The Oranges are Sweet- a short story

It was the onset of summer, the sun was at its peak. Misty looked outside her window and marveled at the view– colored tulips and yellow daffodils lined the balcony of her office. She could see the sunlight glimmering on the river, a light breeze dancing through the oak leaves, and a few bikers racing down the street. She captured a mental image of this moment and made a mental note to take a short walk after lunch.

In her office, she was seated at her usual spot, a room with an enormous peace lily that partly covered an even bigger window to her right. She was facing her laptop. Her eyes navigated a host of open tabs on the screen to locate the digital clock. It was noon, almost time for lunch she thought. Her hands mechanically went to her phone>WhatsApp>Recent calls>Mum. Same time, everyday, she would make the call. While the phone was still ringing she rested it against the laptop screen. Then, rummaging through her bag she found her lunch box and placed it on the table.

A few seconds later, she saw her mother’s face at the other end, smiling and lit up with the white-blue light of her phone’s screen and the tube lights installed throughout her other house. Misty smiled back at her mother and tried to locate where she was seated. She recognized the portrait of the Bengali poet, Rabindranath Tagore, in the background that was embroidered by her grandmother. She instantly knew that her mother, Buiya, was seated at the dining table.

“How are you, maa?” Misty asked as she opened the first cap of her lunch box. “Just a bit tired today,” she replied, “we went to the city, made a number of pit stops along the way, and finished some pending work. This is how all our trips have been lately. But I am very happy! I got an awesome kurta from this new place that I just walked into. It is an airy-light cotton piece in flamingo-pink colour. Very soothing to the eyes and on the body. It’ll be very useful in the summer here.” She looked directly into the screen trying to catch Misty’s eye and said in a serious voice, “Don’t tell papa, I haven’t shown it to him yet.”

Misty smiled at the familiarity of that sentence and nodded.

Buiya got up and walked into her room. She browsed through her recently acquired shopping bags and upon finding what she was looking for, she pulled out her kurta and brought it close to the screen to show it to Misty. Buiya’s phone was now resting on its new stand. She had told Misty about it just a few days ago, “I won’t have to hold the phone in my hands now when I talk to you. I used to get tired before.” She held the kurta close to her face to show how the colour complimented her skin and posed. “Wow! I love it, mummaa!” said Misty, as she inched closer to the screen to see the details of the textile, “This is batik, right?”

“Yes! I used to have a similar one before marriage as well. But look at the lace detailing on the sleeves–” her mother continued to pose with the kurta. As she was talking, Misty noticed her mother’s left cheek that was too close to the camera. She observed a slight line near her mother’s nose, and wondered if it was new. She shrugged off the thought to concentrate on the new kitchen items that her mother was showing to her while recounting the day’s events. A new cutlery set, mugs for chai and a matching teapot.

Misty remembered going on these shopping excursions with her mother. They were some of her favourite memories from back home- slow, peaceful and indulgent. Amidst the general rush of driving to various locations, checking their to-do lists and the constant struggle to find cheap parking, they would always find time to indulge in treats from the street-side carts and an evening coffee. She cherished those days and felt a bit of nostalgia rising in her.

Misty looked at her phone again to check the time. She carried digits from both the time zones on her home screen. It was past dinner time for her family, so she asked, “Mumma, what did you have for dinner?”

Her mother, who was neatly folding the kurta and placing it in the almirah, looked to the side before replying. Misty knew that her mother was looking at the kitchen. She was either reminding herself what they ate, or examining its post-dinner condition. “I tried this new wheat grain and cheese bake recipe.

Everyone loved it! Not even a morsel is left. A friend of mine– remember Blinky aunty? Yeah, she had served this as an appetizer at a gathering a few weeks ago. It was yum! I asked her for the recipe and it’s actually quite simple. You can make it too. All you have to do is soak the wheat grains overnight and then pressure cook them for atleast 2-3 hours on medium heat..”

Misty registered the recipe quite easily. She has an aptitude for grasping food-related things. Lately, she had been quite inventive in the kitchen herself. Just this morning she had prepared fox nuts and flat rice pancakes. They turned out so scrumptious that she had decided they would be a permanent addition to her breakfast roster. She recreated the batter inspired by an instagram recipe and although she vaguely remembered it she winged it, and the result? Cloud-like fluffy, savoury pancakes. She made a mental note to tell her mother of her new preparation later.

On the other end, Buiya continued, “...and then for the third layer, I prepared white sauce. I made it with all purpose flour this time. You can really taste the difference in texture compared to our usual wheat flour..”

Misty listened to her mother narrate the rest of the recipe and continued to reflect back on her morning. She had prepared a very simple desi lunch– lentils with rice that were still sitting untouched in her lunch box. Knowing that it was going to be a long day, she had packed a small salad, a yogurt parfait with blueberries and chia seeds... and she tried to remember if she had kept a fruit. Yes! She had remembered to keep the last orange in her bag. A clementine actually. Or were they navel oranges? She was unsure, just like she was 5 days ago at Trader Joe’s while picking her citrus for the week. Her food shopping was rarely done with lists. Once in the market, her mind would simply race through the contents of the refrigerator and she picked the things that she knew she needed.

She recalled how empty the refrigerator was this morning and that meant it was time to restock. She started making a mental list of the things to buy later. Some clementines this time, cucumbers, tomatoes–I have those, lemons, yogurt, strawberries..

“Misty, I am saying something! Do you get wheat grains there?”

Misty realized that her mother had repeated her question. She thought for a moment and then shrugged her shoulders. “I have only seen various types of flours here. I’m not sure. I’ll check, they must have it somewhere.”

“You should try making it. It is healthy and filling. You carry it in your box too. Or when you come back–”

“Yes, I’ll definitely try it when I am visiting next time, it sounds yummy!” Misty responded knowing that she wouldn’t be making a meal that required these many steps.

“Maa, where’s papa?”

Her mother told her that her father must be on his way home and that he had been very exhausted juggling the renovation of their new home and his new business venture. Seeing the look of concern on Misty’s face, her mother quickly skipped to a funny anecdote from the previous day. Her mother always had the most fun stories in stock. She could make the most banal events really entertaining just by her skills at telling them and annotating them with her quirky observations. They recalled some more similar incidents from the past, beginning a saga of laughter between the duo.

Misty looked at the time again. It was 12:30. Feeling her stomach grumble, she opened the final cap of her thermos lunch box, and a mix of spices escaped into the room. The last cap had a foldable silver spoon fixed atop. Misty took it out and unfolded it. She told her mother all about her food innovations–her pancake recipe, and details about her lunch. While talking, Misty filled her spoon with the mixture of lentils and rice. The container was well-insulated and she suspected that the food would’ve cooked more with the trapped heat. Her mother, who was seeing all of this, exclaimed about the efficiency of the container. “I will bring one for you,” Misty responded.

“No no, we have so many! But not with a folding spoon on top,” Buiya winked.

The meal was still very hot, so Misty brought the spoon close to her lips to blow over it. Carefully, she took a bite with her teeth and unsuspectingly felt the mercurial warmth on her tongue. She stuck it out to let the steam escape and to soothe the hot-drama on her tongue, she brought out the orange from her bag.

Peeling and chewing on a few carpels, the burst of juices both sweet and sour, soothed her. Her eyes shut at the unanticipated pang of sourness that hit her at the end.

Her mother was amused at the performance and asked, “Are they sweet? The oranges.” Quickly recovering, Misty responded, “Yeah, maa. Sweet. The oranges are sweet. I wish that you could taste and share this meal with me right now! Despite being very hot it tastes good.”

Misty broke eye contact and looked down into her thermos. Her mother looked back to hold her gaze. There was an unsaid longing, the kind that made the screen helpless for standing in between them. A silence took over and they sat with it for a while.

“I will make this when I’m back!” Misty finally spoke. For this was not the time to ask difficult questions.

And so, they continued to catch up on the events from the day and plans for the next few days, until Misty’s lunch hour ran out.