Of Momos and Momo-maker

This evening, after a tiresome bike-ride, my riding partner suggested that we reward ourselves with a sumptuous feast of momo. While my friend was innocently enthusiastic about the proposal, ironically, my situation was such that I would rather starve to death than eat momos because, momo is one dish that I have never tasted nor intending to taste in any near future!

Momo, in all it's varied forms and manifestations (meat momo, veg momo, cheese momo, and so on) has never succeeded in conquering my taste buds and palate as of date. In fact, since childhood days, I had developed a strong allergy even for the aroma of momo! This abhorrence stems from the fact that, my subconscious mind had psychologically connected and established the aroma of momo as being synonymous with the bitter smell of puke that was common among us children in Kindergarten school during our frequent travels to and from our village and school on the back of old black Bhutan Govt. Transport Service (BGTS) trucks. Therefore, to this day, I adjust myself with polite refusals and excuses during numerous official meetings and social gatherings, wherein, momos are inexplicably the main component of any light refreshment or the main course menu!

However, this was a dear friend whose heart I cannot break. If asked, I would follow him to the end of the earth! So, we crossed the border and entered a ramshackled shop in the Indian side to relish momos. Momo is a typical dish which supposedly has its origin from China and Tibet, but popular and available in almost all the restaurants in our country. But here we were in India ordering for momo in an Indian restaurant! Talk about juxtaposition of cultures!

Sitting in one corner, waiting for momo, I couldn’t help but observe the little Indian child, barely seven or eight years old, whose task was to roll the dough to make momo. On closer observation, I could see that he was dozing off on the job! This child should have been in school instead of being employed in a momo shop and playing with his toys instead of rolling dough with his tender hands. The next few minutes, I was lost in trying to fathom what untold misery would have forced his parents to let their child start manual labour at such a tender age. I decided that I must take a picture of him for my diary and so I clicked!!

The moment I took his picture, he became alert and the child’s innocent enthusiasm took over. He wanted a more smarter picture than the one above. So I clicked another.

And yet another.

Finally, he wanted to see how smart he looked in the picture. He wowed and marvelled at my iPhone which I let him fiddle for sometime and when I showed him it’s ability to zoom and reveal the details of his picture, he was simply mesmerized!

 

In the entire proceedings, I was so lost in the child’s innocence that I failed to notice that the momos had not only arrived but my good friend had gobbled up both the plates in good faith that there would be some more for me when I was ready. Fortunately they had none, thus sparing me the embarrassment of having to politely refuse something that I hated most! I was overjoyed and so I paid for the momos!!