Aarush looked at his mother as she carefully tucked him in his blanket. Her eyes were red and puffy yet she had tried to put up a cheerful front. He knew she had been crying in the bedroom since evening and he knew better to leave her alone for now. She kissed him on his cheek and watched her son close his eyes and float away into the land of dreams.

“He looks exactly like you Anu”, this was the first thing her mother had told her when she had regained her consciousness. She was 23 when she gave birth to Aarush, named after his father.

She turned off the lights and closed the door behind her. But no matter how hard you try some doors cannot be closed, the dark memories carefully hidden in the layers of our past come back to haunt us .And she knew that she had to face him, it was inevitable. With heavy breaths, and a torn heart she headed towards the kitchen. He was there, sitting at the table. His tiny hand nervously wrapped around the spoon as he stared down into the ice cream bowl. He was terrified, unsure of why he was in a stranger’s house and wondering when his mother would come and take him back home. Their home.

Anu had spotted the similarity the moment the devil had entered the house. Her husband was clutching a note and carried the boy’s blue back pack. The kid was around 8 yrs old, older than Aarush, and was tired and scared and for a moment Anu thought she was dreaming. It was too painful to be real but the obviousness of his similarity to his father was harsh.

They argued for hours. He tried to explain. She was crying incessantly. It was the last thing she wanted in her life-a reminder of the infidelity. He tried to convince her that the affair was a mistake, a drunken mistake.”I was young, stupid and drunk. Think as a mother Anu, the kid has nowhere to go. I love you and our son, and you know that. All this happened before we even met. Please forgive me”. He looked hopefully at his wife; as she was trying to read the letter through her moist eyes. “I need to be alone for a while”, her cold voice cut through the silence.”I will be...we will be in the kitchen...” his voiced trembled. She read the letter again, each word carefully. The woman was dying when she wrote this and she had apologized for keeping the kid’s father in the dark for all these years. The predicament was tedious but a decision had to be made.

He saw her wait in the hallway tentatively and rushed to his wife. She held his arms and slightly nodded.” I will love him like our own son, Shekhar”...Tears rolled down his eyes and he hugged the woman he loved more than anyone. He vowed never to come this close to losing her and breathed a sigh of relief ,thanking her for her forgiveness and she prayed that he would forgive her someday too.

The greatest,most confounding question a man can ever face is "Who is a better cook,your mother or your wife?".The answer is always the mother,or atleast in advertisements it is.Else how would they sell ready-to-eat yummy food that would make him forget the maa ke haath ka khaana.So when a recent wheat flour advertisement has the hubby say that his wife cooks really well(and mind you the mother doesn't make a face.quite refreshing) it instantly catches my eye.The diligent bahu modestly claims that the freshly milled wheat flour is the secret and I can't help but shake my head.

The reason is simple.The flat indian bread is the trickiest bit to master.No matter if you use the best flour,the food processor to turn it into soft dough in the end it all comes down to your relationship with the rolling pin.The rolling pin apparently has a mind of its own and the first time you try to get a hold of things disasters are not far away.Part of this tragic feeling of hopelessness and having your face covered in flour comes from my own personal experience.

The roti,according to me is the single most beautiful creation on a daily Indian food plate.The aroma of the hot dough as the roti lands on the frying pan ,its beautiful roundness as it fills up with air on the burner and the softness when it lands laden with home made ghee on your plate,all these make the roti the most essential element on the plate.The art of rolling out round soft rotis is the sign of a good cook.More than anything grandmothers persistently try to get their granddaughters to befriend the rolling pin.Even as we try to reach the moon,I suppose all grannies know that a woman should essentially know how to cook good food.The men wouldn't disagree,neither would I.

The great admirer that I 'm of the humble roti,the fine art of making one has so far eluded me.It started off really rough,the first few tasted like papad even.In roti making unfortunately there is nothing as beginner's luck.After some tiring attempts the shape gradually progressed from the African continent to a Washington apple,the softness getting better every time.The eternal believer that I'm my quest for perfection began,it was about conquering the world one shape at a time.The efforts paid off.Finally the day arrived,the light shone off my flour smeared face and the rolling pin seemed like an extension of my hand.Not only was the shape a desired round,the softness and the smell made me slightly dizzy with happiness.It was pure joy,the feeling of being able to achieve the perfect lightness of your dream roti.Absurd yes,but priceless nonetheless.After the first victory, I have tasted success after regular intervals.The probability of which I cannot gauge since I apparently suck at mathematics.But take it from me,the feeling of knowing you can create something that beautiful from only flour ,water and oil is one of the the most fulfilling things to experience.

As for my grandmother,she insists that a beautiful roti is a testimony of a loving husband.Well,I guess that remains to see.