Vada Poche

There was only 5 minutes left. He had to think fast. A safe and secure location. It was a rarity that he'd have the chance to get his hands on it, he wanted to relish it all by himself. "Am I being selfish?", he thought to himself, but then convinced himself that he wasn't.

The banyan tree was the first place that came into his mind. "There's no way these people would find me there!", he thought. The bell rang, it was time, he made a move. Secretively, he went to fetch it. Then, something urged him to share it. Maybe it was the goad of the feeling of selfishness.

The carrots and beans that would look like rubies and emeralds studded onto a golden crown, the reddish-brown tinge on the rice that would give out an aroma announcing its arrival without anyone having to tell it out loud, the cloves whose symmetrical heads and linear stem would seem like the diorama of a sceptre.  It was Brinji. Being a Tambrahm, it wasn't made even rarely. Only when the elders, who'd scoff at the very scent of onion or garlic had gone on a pilgrimage, he could plead his mom for it. She'd agreed to make it that day.

Giving up on eating it all by himself, he opened his lunch box. It was his chance at reviving his long-dead taste buds.

"Thud!", he remembered.. Just as he was leaving, mom had said, "சாதம் கொழஞ்சு போச்சு டா, தயிர் சாதமா கட்டிடேன்."

Shit, vada poche! :-\