Summer Breakfast

A fresh April Sunday, and stir was caused by maybe the milkman or the guy who was scheduled to take blood sample of my little sister, for I don’t know as I was deep in slumber. Summer Sundays are always crisp in the house. And by god’s grace there was no maid today for some trivial reason, though Ma wasn’t exactly cheerful about it. At eleven in the morning, the kitchen is filled with the enchanting fumes of potatoes being roasted along with chattering of Ma and my siblings. They’re talking about potatoes, fried, baked, and Aloo tikki, which Ma seemed to be preparing on this fruity morning.


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