Chapter 4: Aunty’s Dabba and the Secret Feast

So Sir took us to his home. I was nervous—never been to a teacher’s house at midnight. His flat was small but neat, walls lined with faded calendars and family photos. His wife, Mrs. Suresh, hadn’t gone to bed yet and was making him a bowl of Maggi for a midnight snack. She looked up, surprised, but just smiled kindly and put another saucepan on the stove.

Sir motioned for us to eat. “Kha lo, beta. Don’t feel shy.” No joke, that first bowl of noodles vanished in three seconds. We pounced like wild animals. The slurp echoed off the kitchen walls. The noodles slid in, the boiling soup shot down my throat. I barely tasted the masala—just the relief of something hot and real.

I coughed, nearly choking, but I wasn’t stopping. Hunger is the best spice, na? Sir had just taken off his coat and told us to slow down. “Aaram se, there’s more.” But we’d already finished.

Three pairs of eyes stared at Aunty. She burst out laughing, going into the kitchen to turn on the gas. She wiped her hands on her saree, humming an old Lata Mangeshkar tune as she got another batch going.

Then she brought out leftover poha from the evening—lemon, coriander, roasted peanuts. Pure bliss. Sandeep mumbled, “Aunty, this is heaven.” Spoons and plates clattered, bowls licked clean—no need to wash. Even the family cat stared in envy.

Halfway through, Sir rolled up his sleeves and joined her in the kitchen. For a few minutes, it felt like a Doordarshan serial—everyone working together quietly, late at night.

We ate until our bellies were round. The world seemed brighter. Sir wiped his sweat and panted, “You three aren’t so poor you can’t afford to eat, are you? Where did your pocket money go? Tell the truth.”

He teased, “You’re not blowing your money at the computer game parlour, no?” I waved my hands, slapped my meal card on the table—not a paisa spent. “See for yourself, Sir. Full balance. We can’t use it—unless you want to taste the canteen food?”

It’s really not that we’re picky—the food just isn’t fit for people. Akhil chimed in, “Aunty, even your cat would turn up her nose at our hostel food.” We all laughed, but it was a bitter laugh.

Lymph node meat stir-fried with rotten chilli, spoiled cabbage with vermicelli, even the rice is half-cooked. I described the food in detail. Aunty looked horrified, hand to her mouth. Sir shook his head, frowning deeply. “I knew it was bad, but…”

I told him we were lucky this time—other students only eat real food once a month, when they go home. I shared stories of friends who counted down days to home visits, just for a decent meal. Even the strictest parents become generous when their child returns from hostel.

Sir shook his head, shoulders slumped. For a moment, he looked less like a teacher, more like a tired parent. Before we left, Aunty packed some food in a Tupperware dabba and told us to be careful—not to let wardens or guards see. She pressed the warm dabba into my hand, whispering, “Don’t eat in the open, beta. Wardens have eyes everywhere.”

For a second, I wanted to touch her feet, like we do for blessings before board exams. But I just whispered thank you, words catching in my throat. I blinked fast, suddenly missing my own mother. For a minute, the world didn’t seem so harsh after all.

The next day, after morning assembly, the bell rang and everyone shuffled out, sleepy from another round of principal-sahab’s endless speech. But excitement buzzed—rumors flying on our WhatsApp group, glances traded from bench to bench.

Sir appeared and told everyone to stay in the classroom, draw the curtains, close the doors. The prefect hustled to the windows. Sir stood guard at the door, like an army general. The thrill was electric. It felt like a secret mission.

Mysteriously, he pulled out a heavy backpack. Sir set it on the desk, unzipping it with a flourish. The smell of meat filled the air. Oh, that aroma! My mouth watered. Even those fasting for Navratri looked tempted.

It was a backpack full of chicken puffs! Not just any puffs—real bakery ones, with sesame seeds, golden crust, the works. In that moment, Sir was our superhero.

The whole class cheered! Swati clapped, someone whistled. Sir put a finger to his lips, “Keep it down! If the principal hears, we’re all finished.”

Sixty puffs for thirty people, two each. Akhil grinned, “Sir, this is better than Diwali bonus!” Hot, juicy, crust soft and flaky, spicy filling sliding down your throat—so good you want to lick your fingers. For a minute, it felt like Holi in March—everyone grinning, crumbs on their cheeks, the smell of bakery ghee mixing with the chalk dust.

We ate in silence, eyes closed in bliss. Each bite was a festival in the mouth. We unwrapped the puffs gently, as if handling family jewellery. Even the usual chatterboxes were silent.

Sir leaned on the desk, smiling as he watched us eat. For the first time, the gap between teacher and students vanished. In his eyes, I saw only affection, worry, and hope.

After that, Sir brought us food every few days. Sometimes vada pav, sometimes idli, sometimes samosas from the railway station. Each time felt like winning the lottery. In the last twenty minutes after evening study, we’d draw the curtains, push the desks together, and eat the hot food Sir brought. It became our ritual—windows closed, desks huddled, eyes on the door. One lookout, one food-distributor, everyone else feasting. Then we’d clean up, tossing the trash in different school dustbins like secret agents, erasing the evidence.

The whole class kept this happy secret. A look, a nod, a smile was enough. Sir joked, “If only you all studied with the same passion!” We just grinned, crumbs sticking to our lips.

We wanted to pay Sir, but he refused. “Don’t insult me by offering money, beta. If you do well in your board exams, that’ll be my reward.” In that moment, I made a silent promise to make him proud.