Everyone has something which they like. It may be solely one thing or multiple things. For instance, some like doughnuts, while others like cats. They can like anything they want. They have the whole wide world to pick from. And like others, so did I.
Of course, I never put much thought into my choice, like everything else in my life. Hence, the one thing I truly really like, without any biases and with all my heart (excluding my dogs), is chapati. Or roti.
Naturally, as a kid, I also loved chapatis. Most kids around my age liked stuff which was supposed to be liked by kids.Ā
As for me, I not only loved chapatis but also was quite creepy when it came to them.
Then again, I probably was creepy regardless of context.
I would patiently wait till dinnertime, till my mum would commence the chapati rolling, and then would slyly pull up a chair next to the kitchen platform, my eyes fixated on the raw dough being converted to hot chapatis the entire time.
I suppose you could say it gave me a sense of satisfaction and calmness, kind of like meditation, ignoring the fact that my mum kept pushing me away to avoid my drool getting all over the dough. I would stare at it with every ounce of concentration, which could otherwise have been pretty useful for my grades.Ā
I would then snatch up the first chapati that came hot off the flame. Every day the staring and snatching of chapatis would occur.Ā
Then one fine evening, as my mum left the flame for a few seconds to attend a call, I watched in horror as the unattended chapati was left wilting. Few more seconds passed, and the chapati was still there. I couldnāt stand it anymore. I quickly stood up and with my bare fingers, flipped the chapati, juggled it a little and then cooked it directly on the flame, still just using my fingers. It was as though my fingers were burn proof in the presence of the chapati.Ā
I turned around to see someone gasping.
Now, keep in mind that, up until this event, I was more or less considered a nuisance pretty much everywhere. You see, I was more of a nuisance in the kitchen, ever since I had debuted my dough-to-chapati staring act.
But now, my mother saw me in a new light. She discovered that I finally had some talent. I, her chapati crazed daughter, had great talent in chapati making.
From that night onward, I kept offering to make chapatis. It was as though it had consumed me. I was straight up wacked up about making chapatis and everywhere my mother took me, if there was ANY chapati making involved, Iād volunteer.
People would initially decline, of course.
But then, I probably even terrorised a few into letting me make chapatis.
I soon enrolled myself in chapati making competitions. I turned 11 when I participated in the first contest. I won. Obviously. I was easily the best. As I received my first trophy, I could see my mum wiping tears in the front row. It was one of my proudest moments.
Once I turned 14, my friends started to find issues with my chapatti making. They argued about feminism and about how regressive my act was. They spoke of how men must also do housework, that it should be equally done and of course, the fact that I made expert chapatis did come up.
But I didnāt care. I just really really really loved making chapatis. What could I do?
Over the past decade, I kept churning out perfectly cooked, proportionally correct, seamless circles. I was like a robot, a machine, obsessed with the action of creating chapatis.
I also progressed onto other shapes, starting from triangles and squares to complex buildings and animals. It was beautiful. *
* (contact hireme@chapatimaker for business inquiries and commissions)
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
ellievsbear
pixelskylines
prguitarman
origamiaround
titsay
andulkaphoto