While writing down the story of Rajavva: The Maharaja who slept forever about my grandmother, a memory struck me from my childhood.
When I was around eight or nine years old, I was studying in a residential (boarding) school, while my parents lived back in our village. Before sending me to the hostel, my Amma gave me a big glass bottle of malt with one order: drink it every day, but once it is finished, save the empty bottle and bring it back home. Back in those days, an empty glass malt bottle was not something you threw away. For mothers, it was a valuable container for storing kitchen spices.
Eventually, the day came when I finished the last spoon successfully.
My room was on the first floor, and the hostel kitchen was on the ground floor. Being a kid who wanted to do a good job, I went down to the kitchen tap to wash the bottle thoroughly. Then, using my clever eight-year-old logic, I decided the bottle would look even cleaner and shinier if I filled it to the brim with water.
The hostel that I stayed (Not AI Generated, recently I clicked when I was in my hometown)
I placed this heavy, water-filled glass bottle into a thin carry bag and started back to the first floor.
I was an active, chatty kid who would never walked in a straight line. As I went up the stairs, I was talking to everyone and happily swinging the polythene cover back and forth like a toy. I reached the first floor and walked close to my room, feeling proud that task was about to be completed. But just as my fingers touched the doorknob, at the peak of one final swing, the thin plastic bag tore right through.
The heavy glass bottle crashed straight onto the hard floor with a loud sound. Water splashed everywhere, and sharp pieces of glass scattered across the corridor. At that exact second, my heart broke too. I felt completely disappointed.
Of course, being a child, my sadness did not last very long. Within few days, I completely forgot about the broken bottle. Amma, however, didn’t forget. When I went to home, she asked me about the bottle to which I offered only guilty silence.
That was the last time Amma ever trusted me with a bottle of malt. It might be a pure coincidence, but soon after, I was pulled out of the hostel and my parents moved to town 😁.
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