Blend it like a Thali

chapter18

Every late evening, before retiring for the day, my mother would boil a litre of milk, allow it to cool under the fan that is set to rotate at the highest speed and then do an obnoxious act of pouring a scoopful of butter milk on to it. The mix is then closed with a lid and kept aside overnight. The scene of adulterating a pot of pure, creamy and soul nourishing cow’s milk that I could, in those days, drain down in one single gulp, with a highly pungent, sour and almost spoilt liquid was, for a ten year old, insensible and intriguing as it was equally revolting. It could be, I thought then, a sort of a ritual to ward off the malignant affects of an evil eye rather than a procedure to manufacture the daily supply of dairy products for the family. The pot would have invariably…

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