“Arjun, I have brought your favourite thing. It is kept inside the refrigerator.” My mother brought the earthen pot out and held it before me. I counted and looked for the biggest one from the shinning, round figures of India's most desired sweet item. "Don't eat it in one go. Here take one. Why don't you bite it and eat slowly? Why do you gulp everything down without chewing?
I avoided sleeping during the day and sneaked out of my mother's room. As I saw everyone is asleep, my mind turned into the devil's workshop in search of the prized item. I ran to the kitchen and pulled at the door of the refrigerator. I ran my hand over the eatables, mindlessly changing their places and dashed the door carelessly when I could not find the soft and syrupy sponges. I left, accidently making a mess and leaving the water tap open.
In the evening, when my misdeeds were discovered, a visibly livid father dragged me to the center of our drawing room. To escape the beating, I feigned weeping. Hearing my sobs, my grandparents would invariably snatch me out of my father's hands. I broke free from their arms and threw my body on the bed with a thud. I did not listen to anyone's voice and pretended to be asleep.
Hands tugged me at dinner time. I refused to listen to the request of taking food. Then my parents and grandparents would coax me with various offers. My grandfather hugged me and asked, “Arjun, what will make youn feel better?”
“Rasgulla! Give me at least tea.”
