The warped, green wooden almirah stood like an overarching figure in the ordinary, dull kitchen of Mamabadi at Behala and it held many secrets. I heard stories of my maternal aunt hiding jewelries inside the depths of rice tins behind those trusty old doors when she intended to leave the house for long trips.
However, at 6, my eyes were rather fixated at another treasure that was tucked away at the farthest corner of the top shelf - the coveted ‘biskoot-er kouto’. The thick glass container stored some of the most delectable biscuits and cookies I had ever seen as a child. The jammy ones, creamy ones, home-made, and the excuisite European delights gifted to my grandma (Didun) by my uncle who lives in Germany. It had it all.
Needless to say, it grabbed many eyeballs and therefore would always be hidden discreetly, often behind the unbroken panorama of ‘muri-r tin’ and the general blur of the likes. An organized effort to discourage prying eyes like mine.
The Plan
I knew that landing on that treasure required more than a bargain. It required a meticulous plan, so I hatched one. I needed Didun alone and therefore waited for the day when my mum would go shopping with my maternal aunt. I was often left with Didun’s company, while the sisters went out.
On one such hot afternoon, when I was with Didun alone, I tried to pursuade her to get me the biscuits. She refused straight away asking me to be patient and went her way to fetch the day’s newspaper.
Being an avid reader, Didun would not retire for the day unless she scanned through every page of the day’s newspaper. However, the newspaper was nowhere to be found. She looked around for sometime unable to trace it and I could see the pearls of sweat lining her forehead. She was big and againg. Summers in Kolkata could be draining. Atlast, she gave up the search and I was called for a swift search.
Spotting the right opportunity, I drew an agreement with her. If I could find her the newspaper, I would get what I wanted and she reluctantly agreed.
The Much Awaited Reward
A calm and crafty Didun knew her tricks. She would walk up to the almirah in an indifferent gait and position herself effortlessly to block my view and determination with the guard of her podgy, rounded figure that added additional girth owing to her saree’s drape worn in traditonal style. Every time she unlocked the Almirah, the old wood would complain with a creak as if consorting with Didun to keep trouble away.
While I waited with bated breath in pursuit of a tasty delight coming my way, to my dimay, Didun would turn around to hand me the most ordinary one from the tastiest assortments. However, much to her dislike, I refused to accept her choice and pushed her to get the one I wanted. Finally, when she would yield to my resolute demand, I was rewarded with the creamiest satisfaction I could ever imagine.
It always remained a mystery, and thankfully so, when and how Didun altered the location of the assorted biscuits in that kitchen closet.