I love my mother making my favourite dishes. I love her homemade pickles. And I love getting hugged. Period. Any change in this display of affection, and I have my own set of lines for my Mom. But I am not spilling any beans here. I have a reputation to keep up.

No matter how old we get, how independent we proclaim ourselves to be, we will always be ‘children’ to our parents. Quite like our no-so-little balls of fur will always be those tiny babies to us. The only other question, where do the mynas fit in?

P.S. I lay tiny pieces of hot paratha out for my children from the bird kingdom, eagerly waiting to feast. When I return to the aircon ledge in an hour to clean any remains, I find none. So they are Marwari souls, after all! My only worry, are these birds diabetic already? I don’t think they are meant to eat human food. But in an urban jungle like Singapore, they seem to have developed a palette for spices, at food courts, and open kitchens like mine that sometimes offer free food.