Bani's lips curled into a smile. The mention of gojju, with its familiar warmth, stirred something deep inside her. A piece of home, a piece of comfort.
"Can I help?" she asked, stepping closer.
Her mother hesitated, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oh, sweetie, you don't have to—"
"Let me flip the chapatis for you."
Her mother chuckled, shaking her head. "You've always been the first to jump in when there's work to be done."
Bani picked up the rolling pin, shaping the dough into soft, round discs before placing them onto the hot griddle. Her mother watched her for a moment before turning back to the gojju, stirring it gently, ensuring the flavors blended just right.
The chapatis puffed up, turning golden brown. A simple task, yet strangely grounding.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Moments later, her father, Raj, and her brother, entered. Though both men were weary from their early morning routine, they moved with a quiet efficiency, helping to carry the food to the living room.
Raj's hands—calloused from years of hard work—carefully placed the dishes on the table. Her brother, ever the dreamer, followed behind, arranging plates and utensils with playful precision.
There was no grand dining table in their home—just a humble wooden one, nestled in the living room, where they always gathered.
Bani stood in the kitchen, her fingers lightly brushing the surface of the hotbox, a small smile playing on her lips. She had just finished baking the last chapati, each one round and perfectly browned, its warmth filling the room with a comforting aroma. The simplicity of the meal felt peaceful, almost sacred in its ordinary beauty.
With a soft clink, she opened the hotbox, revealing the chapatis neatly stacked inside. Alongside them was the tangy gojju, a flavorful blend of tamarind, spices, and vegetables, ready to be paired with the soft bread. Bani's heart swelled with quiet satisfaction. The meal was humble, but it was hers to serve, and that made it special.
Her father and brother were already in the dining area, preparing the table. Bani could see the small glass tumblers lined up, filled with fresh water, each carefully placed with a certain reverence. Her father, with his worn hands, adjusted the plates, while her brother moved with a quiet efficiency, placing a simple cloth beneath the set, a touch of dignity in their everyday lives.
Bani placed the chapati and gojju onto the table, the warmth of the bread and the rich aroma of the gojju a stark contrast to the coolness of the morning.
Her father looked up, his eyes softening as he caught sight of the meal. Her brother, always quick to offer a silent nod of approval, smiled, though his thoughts seemed far away.
As they all gathered around the table, the weight of the past few days seemed to lift, if only for a moment. They sat together, the quiet clink of glass as water was poured, the subtle sound of hands reaching for chapati, the hum of a morning ritual.