When I was very young, about 6 or 7 maybe, I remember having a visitor at home. A friend of my grandfather whom I referred to as "Shingara Dadu" in Bangla. Translated to English that means, well, "Shingara"-Grandfather.
What is a "Shingara" you ask?
That is a "Shingara", or samosa, when translated to Hindi.
Does that mean he had some super "Shingara" powers? Did I bite him and come to this conclusion that his skin tastes like "Shingara"?
Apart from the fact that I was not not a cannibal (and probably am not now) let me tell you in all honesty that this nomenclature was done by me on the basis of pure love.
In my home, we had a tradition that whenever a guest would come during a Puja, we would serve them "Shingara"s and "Mishti" (Sweets). Since he would come just after a Puja, these Shingaras would be given to him. However, sometimes, he would come when none of these servings would be available. All I could offer him was some imaginary "Shingaras".
Yes, imaginary. I would cook them up and serve it to him, in my imaginary yet well stocked kitchen, which he would graciously accept. He would pretend to eat them as well, praising the fine taste and cooking prowess it had required.
He carried a walking stick with him and wore black specs with thick glasses. He was lean and tall, around 5 feet 11. He would talk slowly and softly. I remember.
One day, he died.
I was pissed off. Who would eat my "Shingaras" now? I hated him so much for that.
I realised much later what that meant. It was not his fault he did not come. His time was over. My "Shingaras" had killed him. I never give my imaginary "Shingaras" to anybody else now.
I dismantled my kitchen.
PS: I only play Kitchen Scramble now.
What is a "Shingara" you ask?
That is a "Shingara", or samosa, when translated to Hindi.
Does that mean he had some super "Shingara" powers? Did I bite him and come to this conclusion that his skin tastes like "Shingara"?
Apart from the fact that I was not not a cannibal (and probably am not now) let me tell you in all honesty that this nomenclature was done by me on the basis of pure love.
In my home, we had a tradition that whenever a guest would come during a Puja, we would serve them "Shingara"s and "Mishti" (Sweets). Since he would come just after a Puja, these Shingaras would be given to him. However, sometimes, he would come when none of these servings would be available. All I could offer him was some imaginary "Shingaras".
Yes, imaginary. I would cook them up and serve it to him, in my imaginary yet well stocked kitchen, which he would graciously accept. He would pretend to eat them as well, praising the fine taste and cooking prowess it had required.
He carried a walking stick with him and wore black specs with thick glasses. He was lean and tall, around 5 feet 11. He would talk slowly and softly. I remember.
One day, he died.
I was pissed off. Who would eat my "Shingaras" now? I hated him so much for that.
I realised much later what that meant. It was not his fault he did not come. His time was over. My "Shingaras" had killed him. I never give my imaginary "Shingaras" to anybody else now.
I dismantled my kitchen.
PS: I only play Kitchen Scramble now.
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