Our Diary
A daughter’s memory of her father’s slow-cooked kheer
Rain clouds have emptied themselves, returning the sky to a washed, bright blue hue. Dragonflies fill the air and the unmissable saffron of genda (marigold) flowers sitting in wicker baskets on roadside stalls beckon the most-awaited festival of autumn - Diwali.
As the moon wanes into amavasya in the night sky preparing for the luminous festival, the memory of my childhood Diwalis come to mind. As a little girl, after I’d bathed and dressed for the festivity, the first scene in the morning that welcomed me every year when I entered the kitchen was my father in his crisp, white kurta pyjama squatting in front of an old kerosene stove.
Memories of childhood - a photo story
Memories of childhood - a photo story by Nirmala Mayur Patil.
Memories as soft as muslin, woven on the loom of slow days - wishing on stars, swinging under the trees, gazing out of windows, leaving flower gifts in unthinkable places, hiding between curtains, making art on pavements, celebrating sweet messes, tiptoeing, scribbling, having long conversations with secret friends, and believing in fairies.’
