Two little eyes, barely reaching the table.
My grandmother’s hands, old but strong. Pummeling dough.
The large silver dish wobbling, dancing to the beat of her fists. Each lump flattened, rolled in perfect circles.
Flip flop, flip flop. Hot off the primus.
Those steaming butter ghee rotis.
My maji, aya, gogo, nana, paternal great-grandmother.
The sari clad matriarch. Bejeweled, nose ring, earrings, thick hanging bangles, tattooed forearms, and the letter of her surname on the back of each finger on the left hand – G.O.P.I.E. Was a roti making pâtissier!
She half sang, half giggled: “Bombay se aya mera dost, dost, dost salam karo.
“Raat ko khao peo.
“Din ko roti bano.”
“My guests have arrived from afar, I greet them lovingly.
“In the night-time we eat and make merry…
