Golden Bites

Bread halwa, my mother called it. I called it “Golden Bites.” The bread pieces are cooked on low flame with butter and sugar until they turn golden brown, glazed with shiny sugar. It took minutes to make and tasted like crumbly cake. My mother’s invention, and my pride—a secret recipe, like a family jewel.

I outshone other kids with Golden Bites, packed in my lunchbox while others brought plain halwa, leaky rice kheer, or sticky Maggi noodles.

I would participate in tearing the bread loaves into randomly shaped pieces—an easy but vital contribution from me. I sat cross-legged on the shiny slab beside my mother as she stirred the ingredients in the pan. A sweet, bakery scent would linger around us, even after we were done eating and only the crumbs were left.

I shared very little, only with a few kids who sat next to me or were on my side. No one was allowed to get a golden bite unless they were family or the chosen ones. Not even ants deserved a taste.

The brown, sugary crumbs left on the plate that I’d forget to soak in water—or the crumbs on the floor, on my clothes—would invite the sneaky little ants.

I learned to deal with them early on. I would slap them and mash them with my fingertips until they were nothing but black crumbs themselves.

I haven’t tasted Golden Bites since my mother passed. The slab is much colder now, and I’m too tall to sit there without banging my head. There’s no one to stir the pan, and I don’t quite know the correct measure of butter and sugar.

Now, I tear bread into pieces, drown them in milk, and swallow them like medicine before work.

I told the incomplete recipe to my partner, who cooked it for me. It didn’t take him long to crack the Golden Bites. But I wouldn’t know—I didn’t eat it. I’m not worthy anymore. I didn’t mind that he ate.

Or maybe I did, because I’ll never get the same taste again—the taste of Bread halwa.

Now, when I see an ant, I don’t kill it.

I let the ant crawl, sometimes making a bridge of my palm. But even after it’s gone, I still feel it—skittering under my skin, behind my eyes, nesting in the hollows where sweetness used to live. Feeding on the hunger I carry, the longing I can’t shake—like crumbs scattered for something I can’t see, but always feel.