A Taste of Home in a City Evening

The city was already wearing its evening lights, and the sky had turned golden where the sun was calling off its work, slipping lower with each passing breeze. I stood outside my room balcony, a wave of nostalgia washing over me in this particular hour.

It took me back to that time when I was eight years old, standing in the kitchen waiting for my mom and dad to return from work, hoping they’d bring me and my siblings tons of rice cakes from the ” Nakyulum festival,” a time when we celebrated friendship and the building of trust.

As a child, I was feeling anxious between two feelings, the hope that they’d come home early and the fearful feeling, what if they face a dreadful accident on the way. And in the middle of it all, there was a quiet anticipation for the rice cake my mom had made. Since both my parents work far from my hometown, they had to stay there for the whole weekdays, and I stayed with my granny, beloved mother in every sense of care and comfort.

I waited for my parents with water already boiling, my granny warming the kitchen by burning the chopped wood in the fireplace. I had been told they’d reached town and would be home any minute, so I kept the cha ready in my mind, just needed to throw in the chapatta leaves the moment they walked in. As soon as I heard footsteps outside, I dashed to the door and straight for my mother’s bag. My mission was simple: to get there before my sisters. Whoever got there first claimed whatever sweets were inside, and I wasn’t about to lose. I’d keep the ones I liked, then hand out the ones I didn’t, though not for free. My sisters had to earn them by doing little tasks, like collecting cups or running errands whenever Dad called. In our house, even sweets had a price, and who set that rule? I, being the eldest with the upper hand, wasn’t shy about using it.

My mother then opened a basket filled with rice cakes, an absolute abundance. My grandma’s face lit up, and I realized she, too, had been waiting eagerly as I had. It wasn’t just me counting down the minutes; apparently, she’d been mentally rehearsing her chewing technique all afternoon, as I could see her drooling over the rice cakes.

My father told my mom to give us our share, which she made in our name, five cute little pieces of rice cakes for each of us. Granny, of course, had other plans. She quickly took a few pieces from the basket and tossed them in the hot ashes, then split one in half and handed it to me. I was so excited, absolutely convinced I was eating pizza like the one I’d seen in a movie, cause it pulls like cheese. I proudly announced to my mom that I was eating pizza and asked if she could make one like in the film next time.

Later, my mother made cha and invited our neighbor for a tiny rice cake feast. I was livid, as my rice cakes turned into a public buffet, but somehow, the warmth and cozy air of the kitchen and the laughter of that evening still wrapped itself around me. That feeling stayed with me ever since.

Thinking back now, I realized how much I miss those family gatherings, sharing warmth, love, laughter and conversation over a cup of cha. That happiness was pure, simple, and heartfelt.

I went back to my room, quietly brewed myself a cup of cha, hiding from my hostel warden as if I was running an underground tea syndicate and called my roommates to join me. And as for rice cake? My friend had some leftover rice from lunch, so we shared that in place of the rice cake. It wasn’t the same, of course, no soft sweetness, no smoky ash-crusted edges, but we laughed over it anyway, pretending it was a delicacy.

The steam from our cups of cha curled between us, carrying with it the quiet comfort of shared company. The city, for that brief, fleeting moment, felt like home and I knew I would miss this too.