Duck-Duck-Treasure

It had been years since I had seen my sister. It had been years since I had played ‘Treasure Hunt’ with her. So, her excitement, as we chased the ‘treasure that she had stumbled upon in the old market’ was quite understandable. To be honest, it was endearing – I had missed my little sister a lot, and I hadn’t even realised it all this while.

“Mother used to bring me here when I was a little girl; I had forgotten all about it,” she said as she led me down the narrow pathways. “It’s funny how you forget a lot about the things that used to be your whole world once upon a time – our village, our home, our family. As kids, that was our whole universe. Now that we’ve grown up, we hardly even think about it anymore.”

A strangely familiar smell was present all around us, right from the time that we had entered the narrow alleys of the market. I couldn’t quite place what it reminded me of, but I vaguely remembered it to be about something from our childhood. All around us, there were small shops frying things or baking things or grinding spices to be used in the tiny kitchens. The smoke from the many cooking stoves hung around heavily above us, mixed with the wondrous aromas of the dishes being prepared to cater to the hungry mouths that would come to the market soon.

“I would surely come here often, now that I know about this place – rather, now that I remember this place once more. After all, this place is just a stone’s throw away from where I live. Look, there,” she cried suddenly, grasping my arm. “You can see our balcony from here. You see?”

I nodded, and we shuffled along once more. There were kids playing amidst the tomatoes being sliced and the potatoes being fried. We pushed past them, resisting the urge to stop and join in their games. An old lady kept looking fondly at the children as they chased each other around a pile of shelled pea pods. She reminded me of someone, but I had trouble placing who she looked like.

“Mother used to get all her spices, vegetables and fish from this market,” said my sister as she led me down past the children. “And the ducks for special occasions.” There was a smile on her face, one that had been triggered by the fond memories of duck cuisine at home, only on days that were deemed fit to be called ‘special occasions.’ I had never been that close with our mother – the only person I felt attached to in the family was my little sister. The thing I missed the most about my family was my mother’s cooking. It was the only thing I remembered now, and as the days went by, I forgot to remember that about home as well.

As the evening crept on, we could feel the crowds swelling. Small plastic tables and chairs were set hastily in shops all around us, and people would sit at one of the shops to snack on the many delicacies that surrounded us on all sides. We didn’t stop, however, in spite of the many mouth-watering treats that were being laid out in front of us on the many tables. My sister kept going forward, tugging me along, with the ever-present promise that the ‘treasure’ we were ‘hunting’ for was “just ahead of us.” We passed stalls with fried chicken and prawns, past shops selling spicy noodles, past woks of steaming soup of different varieties, but we stopped to sample none of these. She led me on and on, till we almost reached the end of the market, and a small establishment with fried ducks hanging outside. This is where she stopped and sat down, the smile still firm and strong on her face.

“Why are we here?” I asked her softly, trying to stay out of earshot from the cooks who were working nearby. I didn’t want to sound rude, but I found that I was even more confused now than I had been while walking down to this restaurant.

“You’ll know in a little while. I’ve ordered the duck noodle soup, I think you’ll like it when you have it. Mother used to get me here when I was little, but we never had a chance to stop. It was always too expensive for us, and that’s why she made the ducks for us on special occasions – so that we, too, could taste the expensive taste of this place.”

There wasn’t anything particularly expensive about the setting – it was quite a dingy shop, and it was hard to figure out the true colours of the plastic seats on which we were sitting, so covered with grime they were. But I could understand what my sister meant when she said it. I had lived through the same tough times that my sister had seen.

All the walking had made me hungry, so when the soup finally came out, I couldn’t wait for common courtesies. The moment the bowl was set in front of us, I made a lunge for it, but my sister stopped me before I could taste any.

“Not like this! You’ll ruin the effect,” she said. “Here, take this spoon and taste it. Taste, don’t gulp it down!” I took the loaded spoon from her and sipped the piping hot soup from it. “Don’t swallow it yet. Close your eyes, and let the soup stay in your mouth for a while. Taste it. Really taste it. Feel the butter and the salt and the pepper, the noodles and the tender duck. Taste the spices, feel it sting your tongue. Chew the meat, feel its texture between your teeth. Savour it, and you’ll know why it’s a treasure worth trudging all this way down here. You feel it?”

My eyes were watering, from the heat and the spices and the pepper. But there was something else as well. Something which made it special, and suddenly it all made sense – my sister’s excitement, the reason why she dragged me down the market where she used to come many years ago, the familiar smell of the market, the kids playing along on the street while the old lady looked on affectionately, and the soup – it all reminded me of home. It reminded me of my childhood. It reminded me of our mother.

“It tastes just like the way she used to cook it, doesn’t it?” asked my sister; but I was too choked up to answer her.

~

Inspired from Magpie Tales.