by Krithika Akkaraju
Saturday mornings are bread-and-eggs days. Not dosa or idli days, which require endless amounts of preparation, and not paratha days, which force me to exercise each square inch of my fingers, but the simplest breakfast known to families worldwide – bread and eggs. The probability of things going wrong with bread and eggs is minimal, the moving parts are few and there’s place to manoeuvre in case things go wrong. Which, for all practical purposes, is a great way to start the weekend. Everyone is relaxed and there is little scope for conflict.
Whistling a happy tune, I set up my egg-station and dish out a Spanish omelette for the husband, a cheesy scramble for my six-year-old and a half-boiled for the toddler and myself. With the eggs out of the way, I squeeze out some fresh orange juice, put out a bowl of dry fruits and set the table for four. Now all that’s left to be done is for the husband to toast bread and put it on the table, a simple enough task he can do with élan. I hang my apron up and join the kids at the table, basking in the Saturday-ness of it all. My queen-dom and its subjects are in a happy place; I sigh and unfold the newspaper to the weekend section.
“Umm, my love, would you know where the bread is?” a meek voice floats towards me from the kitchen.
Right. Not a big deal. Sometimes Ram can’t see things right in front of his face, and this makes him ask obvious questions.
“In the breadbox, where it always is, my love,” I say, my voice dripping sugar-sweet and my aura of sanguinity intact.
“Nope. Umm… honey bunch, I think I might have forgotten to pick it up last evening…”
A doorbell rings somewhere in the building. My children are suddenly squirming in their seats.
“Ok, Ram, you know what, it’s a perfectly good Saturday and I’d like to keep it that way. I’ll go get the bread.” The room lets out a collective sigh of relief.
I gather my keys and leave the house before I decided that a ‘good Saturday’ could also entail fisticuffs with my husband.
As I drive down our locality, I realise I’ve left my phone at home and that I have no clue as to where Ram buys our staple sourdough. I take a deep breath and practice the pranayama taught to me in yoga class.
Minor panic attack averted, I stop cheerily at the friendly neighbourhood Kamal Bakery, and promptly get stared at presumably for: (a) wearing a tank top and fuchsia shorts, (b) being the only woman there, or (c) both.
“Bhaiyya, ek bread dena,” I say, taking my place at the counter, among bleary eyed men.
Without missing a beat, the shopkeeper slaps a loaf on the counter and with the other hand, wraps an egg puff in newspaper and gives it to another customer.
“Forty five rupees,” he says, lighting a cigarette.
I turn the loaf over in my hands – the words “sweet, white bread, contains milk solids and permitted colour and preservatives” almost burn a hole in my fingers. I push it back across the counter. “Yeh nahin, multigrain? Brown bread?”
He stops, cigarette dangerously close to falling out of his mouth, and stares. The shop grows silent. He snatches the loaf back and with the same swiftness, plants another in front of me.
Tutti Fruiti bread with “real fruit bits”. At this point, my face must have looked pained, because he steps inches from my face and near-yells “What madam, you want healthy bread, no? See, many fruit is there,” and jabs the loaf in multiple places. Someone snickers.
I quickly exit Kamal Bakery and retreat to my car.
Heart still racing, I pull my car out and scan the neighbourhood for other shops. I come to an abrupt halt when I read the “Buddha Organics” signboard. Please, let them have multigrain, or even atta bread! I pray and hastily enter.
A cheery jingle goes off somewhere as I enter the store.
“Ah, good morning madam, welcome, welcome. Hari Om,” a disembodied voice reaches me through a cloud of incense.
“Uh, hello. Om, good morning”, I say, “you have bread?”
“Ah bread, of course ma’am. We have many varieties. Come, I’ll take you to the bread section,” he says with a wide grin, his English heavily Hindi-accented.
I develop an instant lightness in my step as I make my way to bread heaven. I can almost taste the sourdough.
“Ma’am, we have multigrain, millet bread, black bread, oat bread, brown rice bread, flaxseed, whole grain, gluten free, sugar free, dairy free… which one you want ma’am?”
“Umm, you have sourdough?” I venture, hoping against hope he has unwittingly omitted the sourdough from his list.
“Sourdough? No, sorry ma’am, it take very long to make, fermentation ma’am, for many days. Yeast has to grow and grow, like a chemistry lab.” He grimaces and sticks out his tongue. “But ma’am, can I tell you one more thing first?”
“Yes, please go ahead,” I say politely, not allowing my disappointment over the sourdough to show.
“See ma’am, bread is worst thing, very worst,” he says, his eyes staring heavenward in a quiet prayer. “All problems will come, constipation, acidity, headache, stomach-ache, worst thing ma’am, full chemicals, sugar and salt. For Indian peoples, it is not suiting at all. Why you want bread ma’am? We have many, many choice. Like, come, I’ll show you…” he takes my elbow and leads me to a different aisle. Breaking into a sweat, I wonder if I’m carrying my pepper spray.
“See ma’am, you take this millet – pearl millet, little millet, kodo millet… any millet – it is super healthy food, like magic, food. Why you think our farmers can work so much in hot sun? Because of millet, madam. Full of iron, vitamins, D, B12, B, O, Z; everything it has. You take one packet, make powder and then make chapatti. Chapatti is also bread no madam? Healthy bread – no constipation, headache, stomachache. Full system, from top to bottom will be clear madam. You just try one time. If you want, you can put yeast and make English bread also, no problem. Very easy. We are having workshop also madam, you can come and learn from expert.” He hands me a glossy flier.
My head reels, the incense is cloying me and the primer on millets has made me think of drought and farmers, and my starving children at home, hovering over the now-cold eggs. Not to mention, put me off my sourdough. I grab the packet of multi-millet flour, hastily extract the money from my wallet and thrust it into his hand.
“Thank you, sorry, Mr. Buddha, I must go, I’ve forgotten my phone at home… I’ll come back for the workshop surely…” I bolt for the door. The cheery jingle sounds positively angry as I slam the door shut.
I race home and push through the front door of my house. Three expectant faces greet me inside. Two of them hurriedly go back to doing whatever it was they were doing, while my toddler squeals at the sight of me. I hand him the sourdough workshop flier.
I hear Ram and Kaveri whispering to each other as I potter about the kitchen. The clock ticks meaningfully.
Every square inch of my hand hurts as I dish out millet paratha after millet paratha.
Beautiful story. I Could see myself walking with you 😊