How "NaaMa" Uncle Created the Cream Calamity

My childhood fantasies were all about dreaming of bakery treats. Back in the days, local Iyengar bakeries in our respective areas were the go-to places to satisfy our sugar cravings. No pastries and patisseries like today. Just three main cakes like Trimurti's: chocolate cake, honey cake, and apple cake.

Cakes were an occasional treat on special days, such as birthdays. That too, when Mommy dear does not make any besan unde/kobbari mithai for the birthday. Every time I visited a bakery, I would look at the cakes through the glass and salivate more than our doggy Tommy does on seeing his Glenands dog biscuit. Eating a cake for me meant first licking all the cream coating on top, then gobbling up the soft cake below. That was an experience!

The Iyengar bakery uncle behind the counter was unmissable in his spotless white dhoti as he emerged from the black soot-covered oven room. The oven room was a mystery in itself for me; I could barely imagine what went on in that dungeon-like space to produce such tasty treats. This pious figure would craft cakes using eggs—wonder how Brahminism permitted it—with his trademark naama smeared big and bold on his forehead, like a holy stamp straight from Lord Venkateshwara of Tirupati. On one of those lucky days, I got to buy a cake. I would roll up to the bakery with my face almost pressed against the glass, eying the cakes neatly lined in the greasy trays. With total clarity (the only thing I was ever clear about as a kid), I'd tell him, "Ondu chocolate cake parcel maadi."

He'd smile wisely, like a bakery deity bestowing a daily blessing, and slide the cake into the thin plastic cover—it was almost as if he were stuffing it rather than sliding it in. He tied it tight with a small rubber band, sealing its fate—destined to be devoured by a gluttonous kid like me.

When I got home and opened the cover, calamity had struck! The tasty cream had moved from the cake to the plastic cover and clung to it tightly. The cake looked plain and bald without it. My family would open it and seem unfazed, as if nothing was amiss. I wondered how they could miss such a massive mishap.

Now it was time for operation "Cream Rescue"—I'd sneak the plastic cover to a corner like a sly cat and lick the cream from its sticky insides, devouring it quickly and secretly while pausing every few seconds to check for any nosy family members. After licking the cream, I would go back and eat the bald remnants of the cake. Mission accomplished. But oh, how I wished for some packing innovation to keep the cream where it belonged. And now, after nearly 40 years, that revolution is here—the new packaging, customised according to the pastry, finally lets us enjoy pastries in their full glory! However, even now, when I buy a pastry, I remember my past, and it brings a smile to my face. Moral of the story? In the fight between a kid and a cake, the cream always sticks to the plastic!