sardines, buns and the fireplace

the house used to have a small, cheerful fireplace. well it was cheerful when baba was able to spare enough money to buy a couple of good logs. he would split them into small pieces and pile them into the pit, a dash of kerosene and we had a roaring, happy fire going. those days and up there in the hills nobody really worried so much about the eco-friendliness bit. those were different times. if a tree came down, the seed for another was planted. simple law of nature, simply lived by.

yes, before the curfews started, before men and women saw their faces as khasi or assamese or nepalese or bengali, little fireplaces crackled inside almost every home. the night sky twinkled with stars above and below, the hillsides twinkled with tiny dots of light which peeped out through the glass-paned windows of stilt mounted houses. people hung over neat white or green wooden fences and chatted with neighbours, children didn't have to run home from their playgrounds till six in the evening and the smell of freshly baked, raisin-filled buns wafted out from Gudeti's, the town's favourite bakery, almost half a mile down the road.

a fire in the house was a special treat indeed. it mean't that sardines sauteed in butter were going to be served up on toast for dinner, mugs of hot chocolate would replace the mandatory after-dinner glass of milk and above all, ma and baba were the best of friends. it was the closest we got to being a regular family. baba would narrate stories -- sometimes about ghosts and sometimes about real people. ma would laugh. the corners of her eyes would crinkle up and for one evening we would all forget about the violent nights and dark mornings.