Buttered toast and Betelgeuse

The slices pop up from the toaster with a ding! My tentative fingers pick them up, one at a time, and drop them on the plate before the heat signal can travel from my skin to my brain. They need to cool, just a bit, just enough to acquire a hardness that won't give when the butter is spread over the surface. Golden, salty butter. Kept out of the fridge just long enough for the knife to cut through the smooth yet firm rectangle.

I move the knife horizontally across the fat brick of butter, gathering a thin layer that curls over the finely serrated blade to form a small ribbed cylinder, like the ones in the silver dishes in fancy hotels. Impressed by my unexpected artistry, I place it carefully on a slice and watch as it yields to the warmth, its butteriness oozing slowly over the golden brown surface, sinking into the pores. I quickly spread the rest, realizing that I haven't waited long enough and that the butter will soon disappear into the bread, visible only as a dull shine.

"I want to see the butter," he'd say, as he waited for the toast to cool before spreading a thick layer. Sometimes he'd add a dollop of ketchup.

Buttered toast and tea was a 4 o' clock routine that my father rarely missed, when at home. He took pleasure in making the tea himself, milky and thick, topped with an extra spoon of malai. I'd watch him, faintly disgusted by the malai (I was obsessive about straining every bit of it out of my tea and coffee) and remonstrating with him about the amount of butter on the toast. He paid no attention, focusing instead on enjoying the moment and all it contained.

January brings with it the bittersweetness of remembrance. One smiles at memories, grateful for their abundant presence, but sadness at the absence of those that played a role in generating them.

Orion and his belt. Image: Wikipedia

Like walking on the terrace at night. A keen star gazer, my father mapped the skies for me, pointing to Rohini--"that's Betelgeuse, the reddish one," he'd explain--at the far end of the long constellation of Orion, and then showing me the Belt, three stars strung across Orion's middle. Later my daughters were made familiar with the same stars and shared his excitement over expected meteor showers, lugging mats to sleep on the terrace and keep their eyes open for falling stardust. Never mind that most nights the clouds and the diffuse city lights masked whatever showers there may have been. The sense of anticipation was infectious.

Like going to the station to pick up arriving relatives. I do it out of habit fed by expectation but for him, it was an extension of his own fascination for travel. He would walk the length of the platform waiting for the arrival of a usually-late train, stopping to buy the latest South Central Railway timetable and a newspaper, as if the book tucked under his arm wasn't enough reading material.

It's coming on ten years now. The loss has lost its sharp edge, its contours now diffuse and soft, evoking gratitude rather than regret.