This time with my relatives from India, my parents sent along this lovely box of Dhoda. Now Dhoda, if you’ve never had it, is like milk-cake but richer (if that’s possible). Sometimes I break away little pieces and warm them in the microwave, and warmed over, this little dhoda piece is sort of floating in desi ghee. I always tell my parents to not send sweets, but they never pay any attention. So, it’s like when the Dhoda arrived at home, and was duly unpacked and regarded (the smell is something, I tell you !) , I resolved to not eat it, not a tiny little piece, not at all.

As I sit here on the sofa chair, my feet up on the ottoman, the window half-way open and a gentle semi-hot breeze blowing directly on my face, and a little piece of dhoda on my plate – actually, on second thought, it’s not such a little piece, I contemplate the noise. The exhaust in the kitchen, and the bathroom is switched on, the clothes-dryer clanks away, the noise of the AC unit outside drifts in through the open window, and I’m thinking with this Dhoda on my plate, it should be quieter.