"Don't waste grain," his father said automatically, pointing to a single escaped rice grain. "Annapoorna, the goddess of food, sees everything."
Ravi stirred before the alarm. Not because of the sound, but because of the smell . The scent of wet earth, marigold, and simmering cardamom drifting up from his mother’s kitchen. This was the true Indian wake-up call.
An old sadhu with ash smeared on his forehead caught his eye. "Why so serious, baba ?" the sadhu joked.
"Life is fast," Ravi replied.
His father, a retired bank manager, returned from his morning walk. Lunch was served on a stainless steel thali . No forks. Just the right hand, fingers acting as a spoon, mixing the dal, the bindi fry, the tangy Rajasthani gatte ki sabzi , and a dollop of ghee over steaming rice.
And it was beautiful.