One Tihar, when I was around 13, I decided I wanted to help my mom make sel roti. I still do not know why. Maybe I was feeling grown-up that day, or maybe I just wanted to feel involved in the kitchen chaos.
I remember how warm the kitchen felt. My mom was mixing the batter, the oil was heating, and everything smelled like Tihar. She made the first sel roti and it came out perfect. A clean, round circle. She made it look so easy.
Then I said, “Let me try.”
My mom smiled and handed me the jug of batter. I thought I had everything under control, but the moment I poured, the batter landed like a confused squiggle instead of a circle. And because I panicked, a bit of hot oil jumped and hit my hand.
The second the oil touched my skin, I stepped back without thinking. My foot slipped a little and my hand hit the long steel utensil my mom was using to pour the batter. It wobbled, clattered, and fell straight into the kadai.
That was the real disaster.
The hot oil splashed out like it had been waiting for the perfect chance. A few drops hit the counter, a few hit the stove, and a long streak landed on the floor with a loud sizzle. For a moment, even the flame looked shocked.
I stood there frozen. My mom grabbed my arm. My grandma came running in as if the house was on fire. My cousin peeked in and said it looked like a crime scene.
The whole kitchen went silent for a second. Then my grandma asked, “Yaamari ko din ho ki yuddha ko din ho, ke ho yesto?”
We spent half the morning cleaning the mess. The funniest part is that the floor still has a faint stain from that day. Whenever someone notices it, they look at me the same way they did back then.
When my grandma saw the shape I had made, she shook her head and said, “Yo k ho?”
Everyone laughed. My sel roti looked exactly like the kind of doodle you draw when you are bored in class.
After that, my mom did not let me near the oil. She gave me a safer job, which was sitting on the counter and eating the sel rotis as they came out. I did not complain.
Even now, my family remembers that Tihar. Not because of the lights or the cards or the sweets, but because of my artistic sel roti attempt. Every year someone asks, “You making sel roti this time?” and everyone else immediately replies, “No, no, no, please don’t.”
The funny thing is that even though that Tihar was chaotic, it is still one of my favorite memories. The noise, the heat of the kitchen, my mom laughing, my grandma complaining, everyone together, it felt full.
Now, festivals are quieter. People are busy or living abroad. The kitchen does not feel as crowded anymore.
But whenever the oil heats up and the smell of sel roti fills the house, I remember that day so clearly. My crooked sel roti, the laughter, the mess, and how close everyone felt.