Aloo Shorba: A short story by Pakistan’s Punjabi writer Afzal Tauseef, translated by C. Christine Fair

***

This is my story. The story wrote itself. No one created it.  I didn’t create it either. Whatever happened, happened. It is in my memory. I’ve reached the age when most people begin their lives. But it seems to me that phase of my life is already gone. That past phase of my life seems like a story. What is a story? It’s like a stubborn snake that has wrapped my existence tightly in her coils. My entire life, spanning 25 years, is entirely in her grip.

My story began on the day I was born. My birth was not a special event. Children are born all the time. Sometimes, even twins are born. And like that, my brother was born with me. We were both firstborn children.  Two sons at once….Punjabis are ebullient when the first child is a son. They got a pair of boys. And it was like this in my house. I cannot say how happy my parents were because, by the time I figured it out, the situation had changed. Both of them, who were responsible for bringing us into this world, died at the same time in an accident. By that time, my twin brother and I must have been two years old. 

We were both orphans in this big world. There was no one else in our house, apart from my paternal grandmother. I vaguely recall my grandmother struggling with it all. She would take one of us into her arms, and the other would grab her finger, and she would take us outside. Then, after some distance, she would sit and catch her breath. On the return, we would switch places. The one in her arms grabbed the finger, and the one latched onto the finger climbed into her arms. Grandmother equally divided her motherly love between us. She carried the burden of the two sons of her only son. 

But this situation couldn’t last forever. One grandmother and two grandsons couldn’t live together for long. Our grandmother was sick and weak. And there was no one to care for her. The sorrow over the passing of her young son and daughter-in-law ate at her like a worm. Grandma's last worry was us. Even though we were the last hope for our grandmother, our grandmother could not live on this hope. 

We weren’t even five years old when Grandmother became gravely ill. In those days, two ladies came to the house in turn. One was our paternal aunt, Phuphi, and the other was our maternal aunt, Khala. They both sewed clothes and brought them for us. Sometimes they would give us new clothes. In this regard, both were fine, but we, the two brothers, had no love for them. We liked Auntie Bushra and Najma from the neighboring houses more than them. And we even played with their children. But we preferred our own home to theirs. Both of us brothers were close friends. We were never apart for even a moment. Our house, our alleyway, and our neighbors comprised our beautiful world. Then a day came…which we couldn’t even think about…when everything was upended. We found ourselves in a strange predicament. 

Our grandmother had been very ill for several days.  But today, she was quiet and her eyes were closed. Someone covered her face. Several women came and sat around our grandmother’s bed. Sagran Auntie took both of us brothers to her home to feed us breakfast. Then asked us to play there. She began to explain that Grandmother is ill and there should be no noise in their house.  I didn’t feel like playing. I felt a strange sadness and fear. At our house, many people had gathered outside our home and were sitting on mats. Right before evening, our grandmother was wrapped in a white cloth and taken somewhere. Where? Everyone was lying to us. “Grandmother was taken to the hospital. She’ll be back when she’s well.” I don’t know why they were all lying to us.

We knew, all the children in the lane knew that grandmother had died.  They took her to the cemetery and buried her. Now, her soul would visit the house.  We wouldn’t be able to see her, but she would be able to see us. This is why we would always be well-behaved children. 

Now, Phuphi and Khala took turns staying in our house. One day, they came together and began whispering amongst themselves. They also began gathering our grandmother’s belongings and put them to one side. They also began dividing up our clothes and toys. Then they split us up as well. I went with Khala, and my brother went with Phuphi. Finally, they procured a large lock and closed up our house. It was the worst day. We felt horrible about everything that happened that day. These two women seemed like trouble to us. Perhaps they had come to uproot us. But now, what could be done? Without grandmother, how could we both live there? But how could we live apart from each other? Now, we will not live happily in any house. We had become a burden. Khala and Phuphi sat down to plan. To this day, I still remember their words. 

“Keeping two children is a big burden. Who would like to raise someone else’s children.” Considering us a burden, they took us from that place where we were loved and appreciated like flowers. We were too young to speak our minds. We were helpless. And who would listen to what orphans had to say anyway? Moreover, someone had frightened us terribly. “If someone dies in a house, their ghost will revisit this house. At night, they will eat small boys and girls.” This dispelled any of our stubbornness about leaving the house. We were separated without making any fuss. Both brothers were brought via different routes to strange and unknown homes. We were a pair that had been broken up and separated. I was incredibly sad, and it seemed to me as if my brother was even sadder than I was. 

The homes of our aunts Khala and Phuphi were in the same city but were distant from each other. Moreover, their affections were opposite to each other. This was not because one was the sister of our father and the other the sister of our mother; rather, this distance was due to the enormous difference in social status between Gulberg on the one hand and Shahdara Town on the other.  And each of those families had their own children as well. There were several big promises when they separated us. First, their children would welcome us. Second, we would enjoy living there. Third, we would continue meeting each other every day. Sometimes I would go to Phuphi’s house, and sometimes my brother would come to Khala’s house. After coming to our new houses, we found out that no one had given us much thought. To fulfill this obligation that had been foisted upon them, they did what was easy for them. But the adults turned out to be liars. And their children were no less liars than they were. 

In the house where I lived, the children were huge liars. Every day, they made a new program for themselves. They would frequently enjoy themselves, but we were never included in any of their programs. They even stopped calling us by our names. In both houses, we were either referred to as the twins or as the eldest, Bada, and the youngest, Chhota. I, who was born one minute before, became known as Bada, the eldest, and my brother, who announced his existence by screaming one minute later, became known as Chhota, the younger. Our parents gave us beautiful names: Umran and Niaman. Grandmother very lovingly referred to us as Amu and Nomi. But now we were nameless. When one uses your name, you feel familiar, a sense of importance, and even love. But orphaned children are not kept in homes for these reasons.  They keep us due to pity, a sense of fulfilling a duty, earning divine rewards, or to show off. But when it came to us, there was no one to impress. 

My Nomi was known to those in Phuphi’s house as Chhota. It was a very impoverished household.  But Khala’s household, where I was brought, was pleasant and wealthy. But they were stingy with their affections. In this regard, Phuphi was more generous. We figured this out when our father’s sister, Phuphi, afforded the same status to a child brought to her house to live as she did her own children. Several months had passed since we were taken from our homes, but no one bothered to reunite the separated brothers. 

I kept my feelings to myself, but my brother would loudly cry out my name. He remembered me. He managed to stubbornly appeal to Phuphi’s heart. Finally, the day came when Phuphi brought him. We were very happy. Both brothers, forgetting the world, began to play together.  Chhota had already forgotten some of the things from the past. He had many new things. He was talking about his new home and insisting I come with him. There were many things to show me there. There were several trees that he could even climb. He had seen several nests. There was a cat he especially cared for. There was also a pond where the children went fishing every day. We spent the entire day together. At night, we slept on the same bed, sharing a pillow just as we did when we lived in our own home.

But the next day, when Phuphi came to take Chhota, Khala started fighting and arguing with her. We knew that the two were quarreling because of us. Based upon what Khala was saying, it seemed as if she wanted to say that Chhota was uncouth, poorly dressed, his education was completely neglected, and he had become completely feral. He ran around barefoot but climbed onto the bed with shoes on. And to some extent, what she said was correct. But the real issue was that Chhota thrashed Khala’s delicate son. Chhota destroyed his mechanical toy set. Hearing Khala’s bitter words, Phuphi wasn’t going to stay silent. She had her own arrows to shoot. She began to say, “Bada is quiet all the time and has become weak. No one lets the boy play or even eat freely. It was not appropriate to enroll him in a school that only teaches English and enforces rigid rules.” Both women were airing their long-pent-up grudges. But neither really understood what we needed. Namely, both of us brothers wanted to live in the same place. But they have kept us apart. Now Chhota was desperate to return to his own home, but he wanted to take me with him. But how was this possible? But because of the separation, we had become two separate things. Who asks a “thing” about their preferences? Even if Phuphi were to take me, for Khala I was just one thing among her varied possessions. 

This time when we were separated, we both began to sob. For this reason, Phuphi invited me to her home next week. In any event, our school vacations had already started. An agreement was made to send the boys to each other’s houses, turn by turn. There were enormous differences between the homes of Phuphi and Khala both in terms of their ways of life as well as in the physical structures of the neighborhoods. For this reason, I preferred Phuphi’s house. There was one dish cooked per day. All of the kids crammed into the kitchen to eat. Together, we’d make a ruckus. We all played in a small courtyard. We’d throw up dirt. If we were scolded, we were all scolded. No one in particular was singled out. None of the children were accustomed to complaining. Rather, they hid each other’s naughtiness. 

Khala’s household was just the opposite of this. At her house, no one had the luxury of making a mistake. All the time, people were back-stabbing and being mean to each other. Even though I went to Phuphi’s during school vacation, I still learned that Niji, Miji, and Chhota studied in the same school, had the same school bag, the same uniform, and all three received one rupee for pocket money every day.  Chhota turned out to be most adept at climbing trees, tearing his clothes, and getting them full of mud from the pond. Despite this, when Phuphi sat down to clean the pile of dirty clothes, she gave a proper scolding to Niji and Miji. Chhota’s name never came up. I understood why Chhota was so desperate to come to Phuphi’s house and why he found living in Khala’s beautiful and spacious house so tedious. 

Fifteen days later, Khala sent a servant to bring me on the pretext that I wasn’t doing any homework. There was a concern that allowing a boy to live in such an unsuitable environment for so long might spoil him further. 

From Khala’s point of view, I was becoming unruly from staying with Fupi for so long. They slept in late. Upon getting up, apart from playing and getting rowdy, they had nothing else to do. In Khala’s house, we were required to get up early in the morning, even during holidays. Then we had to wash our faces and hands and do our studies.  Our clothes had to remain clean at all times. Twice during the day, we had to brush our teeth and comb our hair…Perhaps for this reason, my teeth had no cavities, but Chhota surely must have cavities in every tooth by now! But on the other hand, my brother enjoyed life much more than I did. While my brother wasn’t even afraid of snakes, I was frightened if an ant approached me.  But all of my needs were met here, except my need for love and affection. Perhaps it was because of this discipline that I was able to pursue higher education. Today, I can perform white-collar work.  On the other hand, Chhota has no career. This was something that Khala drove into my skull. She viewed my brother as a duffer and those who raised him as worse than criminals. 

This is not just about Chhota. Niji and Miji didn’t have careers either. All three of the boys dropped out of school and began learning to be auto mechanics. Niji and Miji started work. All they did was earn.  In the competition between Khala and Phuphi, in Khala’s mind, she had won because I had become an engineer with a BSc. And my twin brother hadn’t even completed the 10th grade. Moreover, he did not get a proper upbringing there. He turned out to be uncouth and cursed. He is a mere laborer. I am an officer, a gentleman. Surely there is a difference, and it began the day we were separated. 

Khala lived in a nice, large house, and I lived with her. Khala’s kids went to school in a fabulous car, and I went with them. Khala’s family ate,  seated at a dining table, and I ate with them. A dhobi washed her children's clothes, and a servant polished their shoes. And they did this for me, too. It was the custom of her house to go out on a picnic or sightseeing when the weather was pleasant. And I had to go with them.  All of them spoke with great style, mixing English into their Urdu. And I began to do this after watching them for a long time.

But hapless Chhota, from the time of our separation, lived in a completely different environment. He was forced to live in a poor area, in the world of subsidized housing. Niji and Miji slept in a one-room shack. And Chhota also slept there. They ate by grabbing a roti and putting their vegetable curry on it. Sometimes they would sit, and sometimes they would stand while eating. And Chhota did the same. On several occasions in their house, there was nothing prepared to eat other than roti, which they would eat with just yogurt or chutney. Their clothing was always torn. Similarly, they never bathed properly. Their heads were filthy and infested with lice. Their heels were cracked. Phuphi struggled to make ends meet in these conditions of poverty and scarcity. 

Her husband’s meagre salary had to be spent on taking care of his elderly parents. For this reason, she had to earn money as a seamstress, and she could not spare any time to take care of the children.  The children did as they pleased. Chhota was the most headstrong. But there, he was considered a real brother. In Khala’s house, I was a cousin, just a cousin, and an orphan at that. A helpless thing that was dropped off at her doorstep. A symbol of her dead sister. And she was very desirous of getting approbations from people for taking care of me. People would exclaim how she changed the fortunes of this orphaned child. Other things were happening with me. She would always compare me to Chhota. “Phuphi didn’t take care of him, he turned out to be a wild animal.” She would say other such cruel things.

These were things that people saw on the outside. But inside, it was a different matter altogether. My brother and I didn’t think like this. Chhota doesn’t even need to think. He is happy no matter where he is. Whether it’s Phuphi’s rundown house, the broken-down bed, the ramshackle school, or basic meals. None of this mattered to him. They were enough for him. No child thinks about these household things. Children love their homes as long as they are safe and secure. Even now, Chhota is delighted with his life. He thinks the same way about me. Even though he felt differently when we were children. Today, it is a source of pride for him that I am educated and capable. When it comes to me, his thinking has changed. He believed that the place, where he couldn’t stay even for a few days, was good for me. I certainly never could explain to him what I felt. There was now such a difference in how we spoke. I was not very good at communicating. I lacked confidence. I could never be open. I couldn’t even speak frankly with my real brother.

One day, when Chhota was discussing his work, I said impulsively, “I don’t like doing this white color job. I also want to work with my hands. I want to be with my brothers. I want to work in the same workshop.” “Then we will need to change the name of the workshop to London Workshop,” Niji said while laughing. My brother’s lovely smile faded upon hearing what I said. He didn’t want to see my hands dirty. He wore the filthy clothes of a motor mechanic, which were stained with oil and grease. He could not see those clothes on my body. He couldn’t even dream of it. The truth of the matter is that my three brothers had great hopes for me…. Those three had named their workshop “Rickety Workshop.” 

But as soon as I mentioned bringing to the workshop my auto engineering, the name suddenly changed to “London Workshop.” I understood that they would not let me come to their level. They had quickly put me upon pedestal from which I appeared to be higher than them. Khala’s house was the complete opposite of this. There, they all stood on a pedestal, leaving me below. Nowhere was I on equal footing. My own brother addressed me formally as “Bhai Jan.” Phuphi’s son, who was two years older than me, addressed me formally by appending “Sahab” to my name. But neither household could give me the basic pleasure of seeing me for who I am. 

Now, after I’ve passed through all these difficult times, my soul is restless. The passage of time has affected me poorly. Now that I am a qualified professional, Khala addresses me as her son.  She has even chosen me to marry her daughter. A very nice room in her house has been set up for me. They wait for me at the dinner table. My seat is saved for me. Dinner doesn’t start without me. Now I get served a bowl full of meat in gravy first. The choicest pieces of meat are put on my plate. If I don’t take it, Khala puts it on my plate herself. I was not accustomed to being treated so well. In that house, I had never felt entitled to anything from the time I was small up to now. But all of a sudden, they are giving me so much respect?  Now I began to feel uncomfortable. Now I wanted to run away. I wanted to go somewhere far from them. 

That dining table, where everyone sat down to eat, was primarily responsible for my current malaise.  These wealthy people waged an operation to destroy the very existence of an orphan at this very table.  At the age of five, I was brought and seated at the table of this family of upstarts in their palatial home in Gulberg. No matter what I eat at this table, I cannot forget the issue of the aloo shorba. Twice a day, when it was time to eat, I had to endure that discomfort. It was a strange and horrible experience. Even now, it infuriates me. Why did I get this treatment? What was the reason?

It would happen like this. When I sat down to eat, there would be a giant potato floating in a lot of shorba. Whatever else was on the table…my favorite dishes like liver and kidneys, roasted meat, minced meat, and bitter gourd, fried okra…all I got was aloo shorba. That same aloo shorba that I despised. That same aloo shorba that I ate over and over again from the time that I was brought here until the day my studies were completed. I am now a qualified engineer. In Khala’s house, the food has changed commensurate with my status. It was the case that in Khala’s house, two dishes would be made every day. One was for the family members, and the other was for the servants and other such people. 

Both dishes were brought out every day to the dining table, and one could eat as much as one wanted without restriction. Anyone would put the aloo shorba on their plate or if they like the meat dish but Allah knows what the issue was. The bowl of the main dish passed by everyone else, and by the time it got to me, the bowl was empty. At this point, Khala would say to me in particular while presenting the bowl full of aloo shorba, “Child, take some shorba.” I would only put two ladles of the shorba on my plate when Khala made a great effort to take out a giant potato and put it on my plate as well. In the same way she would select a choice piece of meat for her youngest son and say “Eat Son,” she would  say to me, “Eat, son. Potatoes are very nourishing for children.”

If the issue had been that simple, it would have been fine. But Khala’s daughter and sons would snidely smirk over Khala’s ruse. The fat and short daughter would snigger.  That very girl who would sit on the chair right next to me would invert the bowl and empty it onto her plate. The situation today is different. Now I sit on that very chair where the main dish begins making the rounds about the table. It’s the same with Khala’s so-called “love.” Now, instead of a potato, she puts a chicken leg on my plate and says, “Eat, son. Eat. Meat is very important for health.”

On top of this, Khala’s children still smirk when she does this, and that same fat girl sniggers.  Even though the circumstances have changed and the meaning of the words has changed, my displeasure remains the same. If anything, I have grown even more upset about it.  Their laughter intensely stings. At first, I was of no use to them. Now, I am a sacrificial goat that they are raising in their home. Khala’s daughter, who is about to be the bell around my neck, has no chances of getting a good match. She’s ugly, stupid, and good for nothing.  Even Chhota made fun of her. To this day, he is certain that I fled Khala’s house because of that girl.

But if you were to ask me, I would say that the real problem wasn’t that girl, but the dining table, where there is one restriction when we sit down to eat.  If you ask me for the truth, I would say that I don’t even want to eat at that table. I want to live my life somewhere else according to my preferences. If I can’t manage to buy my own house, then I’d like to live where my brother lives, with Miji and Niji. Where we grapple for food, with chutney so spicy that we have to blow on our tongues, where we would die for a piece of pickle, where we would fight over a miserable guava. In other words, just as three brothers would eat. I want to be a child again. 

I was turned into an old man at a very young age. I’d like to go back and retrieve everything that was lost. I’d like to run and jump around with my brother again. I’d like to remove the clothing I tore climbing trees. I’d like to come home covered in mud from the pond, and to be scolded and beaten upon coming home. I want to fail my studies in a ramshackle school and become an auto mechanic. I’d like to have the same inner strength and courage as my brother. I don’t want to care if my clothes are grease-stained in the same way that a mother doesn’t care if her children are dirty in the same way that god showers love upon all of his children without making any distinctions among them. 

Sadly, none of this is possible. Who gets to live a second childhood? No one, right? But no one can stop me from living my own life as a young man. I’m never going to let anyone interfere again in my life. I will make my own decisions. At night, I would think about everything and would continue dreaming even though I was awake. Dreams for tomorrow. Tomorrow is a day for decisions. Early in the morning, I finally fell asleep when I dreamed of a mountain, which was a large skinned potato. I would climb it, then I would slip and fall back to the bottom. I climbed it again, and someone grabbed my leg and made me fall once again. Then I would hear someone’s laughter. Someone was making fun of me. I woke up. I saw that Khala’s sons were waking me. When I woke, the sun was already up. I overslept. That day was also very important. 

That was the day I was to be both engaged and married. Khala, who saw me as a thing she could control, was now about to be my slave. A very nice suit had already been sewn for me. Along with that, there was a pair of boots and a tie and an elaborate necklace of gold and silver threads, an expensive ring, and so many other things. I was supposed to get up early, bathe, and have a special breakfast, after which the ring ceremony was to take place. That ring is my lucky stone. The second ring was for my fiancé, which my clever Khala had commissioned with particular care. The marriage was to take place at night….So what happened on that special day? How did I gather the courage to rebel? 

Before the ring ceremony could take place, I ran away. Yes. I was the repressed one, the quiet one, the well-educated boy, the one who always tried to please others, the noble one. The obedient brother of Chhota has become a fugitive. Right at the time when Chhota, as well as Niji and Miji, wearing new clothes, left their house to participate in my wedding, Phuphi was bringing the suit and the forehead ornament that she had made. Khala was dressed up and standing, greeting her guests with flower garlands which she had in her hands, at the very same time I had secretly run away from the back door of the house. I immediately grabbed a rickshaw and went far away. 

At that time, I had no idea where I would go. I had left the house, but I had no plan whatsoever. I had no one in the city. There was just one place: Phuphi’s house. But at that time, there was no one to meet. I saw the lock on the door, and I went immediately to the “Rickety Workshop.” It was open.  Outside in the courtyard, there were two boys busy fixing a motorcycle. They were the colleagues of Chhota, Niji and Miji.  They didn’t see me. Quickly, I sneaked inside. I looked weird wearing this brand-new suit on my body. I saw my brother’s work clothes hanging on the peg in front of me. To make sure that no one recognized me, I took off my nice suit and put on those grease-stained clothes. When I went outside, I looked just like my little brother. We were identical in height and appearance. Our voices were the same, but our manner of speaking and the words we used were different. When Chhota’s colleagues got a glimpse of me, they called out to me while they were busy working. 

“So, prince, you’ve come back. Okay, why don’t you quickly get Tufail Sahab’s scooter back to tip-top condition. Let me deal with this motorcycle.” But as he turned around, he immediately recognized me. My freshly shampooed hair and soft face. He had seen me many times before. He burst out laughing and asked “What happened? Today, you were supposed to get married. And you’re here? In these fancy clothes?”

“Brother, these aren’t fancy clothes. These are work clothes. Can’t I work with you?” I’ll learn quickly. Don’t you worry.” He became even more astonished…“You? No way. Why would you do this work?... How can you do this work?... You are so educated.”

“Why can’t I do it? It’s respectful work.”

“All of that’s fine, brother. But Chhota will not let you do this kind of work.”  When he reminded me, I recalled that my brother had only one source of pride: my white color job; my degree; and my future, which was tied to that mansion in Gulberg. All of this was Chhota’s dream. But what is your dream? I felt as if something had woken up inside of me that had been dormant. It was now protecting me. “Tell me, what is your dream?... Khala’s house? That aloo shorba? That idiotic girl? No. No. A hundred times no.” If there is anything in the world that I have, it’s my little brother. He will support me. I went home to wait for him. I knew where the key was kept. Whenever they went anywhere, they would give the keys to the neighbor before leaving. So, if anyone came home first, they could get the key and unlock the door. I did the same thing. 

Coming inside, the house didn’t feel empty. It felt like home. It was full of the scents of my own people. It was as if this house had always been my home. There was nothing that called out, “Don’t touch me. I’ll get dirty.” Now I was very hungry. I rifled through the jute bag where the leftover rotis are kept, and I found a paratha left over from the morning. I also found the pickle. Having enjoyed the food, I lay out on the bed. I don’t know when I fell asleep, but I slept soundly. There was a noise in the courtyard, and I opened my eyes. It seemed as if everyone had returned. Phuphi was speaking loudly. “I have no idea where my boy has gone. That horrible woman is telling everyone about her suffering. It seems to me that something has happened to my son. I hope that no one has kidnapped him.”

“Who would kidnap my brother? I will not spare him…” That was the voice of Chhota.  He was speaking like a popular Punjabi film hero, Maula Jat. I laughed out loud. I got up and went outside. All at once, they all looked at me. It was like a scene from a film. Everyone came and embraced me. It was as if we had been separated for ages. Phuphi said, “Thank God my son is safe.” It was Phuphi’s voice. “Tell me the truth, what happened to you? Everyone over there was ready for your wedding, and yet you’re here. If you didn’t like the girl, you should have said so earlier. Over there, they are saying all kinds of things.” I remained quiet and just listened. Then all at once, something inside of me lashed out. “Why bother about them? I have left them for good. Now I’d like to stay here. You tell me. Will you keep me?”

“Fine. It’s fine. You are an adult, and you can think for yourself. Live where you want to live. Get married wherever you want,” said Niji, who had always been the joker, parroting an old man in a filmy dialogue. Phuphi was very worried about Khala, but was very happy that I had escaped the nasty water buffalo. “My son is a gem. She’s nothing but a hideous fat cow.” 

“Everything is fine. But what about the feast we were supposed to have? We were looking forward to a smorgasbord,” Niji kept on joking. But all of us were famished. Over there, no one even offered them water. How could they offer water when their groom had absconded from the wedding? I can only imagine what kind of disaster it must have been over there. I can never go back there. I wanted to talk more about what happened, but here the scene had changed. Here they were all thinking about their hunger. The youngest, as well as Niji and Miji, were all searching through the bread sack looking for something to eat. “Where did the paratha go? The paratha, which was left over from the morning.” “Oh, I ate that,” I said with some hesitation. “Very good. You ate it. You go and get some fluffy nan from the tandoor, and in the meantime, I’ll cook something.”

Phuphi made all of the arrangements. Sometime later, we put a pot of food in the middle and we sat down to eat. Chhota removed the lid from the pot “Aha! Aloo shorba.” He jumped with joy. Aloo Shorba. The three of them attacked the pot, filling their plates. Now they were all fighting over the potato. “The big potato is mine. Hand it over…” “Have some decency. Look at your brother’s plate. He only has the shorba,” Phuphi admonished them. And quickly, the youngest picked up the potato and put it on my plate. Miji did the same. And Niji wouldn’t be left behind. I pretended to refuse their offer, I took a piece of the fluffy naan, broke the potato, dipped it into the gravy, and placed it in my mouth. It was delicious. It was so tasty. Sitting with my brothers, I stuffed myself. My plate had three large potatoes, and it still wasn’t enough. I finished my plate and got up.