Sambandh Bhattarai
Things changed. People changed. Society changed. But food…
food should remain the same.
These thoughts went through the mind of Sushil inside the
Momo House. He was surveying around for a seat. The small
building was packed with old men in their coats and tie, school kids
with their smiles, their noise, and their laughter, and smoking teens
with their leather, gel, and dim futures. Outside, the sky was
getting darker.
At one corner, there was an empty seat. But it was closer to the
door leading into the kitchen. The heat there was washed over the
customer’s back.
Sushil went and sat there, his face quite dejected.
Food should remain the same, he thought again. Look at him;
he was older. The people around him were old too. The buildings
around were ugly, the roads were small swimming pools, but food
was to be of the same great taste.
However, Sushil’s mantra had come untrue many times. The
cycle of time had changed it. The portions came smaller; the prices
hiked higher; the people became nastier. It was all a mess.
But that Momo House wasn’t.
He smiled.
Sushil had discovered this place seven years ago when a friend
took him there. When the momos arrived, and he put one of the
dumplings into his mouth, he could never have fathomed the
sublime taste that followed and would continue to do so, while
every other place and avenue would disappoint him to tears.
This was his only refuge to the dulling of the world.
“Here’s your order, Sir,” said a waitress, walking to his table and
putting the plate in front of him.
Sushil looked at the dumplings. “They look different.”
“Sir?”
“They look different,” he said. Outside, the sky darkened.
“Oh, we have a new cook,” she said.
“What happened to the old one?”
“She died.”
“Oh,” Sushil said. “How?”
“She was old, and maybe it was her time,” the waitress said. “I
heard she worked here for thirty years.”
Sushil nodded. “Did she pass on her craft?”
“Sir?”
“Nothing,” Sushil said with a smile. “That will be all.”
“Yes, enjoy your food,” said the waintress and vanished back
into the kitchen.
Sushil looked back at his plate. The momos were smaller too.
He took a fork and stabbed a momo and flung it into his mouth.
He stopped and poked it with his tongue. He resumed chewing,
and swallowed.
One by one, he performed the same act with the other ones
until his plate was empty, barring the residual oil. The sky was
groaning outside.
He stood up, walked to the counter, paid for the food, and
walked out to the graying world, together the grayish clouds, to
return home.
A drop fell on his head. Downpour followed immediately. Sushil
stood there for a moment. The rain washed over him like a
waterfall washing over a stone.
He ran.
“Cruel world!” he bellowed. “Cruel, cruel world!”
Sushil cried with the rain. He ran with the wind. He screamed
with thunder, and he was gone like the momos.
[Sambandha is a student of BA English at Mahendra Multiple
College, Dharan. He is based in Dharan, Nepal.]