As the guests trickled into the house, the distinctive smell of Rajma slowly diluted and became part of the large feast we call a light lunch.
When no one was looking, I dipped my hand into the rich, creamy gravy of the chicken, and took a sneaky little whiff of the parathas stacked on top of each other, some omitting the fragrance of steaming hot potatoes, and the rest in the pile giving out a mouth-watering smell of onions and paneer.
I stretched my hand to its farthest limit and fetched the glass bowl with the intricate flower designs circling the rim. Two plump brown gulaab jamuns sat there innocently as if they had big swollen eyes and were looking at me longingly to be eaten. I would have gulped them down in an instant if it hadn’t been for my father twisting my earlobe and dragging me across the room, chiding me for stealing food and eating before the elders.
I thought about it, and he was right. I can’t believe I had personified a Gulab jamun. I really needed to get my priorities in place.
(Picture credits: Pexels)
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