The Fridge Inquiry

“We're emptying the fridge today,” Mum announced as she set down the Sunday tea.

“All of it?” Dad asked from behind his newspaper.

“No. I'll leave a shelf for your old excuses.”

First came the green-lidded container: two spoonfuls of chickpeas. Dad declared them a future paratha filling. My sister rescued half a lemon for her hair. I inspected some dried chutney and said, “This deserves scientific study.” Mum sent the research straight to the bin.

Then a small steel box emerged from the back. A strip of tape carried a warning in Hindi: DO NOT OPEN.

The cleaning stopped. The inquiry began.

Dad suspected one of my sister's beauty experiments.

“My warning labels are in English,” she said.

I denied recognising the handwriting.

Grandma came in, spotted the box, and said, “Oh, there it is!”

Inside were four hundred rupees and a folded ticket.

“Saving for a pilgrimage?” Dad asked.

“The cinema. You'd only have started asking how I'd manage in all that crowd.”

She and a friend were going to the afternoon show. To raise the money, Grandma had spent the previous month imposing a ten-rupee fine for every bad cup of tea made in the house.

Mum checked the date on the ticket.

“The film starts in forty minutes!”

Grandma handed Dad the car keys. On her way out, she turned towards the fridge.

“Don't throw away those chickpeas. I'll have the parathas when I get back.”