The taste of freedom

Photo by Acharaporn Kamornboonyarush from Pexels

The knife hovered in strained suspense over the round Daim almond cake, little mounds of chocolatey bits of almond dotting its contours. In my mind's mouth I relished the divine taste of milk chocolate jostling with crunchy caramel and spongy slivers of almond. But, in sharper relief to my mind's games, I could feel the laser sharp glare of two pairs of eyes as the boys watched every minuscule move of my hand, lest it slips and cuts the cake in any uneven angle, God forbid! 

Suddenly, I stopped and burst into guffaws, the kind of laughter that shakes you uncontrollably from the waist up. The boys didn't quite like this turn of events. Get on with it, amma. Get it together. This is not the time for mirth and merriness. Cut the cake! 

I just couldn't as I sputtered through my laughter and told them the story of cutting a 5star bar a good 40 or so years ago. The 5star bar encased in its shiny gold wrapping with the soft chocolate waiting to meet its chewy caramel center used to be our hot favorite those days. 

The place was different. The people were different. The thing being cut was different. But, the story was the same -- my amma slicing a Cadbury 5star bar into three pieces under the hawk-eyed watch of two little kids sidled up right next to her elbows. That day, well, maybe not exactly that day, but I am sure on one of those chocolate cutting days I made a little promise to myself - a full chocolate bar all to myself, with no pestering sibling to share it with. 

That promise came true a few years later as I marched along some random road in Mumbai, now a lady with her own means, a princely sum of 5000 rupees credited every month in her salary account. Rs.10 screamed the bar of Dairy Milk - a whole bar for Rs.10! The metallic letters glinted off the rich violet pack. I simply couldn't believe it was finally happening as I handed over the 10 rupee note in exchange for a piece of heaven - all to myself. The wind whistling through my hair, I swear I even heard music in the background, I delicately tore the silky smooth pack along the serrated edge, carefully peeling off the gold and silver wrapping and whispered to the younger me -- all to myself -- and sunk into pure joy as the milk chocolate crumbed and melted into my soul. 

Now, a good 40 years later, I am sure I have created two little promises on either side of me, pledging to get a Daim cake all to themselves, one fine day, young man, one fine day.