A layer of tan-brown, hardened skin covered the tips of two fingers of the left hand. It had been two weeks since the incident. Yet, the burnt skin refused to peel away.
It happened suddenly. Before one could fathom the whereabouts of the deep-bottomed frying pan. Small balls of flour was being fried in hot oil. Hot, red-brown balls sizzled in the high temperature maintained by a blue flame beneath the pan. They could not be termed as jamoons yet. Warm sugar syrup laden with the fragrance of cardamom, coloured to a very pale shade of pink by saffron beckoned those hot red-brown things with love. To infuse cloying sweetness into it.
Happiness floated in the air, on the pretext of gulping down fresh home-made gulab-jamoons. Somehow, other jamoons don't stand a chance against this.
While the mind flowed along these thoughts, the frying pan tipped. Allowing hot, boiling oil to soak two fingers. As the pan was straightened, searing pain ripped those unlucky fingers. They were made to stand under an open tap. The effect of the act was eventually felt.
Burnt skin flavoured gulab jamoons. The skin peels away, as brand new skin usurps the dead fraction with rigor.