Evening Rituals Bibek Adhikari Inside the cramped living room, planting ourselves in shaky wicker chairs, with dinner on our knees— rice, chickpea stew, roasted okra, faintly smelling of paraffin from the Primus stove— we savor our share on steel plates, the ones that come with separate compartments for different dishes, eyes glued to the technicolor screen— that dreadful 21-inch box, a gift from my parent’s wedding, a flamboyant luxury in the olden days, now a relic, speakers crackling, almost dying— we eat off our knees, forgetting the everyday problems of our everyday lives with a famous Indian sitcom, Tarak Mehta Ka Oolta Chasma, sharing intermittent laughter in-between. I stuff a heaping spoonful of rice and curry into my mouth, snort at a smutty double entendre, drink water, splutter and cough—my dad pats on my arm, I laugh clumsily, content to be with an everyday family with a living room, a TV, and bills to pay.
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