Both of us love going to Indian stores in the big city and of course, we had to visit it in New Jersey. Not going to an Indian store in New Jersey would be like going to Agra and not seeing the Taj Mahal (well almost like it). I love buying stuff from these places obviously because of the nostalgia. It is like seeing a kite or pink candy and you are transported to another time. So, I see these items after a long time and remember the time when they were always within reach and the next thing I know, they are in my shopping basket.
This time was no different. Our friends took us to the grocery store and I behaved as if Christmas was there (of course supposing that I am an American child). This time the thing I did not need but simply had to buy because it was a part of childhood and I had not seen it in so long, was KISSAN JAM (mixed fruit). Flashbacks of my mom and later, my sister, feeding me roti and jam ended with the jam in our backpack. (Un)Fortumately, I did not know what was to come.
The next morning, neither of us remembered that the jam bottle was in the backpack and we took off to ride around Central Park. M complained about the weight the whole time and I gave him a good talking to because that day I even carried my iPad in my purse to reduce the weight of the backpack. Sometime in the afternoon, I looked into the backpack and happened to see the jam. Both of us were suitable remoreseful about the extra weight M was carrying around because of our oversight.
At the airport, I started sorting out stuff from the backpack to make sure that we did not end up with liquids at the security gate. And....the jam bottle was broken...... from the repeated dumping on the ground through the day. My first reaction was seeing images of my mom and sister feeding me waving goodbye. This was very closely followed by dismay at all the cleaning up required. M's first reaction was the observation that he had lugged the thing around all day for no use. We might as well have thrown it out. Once he started removing the glass bits and pieces, it seemed that throwing it away would have been the better option. Luckily he managed to get rid of the almost all the bigger glass pieces without cutting himself (I was worried that they would stop us in security for having "sharp weapons", hence the insistence on getting rid of the big pieces.
Once we got home, I had to spend quite a lot of time washing the backpack in water and removing all the small pieces. The glass pieces had also torn the backpack's compartent separator spoiling our well loved backpack (one of the few things both agreed on fairly quickly).
All this drama for a childhood memory of Kissan Jam which we did not even get to taste. So much for nostalgia.
This time was no different. Our friends took us to the grocery store and I behaved as if Christmas was there (of course supposing that I am an American child). This time the thing I did not need but simply had to buy because it was a part of childhood and I had not seen it in so long, was KISSAN JAM (mixed fruit). Flashbacks of my mom and later, my sister, feeding me roti and jam ended with the jam in our backpack. (Un)Fortumately, I did not know what was to come.
The next morning, neither of us remembered that the jam bottle was in the backpack and we took off to ride around Central Park. M complained about the weight the whole time and I gave him a good talking to because that day I even carried my iPad in my purse to reduce the weight of the backpack. Sometime in the afternoon, I looked into the backpack and happened to see the jam. Both of us were suitable remoreseful about the extra weight M was carrying around because of our oversight.
At the airport, I started sorting out stuff from the backpack to make sure that we did not end up with liquids at the security gate. And....the jam bottle was broken...... from the repeated dumping on the ground through the day. My first reaction was seeing images of my mom and sister feeding me waving goodbye. This was very closely followed by dismay at all the cleaning up required. M's first reaction was the observation that he had lugged the thing around all day for no use. We might as well have thrown it out. Once he started removing the glass bits and pieces, it seemed that throwing it away would have been the better option. Luckily he managed to get rid of the almost all the bigger glass pieces without cutting himself (I was worried that they would stop us in security for having "sharp weapons", hence the insistence on getting rid of the big pieces.
Once we got home, I had to spend quite a lot of time washing the backpack in water and removing all the small pieces. The glass pieces had also torn the backpack's compartent separator spoiling our well loved backpack (one of the few things both agreed on fairly quickly).
All this drama for a childhood memory of Kissan Jam which we did not even get to taste. So much for nostalgia.
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