Crisp, golden pooris
It was last Friday, you know Friday the 13th?... At around 3 AM, I woke up in a cold sweat, my dreams of a fading memory. While the scare of the nightmare dwindled, the memory of the tale lingered. Once I got a hold of my bearings, I sat to write it down, as detailed as I could remember. This is a story I was told a long time ago; back when I was still in school… perhaps fourth or fifth grade. A dear friend of mine, (Let’s call her Sora) told me about an incident that happened to her grand-mom.
It takes place back when Sora’s grandmother was a young mother. Sora’s father was still a toddler and his sister about 12 years old. The town they lived in was not very developed and electricity was pricey. So the nights were spent in the weak light of the kerosene lamps. The streets outside only had the light of the moon and stars. People rarely stayed outdoors in the night.
That night, her grandfather was out of town for business. The two women of the house were prepping for dinner, making sabji and poori. While the young girl (Sora’s aunt) rolled out the dough, her mother fried them in a wok of oil.
The dough fluffed up into crisp, round, golden pooris and as the aroma filled the house, she opened the kitchen window for ventilation.
The young toddler called out, “Can I have one?”
“Not yet dear, these are still too hot” his mother said, smiling at the innocent voice. Her son seemed to have woken up to the aroma of his favourite dish.
“But I want one. Can I have a poori please?” he insisted.
“We’ll have dinner in a bit, I’ll give it to you then” she replied patiently, her mind still pre-occupied with the task.
“But I want it right now!”, the toddler’s voice was gruffer, “Give me the poori!”
Annoyed, she turned back to scold the boy, “I said they are- ”
The toddler was fast asleep in his bed. It didn't seem like he had moved in quite some time.
Her daughter, on the other hand, looked horrified. Clearly she had heard it too...
“GIVE ME A POORI! GIVE IT TO ME!! GIVE IT TO ME!!!”
The voice screeched getting louder every time, going inhumanly gruff.
“LET ME EAT!!! LET ME EAT!!! LET ME EAT!!!”
The mother was in a panic… what was going on?
The voice seemed to be coming from behind her, perhaps from the window? She peered out to take a look. It was a new moon night and the world outside was near pitch black.
Suddenly, she fell back with a scream.
A hand thrust in through the window.
The skin was rotting, peeling off to show the flesh and bones. Inwards it came, all the way upto the elbow, the skin charred like burnt meat and falling apart in places. A fowl stench of death swallowed the warmth of the house. The fingers stretched out, reaching hungrily while the hoarse voice chanted,
“GIVE ME! GIVE ME! GIVE ME!”
Frozen in place, they watched it grab around, searching for the food. And then, as if accidentally, the hand plunged into the boiling hot oil in the wok. It flailed, spilling the oil everywhere, screaming out -
“HOT!!! HOTT!!! LET ME GO! GIVE ME FOOD! AAARRGH!!!”
The voice roared and wailed, making their ears ring, and vision blur.
The little child (Sora’s dad) bawled out loud, his sleep disturbed by the din. His loud cries filled the house, like it was cleansing the air.
And then suddenly…. Silence.
It was as if nothing had happened at all.
The hand, the voice… it was all gone.
The window was open, breeze playing through.
The wok of oil remained untouched.
The house still carried the faint aroma of fried pooris.
The toddler was awake, rubbing sleep off his eyes; confusion crimping his brows.
There was no sign whatsoever of anything that had just occurred.
“The heat sure is getting to us,” the mother said, laughing nervously. “Let’s have some dinner and rest, okay?” She consoled her children as best as she could.
As they sat to have their dinner, she noticed something peculiar.
They were short of a single poori.
~
