‘What are you making?’ asked the son plaintively. Maternal heartstrings were firmly tugged. I put down the spatula and replied, ‘Moong dal halwa.’

‘I also want some.’ More plaint in the voice. Maternal heartstrings pulled to max stretch. Just short of pinging. I hadn’t seen him for a full year. My poor darling, all on his own, I thought, heart bursting with love.

Interjection from the husband: ‘We’ll send you the recipe.’ Maternal love moment shattered.

Plaint also disappeared pronto. ‘Oh good. I’ll make it tomorrow.’ Just like that.

‘It’s not easy,’ I growled. And with good cause. I’d been at work all morning, first soaking the dal, then grinding it. The last two hours had been spent stirring the halwa. Arm muscles that had been wallowing in retirement had been pressed into service, raising pain awareness to hitherto unknown levels. This at a time when I was weaning myself off my paracetamol habit.

And yet the mess in my pan was not brown enough. Not Haldiram’s brown at least. It looked pasty, what a generous person might call oatmeal.

Nevertheless, the inveterate taster in my life – otherwise known as the husband – already had the spatula to his lips. ‘Ummm!’ His approval was resounding. I gave up on the stirring. Both the halwa and the muscles. And piled the halwa into a bowl instead. He was right. It tasted better than it looked.

It was the success of the appam that had inspired this culinary stretch. That and Tarla Dalal, may God rest her soul. It had looked easy enough. At least when reading the recipe. Reality had crash-landed me on my knees before the hob.

The maternal code does not permit me to call the son unless I am at death’s door. And I was not. At death’s door, that is. It just seemed that way. So I had to content myself with pacing the carpet instead. And waiting. And waiting. Till he surfaced two days later.

‘Did you make the halwa?’ I asked in great excitement. Now he would tell me what hard work it had been. How wonderful I was to even attempt it. How lucky Dad was, etc., etc.

Instead came, ‘Yes.’ Typical son-speak. Why use five words when one will do?

‘And…?’ Questions dripped off my tongue, culminating in, ‘How did it turn out?’

‘Oh, very well,’ came the response. ‘Wait, I’ll send you a photo.’

Photo pinged through. Of the most marvellous halwa. Mr Haldiram would have wept tears of pride at its brown-ness. I could only feel myself glowing an unhealthy green.

‘How?’ I stuttered finally.

‘I put it in the oven,’ he said. Just like that.

I was struck dumb, but the husband chirped in sideways, ‘Wow, that’s amazing! How come ours did not….’ His voice trailed off at the look on my face.

Speech returned, albeit slowly. ‘I’m going to make gajrela,’ I said finally. For the uninitiated, gajrela is carrot halwa. Involves much grating of carrots and reducing of milk. And stirring. I could feel my muscles rise in agitation. But this was a gauntlet that had to be thrown down. Maternal love be damned.

‘Send me the recipe?’

Let me not stretch this sorry tale any further. He won again.