Sweet Temptations and Silent Warnings
Every child knows the growl of a hungry belly, but the truth is, grown-ups aren’t so different. In fact, watching the canteen staff devour leftovers with even more relish than us was something else. Hunger is a big word, packed with memories and sensations, and I could write endlessly about it without ever feeling full. Still, that’s not my purpose today. I’m not one of those foodies who live to eat—I eat to live, unlike others.
In our childhood, we hadn’t even heard of “noodles.” Nestlé swooped in with promises of “two-minute noodles,” capturing our chhoti chhoti bhookh (little pangs of hunger) while we stared in amazement. In our little world, “noodles” were as foreign as spaceships. We knew sewaiyan, those thin, festive strands we’d see every once in a while, but this curly, savory mystery was something else entirely. China, where noodles were eaten with gusto, was a distant land in our imaginations. Later in life, when I finally saw Chinese chefs drawing out endless skeins of noodles with practiced ease, it was like watching magic. But for now, even the idea of noodles was as intriguing as the yarn my mother wound into balls for knitting our sweaters, each skein full of warmth and memory.
Our lodge, weathered and stubborn, stood on the southern edge of the Police Lines, like a quiet observer of the day’s comings and goings. Back then, there wasn’t even a fence around the Lines. Even the jail itself was loosely guarded, a flimsy place with walls so thin and a roof so low that inmates would occasionally escape by simply breaking a hole in the wall or hopping over the roof. There was hardly any effort to stop them—patch repairs and a lazy three-strand barbed wire fence on the roof seemed enough for a place that didn’t take itself too seriously.
The prison guards, if they were around at all, wandered about in an unhurried way, almost friendly. I sometimes imagined that they left the doors open out of goodwill or maybe as a gesture of trust. For all we knew, the jailor would be sitting with his “guests,” sharing a drink while hearing their tales of misfortune. If an escape happened, it wasn’t seen as a crisis—just a little mishap, patched up and shrugged off like a scuffed knee.
As children, we were always close to home by sunset, no exceptions. It was a rule, unspoken but ironclad, and if the girls had to venture out after dark, they had to bring along one of us boys for company. Even our mothers didn’t go out much at night. No one ever explained what it was they were worried about—it was just the way things were, a kind of unyielding dogma that needed no argument.
The only canteen for the police lines stood at the far end of our walkway, closest to where we lived. A smoky kitchen sat in the back, with an open window to vent the coal-fire fumes. From here, Goga and I would slip in, climbing up fearlessly to peer through the window into the canteen where the familiar faces of the cooks and servers made us feel like we belonged. Occasionally, a stranger would be working, and then we’d hang back, eyes darting to each other in nervous silence. But usually, we were greeted warmly; some of them would even pull us close for a hug, sometimes planting kisses on our heads. We didn’t think twice about it back then. For us, a kiss was a simple show of affection, as natural as a handshake. Only later would we understand that the world was more complicated than we’d thought.
We spent many hours sneaking into that canteen. We knew the staff’s routine—when they’d be prepping behind closed doors and when the front would open to serve. Once, the canteen received a new record player, the kind that could stack multiple records and switch from one to the next automatically. We watched, fascinated, as the tone arm rose and lowered itself like some enchanted thing, each record sliding into place with perfect timing. From a speaker on the roof, the songs floated over the police lines, casting a strange, captivating spell on all who heard.
The women from our lodge would sit in the sun each afternoon, their children playing nearby, and our antics were free entertainment. Every day, we were serenaded by popular songs of the 1950s, which flowed from that awesome music player in the canteen. Those songs ingrained themselves into my memory, each word and stanza etched by repetition. Even today, six decades later, a line or two can bring those beautiful melodies rushing back to me, as vivid as water flowing down a brook.
My sister and I knew them by heart, so much so that we were invincible in Antakshari, a game where teams had to sing songs that started with the last letter of the last word sung by the other team. Our fierce sibling rivalry usually ended in a draw—or a spat.
The canteen manager sometimes invited us to sit in his chair or even on his lap. It seemed harmless back then. As a six- or seven-year-old, I didn’t think of what might feel uncomfortable to a girl in the same place, nor did I have a notion of the anxieties parents feel for their children. Years later, with the awareness I have now, I know how much parents must watch over their young. But here, I’ll stay true to that boyish innocence, speaking only from what I knew then.
Now and then, a new manager would replace the old one, and we’d adapt, making friends, enjoying sweets exchanged for stolen hugs and kisses. For us, there was no trace of malice or discomfort in those treats, just a sweetness to hoard and a delight in watching our younger siblings beg for a taste we’d never share. It became normal to make a morning canteen round for treats on Sundays and holidays, those days we were set free after breakfast.
One such day, I went alone to the canteen, slipping in through the window to test my luck. The new manager, who had arrived only recently, sat in his chair, his nose in his ledger. He saw me, called to his assistant to give me a laddoo, and pinched my cheek with a chuckle. Gleeful, I scrambled back out the window with my prize and ran home. My younger sister chased me, begging for a bite. Smugly, I asked her to show her palm. She did in the hope to get some portion of the laddpp that I had, but I spit on it, earning myself a scolding and a well-deserved thrashing from our father for my “disgusting” behavior.
“Aren’t you ashamed? Is this how you treat your sister? Put on your shoes and get that bandage changed. And tell the doctor about that cough, too. Wipe your nose before you go!”
The dispensary was in Lower Kaithu, run by a trusted, knowledgeable Vaid Ji who, even after transferring to Lower Bazaar, remained our family’s choice. He looked over my wound—a big abscess had formed. “Cheera dena payega,” he said. We’ll have to make a cut to drain the pus. I sniffled as he gave instructions to his team, dread settling over me. I sat with my leg stretched out, watching, terrified, as they prepared. The nurse tried to calm me, but I was unconvinced. The doctor, seeing my wide eyes fixed on the shiny instruments, tousled my hair and smiled. “Don’t cry,” he said, “it won’t hurt.” But as he warmed a knife over a flame, I let out a cry, feeling like a buck led to slaughter.
He made the cut, and though it stung, I felt relieved as the pus drained. Wiping my cheeks, I told him about how Goga and I, exploring the forest near Annandale, had felt a chudail ( wraith) push me from behind, sending a sharp pain to my shin. The doctor laughed, amused, as he finished the bandage. “You naughty rascal,” he said, “last time, you told me a different story about a chudail.” He shook his head but smiled.
I handed him my father’s note about the cough. He gave me licorice to chew, then held my face, tapped my chin, and told me to sniff a pinch of powder. I sneezed and felt my nose start to clear. “Rest today,” he said, patting my head, and I felt drowsy by the time I reached home, drifting into a nap that left me clear of the cold but not my imagination.
I’ll never forget the manager Krishan Kumar who joined just then. He was a tall, dark man who made me uneasy. The canteen’s front door was usually closed in the afternoons, so, hoping for a treat, I slipped in through the open east-side window. I found him alone, and though he handed me a laddoo, he also gripped my hand, holding it longer than usual. Something in his touch raised the hairs on the back of my neck. As he stood and bolted the door, my fists clenched, crushing the laddoo. His bloodshot eyes bored into me, and he moved closer, his gaze almost pleading. I tried to shrink away, but fear held me still as tears slid down my cheeks.
Then came a knock at the door. His whole frame seemed to tremble with frustration as he warned me to stay silent. At the stroke of three, he opened the canteen for business. I bolted through the kitchen, climbed out the window, and sprinted home.
After that day, the sweets held no appeal. The price wasn’t worth it.