Dad is a medical practitioner. And till at least a few months ago, he would spend a couple of days a week at a village clinic, not very far from our house. The patients here were a funny lot. They would never pay the usual fees. But a few months later, they would show up at our doorstep with a bottle gourd, or a pumpkin. And a huge smile.
This occurrence was such a normal part of my childhood. I would open the door, and scream "Maaaaaaa, peshent party eseche" (the patient's family have come). Maa would emerge from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her saree, and talk to them for a few minutes. While I went back to doing whatever it was I was doing.
But one day, this is not what happened. It must have been around May-June, because I remember my summer vacations were on. Maa came to the door, and said something in a tone I knew she used when pretending to be angry. "Why will I take this from you? Is this how you will give to your family members?" She went back into the kitchen, and handed them one of her many steel tiffin boxes. "There's no hurry. Whenever you are coming this side again, I want you to bring it prepared. Okay?"
Confused, and also a bit scared to ask questions, I lurked around the dining table when Dad came back from work. Then I overheard Maa telling him, "They came with packets of raw vermicelli, milk, and sugar. So I asked them to prepare the dish and bring." Dad replied, "You know, they're used to us people not accepting food cooked by them. You did the right thing."
The very next day, the steel tiffin box came back. With seviyan kheer. And an even huger smile.
Eid Mubarak. Remember, hatred is taught.
