Chapter 7: Wheat, Laughter, and a Little Hope

My illness slowly improved, so I didn’t get to reunite with Ma and Father just yet.

When the fever broke, I was weak but alive. The disappointment stung—I’d been so close to seeing them again, but the world wouldn’t let me go.

The wandering spirit father was especially happy.

He pranced around, humming filmi tunes, drumming his fingers on the table. His joy was infectious, though I didn’t fully trust him.

“Finally, I don’t have to cook anymore—even dogs wouldn’t eat my food!”

He laughed at his own misery. I caught his eye and saw a flicker of genuine relief, maybe even gratitude.

I glanced at him.

He seemed less ghostly now—more human. The lines on his face softened in the morning light.

Now he’s even cursing himself.

I hid a smile behind my hand. Only in our family, I thought, does a spirit scold itself for bad cooking.

Sighing, I lifted the clay jar, expecting emptiness, but gasped in shock.

It was full of golden wheat, almost overflowing.

“Arrey!”

The word burst out. I looked around, half-expecting to wake up from a dream.

The jar was packed with golden wheat, shining in the sunlight. I ran my fingers through it, feeling the cool, smooth grains.

I rubbed my eyes, pinched a grain, and tasted it.

The earthy taste exploded on my tongue—rich, sweet, like Ma’s fresh rotis from the tawa.

It was real…

I looked up at the spirit father, tears stinging my eyes, unsure if I should thank him or fear him.

He slouched against the door like a boneless worm, snorting with a crooked smile. But I saw the pride in his eyes.

My scalp tingled, my body stiffened.

Was he a magician, a saint, or something else?

“Hurry up and cook, Beta, I’m starving.”

His tone was playful, almost loving. For a moment, it felt like the old days, when hunger was a game.

After that, he went back to the table, peeling groundnuts to fill his stomach.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Maybe things would be all right now. I wiped my tears, ready for another day.

I washed the wheat, steamed it in the cooker—the hiss and aroma comforting and familiar. For the first time in weeks, my stomach rumbled in anticipation.

I picked greens from the backyard, cooked them, hesitating before using the last pinch of salt. I mixed it all, and the meal was ready.

When I lifted the lid, the wheat’s fragrance filled the house, warm and homey. The spirit father peeked in several times, eyes never leaving the steaming pot.

Finally, he patted his belly and muttered: “Useless, didn’t you eat enough meat and fish before?”

His complaint was half-hearted, a reminder of festival days long gone.

When the food was served, he gobbled it up, sighing in delight. For a moment, the lines of worry melted away.

He squinted, shaking his head: “Bas, ab toh har chidiya basant mein gaati hai, har ghar mein gehu ki khushboo hai.”

His words were like poetry, echoing Ma’s old books. I wondered if he’d once been a teacher, or just loved shayari.

Seeing me stare, he laughed so hard he nearly choked, thumping his chest. The sound echoed through the house like temple bells on a festival morning.

Strange, could he have been a teacher when alive?

I made a note to ask someday, if I ever found the courage.