ਮੇਰਾ ਪਿੰਡ

At the entrance sat a model of a Sikh, clad in traditional robes, coloured and glossy. The place had everything Punjabi; the waiters wore kurta-pajamas and had a turban on their manes, the music was forever Gurdaas Mann, the glasses of water were steel-made and heavy, there was a dummy of a huge tree with kites entangled on its branches. Some traditional Punjabi artifacts adorned the shelves. The room was coloured heavily yet somehow, it did not lose its grace and nobility while portraying the essence of Punjab, colour. The service was warm and congenial. The glass of lassi did lack the original flavour but with a different breed of cows in Madhya Pradesh, one should not be too finicky. The food was what eventually took me back home, miles away, to my place, mera pind, Punjab. As a part of the Diaspora, this was the closest one could get to our Desi food. With every nibble, I could see myself flying kites back home, eating food that is more than just delectable, savouring those crisp, snoozy glasses of lassi that my mother makes so deftly and above all, the scent of Punjab, the soil that evokes an ode from my heart, every time I think about its majesty and crave for its love. What could have been another-casual-Saturday-dinner turned out to be a nostalgic reminiscence, at Pind Balluchi.