My
evening began on a sad note: I was hungry and wanted to eat Maggi. I then
searched high and low for that elusive pack, which was the last one in our
pantry, and probably in our town. Finally, I found it sitting snugly in the
fridge, looking forlorn and lonely.
I took it
up and reluctantly poured its contents into boiling water, for my hunger had
got the better of me. Then I set up the empty packet on the kitchen slab as a
memento of a lost Maggian era.
The
cooked noodles was savoured slowly and reverentially, no one in the family
willing to end it first. Now it has the place of a relic in all hearts,
reminding us of the times when the snack made our evenings tastier and helped
our mothers fill the bellies of their ever-hungry kids.
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