Paneer Chilly

Growing up, my mother mostly fed us home cooked meals. We ate chapatis and sabzi at breakfast and carried another portion for lunch in round steel dabbas to school. My mother would sometimes pack me two boxes of sabzi and my brother two boxes of chapati. My brother and I would spend recess looking for each other. Other kids in school would carry sandwiches or maggi and I would envy them while eating my week’s second round of beans. But after sharing a few tiffins, I realised my mother was a great cook and stuck to my own tiffin.

We had our own indulgences. Everyday, strategically at around 9 pm, I would call my dad at the restaurant. After making some small talk about my day and his, I would suggest that he get some ‘paneer chilly’ so that mom didn’t have to cook us lunch the next day. I would pretend to be asleep waiting for the door to unlock. When it did, I would act as if my dad had woken me up. My brothers usually had the same idea too. So all three of us would join our dad for our second dinner of paneer chilly. My mother would have to cook lunch the next day, anyway.

Some nights when it was our birthday or we did well in exams, my mother would cook us pav bhaji. I always looked forward to the day after the pav bhaji dinner when leftovers would be packed for the tiffin. When I returned from school, if my mother wasn’t home, I would call her phone and if she was in the market, ask her to bring me a sev puri. On the phone, she would always say no. But when she returned, she would have a white plastic bag with a small packet wrapped in newspaper.

My brother, P and I agreed on only one thing growing up - our love for the dark green ‘Kurkure’. When dinner was boring like a ‘tamata saar’ with aloo methi, my brother would go to the kirana store downstairs and buy a Rs. 20 Kurkure that we both enjoyed with dinner. I loved Kurkure because it was bang for the buck, a packet filled to the brim. At some point, there were rumours that it was made of plastic but that did not wane my loyalty. Whatever it was made of, it tasted good.

Growing up, my mother mostly fed us home cooked meals. We ate chapatis and sabzi at breakfast and carried another portion for lunch in round steel dabbas to school. My mother would sometimes pack me two boxes of sabzi and my brother two boxes of chapati. My brother and I would spend recess looking for each other. Other kids in school would carry sandwiches or maggi and I would envy them while eating my week’s second round of beans. But after sharing a few tiffins, I realised my mother was a great cook and stuck to my own tiffin.

We had our own indulgences. Everyday, strategically at around 9 pm, I would call my dad at the restaurant. After making some small talk about my day and his, I would suggest that he get some ‘paneer chilly’ so that mom didn’t have to cook us lunch the next day. I would pretend to be asleep waiting for the door to unlock. When it did, I would act as if my dad had woken me up. My brothers usually had the same idea too. So all three of us would join our dad for our second dinner of paneer chilly. My mother would have to cook lunch the next day, anyway.

Some nights when it was our birthday or we did well in exams, my mother would cook us pav bhaji. I always looked forward to the day after the pav bhaji dinner when leftovers would be packed for the tiffin. When I returned from school, if my mother wasn’t home, I would call her phone and if she was in the market, ask her to bring me a sev puri. On the phone, she would always say no. But when she returned, she would have a white plastic bag with a small packet wrapped in newspaper.

My brother, P and I agreed on only one thing growing up - our love for the dark green ‘Kurkure’. When dinner was boring like a ‘tamata saar’ with aloo methi, my brother would go to the kirana store downstairs and buy a Rs. 20 Kurkure that we both enjoyed with dinner. I loved Kurkure because it was bang for the buck, a packet filled to the brim. At some point, there were rumours that it was made of plastic but that did not wane my loyalty. Whatever it was made of, it tasted good.

Growing up, my mother mostly fed us home cooked meals. We ate chapatis and sabzi at breakfast and carried another portion for lunch in round steel dabbas to school. My mother would sometimes pack me two boxes of sabzi and my brother two boxes of chapati. My brother and I would spend recess looking for each other. Other kids in school would carry sandwiches or maggi and I would envy them while eating my week’s second round of beans. But after sharing a few tiffins, I realised my mother was a great cook and stuck to my own tiffin.

We had our own indulgences. Everyday, strategically at around 9 pm, I would call my dad at the restaurant. After making some small talk about my day and his, I would suggest that he get some ‘paneer chilly’ so that mom didn’t have to cook us lunch the next day. I would pretend to be asleep waiting for the door to unlock. When it did, I would act as if my dad had woken me up. My brothers usually had the same idea too. So all three of us would join our dad for our second dinner of paneer chilly. My mother would have to cook lunch the next day, anyway.

Some nights when it was our birthday or we did well in exams, my mother would cook us pav bhaji. I always looked forward to the day after the pav bhaji dinner when leftovers would be packed for the tiffin. When I returned from school, if my mother wasn’t home, I would call her phone and if she was in the market, ask her to bring me a sev puri. On the phone, she would always say no. But when she returned, she would have a white plastic bag with a small packet wrapped in newspaper.

My brother, P and I agreed on only one thing growing up - our love for the dark green ‘Kurkure’. When dinner was boring like a ‘tamata saar’ with aloo methi, my brother would go to the kirana store downstairs and buy a Rs. 20 Kurkure that we both enjoyed with dinner. I loved Kurkure because it was bang for the buck, a packet filled to the brim. At some point, there were rumours that it was made of plastic but that did not wane my loyalty. Whatever it was made of, it tasted good.

Growing up, my mother mostly fed us home cooked meals. We ate chapatis and sabzi at breakfast and carried another portion for lunch in round steel dabbas to school. My mother would sometimes pack me two boxes of sabzi and my brother two boxes of chapati. My brother and I would spend recess looking for each other. Other kids in school would carry sandwiches or maggi and I would envy them while eating my week’s second round of beans. But after sharing a few tiffins, I realised my mother was a great cook and stuck to my own tiffin.

We had our own indulgences. Everyday, strategically at around 9 pm, I would call my dad at the restaurant. After making some small talk about my day and his, I would suggest that he get some ‘paneer chilly’ so that mom didn’t have to cook us lunch the next day. I would pretend to be asleep waiting for the door to unlock. When it did, I would act as if my dad had woken me up. My brothers usually had the same idea too. So all three of us would join our dad for our second dinner of paneer chilly. My mother would have to cook lunch the next day, anyway.

Some nights when it was our birthday or we did well in exams, my mother would cook us pav bhaji. I always looked forward to the day after the pav bhaji dinner when leftovers would be packed for the tiffin. When I returned from school, if my mother wasn’t home, I would call her phone and if she was in the market, ask her to bring me a sev puri. On the phone, she would always say no. But when she returned, she would have a white plastic bag with a small packet wrapped in newspaper.

My brother, P and I agreed on only one thing growing up - our love for the dark green ‘Kurkure’. When dinner was boring like a ‘tamata saar’ with aloo methi, my brother would go to the kirana store downstairs and buy a Rs. 20 Kurkure that we both enjoyed with dinner. I loved Kurkure because it was bang for the buck, a packet filled to the brim. At some point, there were rumours that it was made of plastic but that did not wane my loyalty. Whatever it was made of, it tasted good.