“The delivery should be here any minute,” my college-going daughter tells me, her eyes glued to the phone. It’s a Sunday, and she had ordered some exotic veggies, some of which I have never seen before, to try out a recipe she found online. “Don’t buy anything that we can’t even pronounce,” I tell her hinting at the growing invasion of “foreign” vegetables in our home lately.
“How difficult is it to say zucchini or bok choy,” she retorts. The delivery arrives on time. A young man, probably in his early twenties, hands me the package and runs down the stairs, not waiting for my thank you. I stare at the vegetables. They look lifeless. “I think we should stop ordering fruits and vegetables online and instead buy fresh ones from the market,” I say.
“This is Mumbai city. Why would you want to waste time and petrol getting stuck in the traffic,” she asks.
“But look at these vegetables! They look like they haven’t seen water or sunlight in days.”
“They look fine to me,” she says.
“I miss the good old home deliveries, you know, the ones we had back home in Kerala when I was a kid,” I tell her rinsing the veggies for what feels like the 10th time.
Better and smarter
“You had home deliveries back then,” she asks half-amused. I decide to ignore the insinuation that I belonged to some primitive era. “Better, smarter deliveries,” I shoot back. “The vegetable vendor, the fisherwoman…”
“Nostalgia makes everything looks better,” she says. “Maybe. But they had warmth. Human connection. Not like this faceless exchange. How I miss that,” I tell her with a sigh.
“But who even wants to build a connection with a random stranger who comes to deliver things. That would be so weird. I think you people had too much time on your hands then,” she says rolling her eyes.
“True, we had time on our hands — not phones in them like your generation,” I feel good about making a valid point.
“We also had fresh vegetables. Yam, pumpkin, spinach… The plantain the vendor brought was from her own backyard… They were local, seasonal, organic, sustainable — though nobody used those words then.”
She doesn’t look impressed and continues chopping the vegetables. “Little me was so smitten by the vendor’s lovely basket of vegetables that I actually wanted to be her when I grew up,” I tell her.
“Vegetable or vendor,” she asks with a laugh “I thought you had a pretty bad relationship with vegetables, looking at the way your so-called kitchen garden fares now.”
True. My kitchen garden — actually just a few small pots of sickly looking curry leaves, chilly and mint, sitting on my kitchen windowsill — does not really reflect my passion for fresh veggies. But I ignore her jibe and continue my ramble. “Your grandma shared such a lovely bond with her. They would sit and gossip for ages. The vendor never left without having a bowl of cool leftover rice with curd, crushed shallots and green chillies.” I almost salivate, feeling sorry for my young one, who never developed a taste this age-old comfort food.
“Speaking of old times, can I borrow your set-mundu for the ethnic day at college tomorrow,” she asks.
“One day to celebrate your roots,” I tease her. “Feel free to borrow my new one.”
“I also need jasmine flowers, for my hair. Let’s go to market after lunch and get fresh ones, just how you wanted,” she says with a wicked twinkle in her eyes.
I glance out of the kitchen window. The sky looks grey and ready for another burst of rain, and the thought of braving the afternoon traffic and muddy roads to a crowded market makes me instantly tired. All for a small jasmine string.
“Maybe later. I feel a headache coming on.” I feign a sudden weakness. “Let’s order online.”
“Wow! After all that gyan you gave me a while ago, I didn’t expect that.” She says in a half-joking, half-serious tone.
“It’s only flowers.” I try to justify, trying to make a quiet exit from the scene.
She doesn’t answer. But as I walk out of the kitchen, I hear my fresh, organic words looping back to me. Maybe we really did have too much time on our hands.
Published – September 21, 2025 04:44 am IST
