The aroma of melted Wijsman butter collides with the dense sweet-and-tart punch of pineapple caramel, shoving aside the lemongrass diffuser scent in the living room. In the kitchen, Kamala is locked in combat with a manual grater—srek, srek, srek—a rhythm as consistent as an old machine refusing to retire. Her face shines with steam, her eyes are red, but her focus is unwavering.
In front of me, a large wok of pineapple jam begins to pop softly. The color shifts—slowly—from pale yellow to a sticky, dark gold. My hands ache. My left shoulder throbs. This is only hour two, and I still have to make sure the jam doesn't burn for even one second.
Don't be fooled by its one-bite size. This nastar is Maata's Carbohydrate Diplomacy from her homeland—more sacred than Pa's annual audit report.
Ma calls this process character building. She says stirring jam trains resilience. Tara rounds dough with the precision of a satellite orbit. Kamala brushes egg wash as thin as the people's hope in bureaucracy.
I know the administrative truth:
Maata hates standing too long.
Ma gets sleepy if she has to grate pineapple.
And Ma gets bored out of her mind if she has to roll hundreds of dough balls.
Maata appears at the kitchen doorway—fresh in her silk house dress, holding an oven mitt like a command baton.
"Is the stickiness set, Dhruv?" she asks, staring at the wok like a MasterChef judge.
"Remember: the jam's consistency is a reflection of personal integrity."
"Ma," I mutter, wiping sweat with my shoulder,
"this isn't integrity. This is manual forced labor."
"Don't complain, Bhaiya," Tara shoots back from the table, her voice hoarse.
"My hands don't even have fingerprints anymore. They've been polished smooth for the sake of consistent roundness."
Kamala looks up slowly.
"Young master, young miss… I believe this final grating will be the witness to my arm muscles' extinction."
Maata smiles, satisfied, as she slides a tray into the oven—The Finisher.
"You know," she says lightly,
"I'm thinking of selling these nastar to your school parents. And sharing some with your friends at public school too—so they can taste what Nastar Heaven is like."
"NO!" Tara and I shout in perfect unison.
Maata flinches.
"Why? This is value creation."
I point at the large glass jar in the corner—already half empty, even though it was filled less than a month ago.
"Ma," I say flatly,
"we don't have the capacity to supply a global market when the primary end-user is Ma herself. Ma's chewing speed far exceeds our production speed."
Tara adds, coldly,
"This isn't a business. This is a logistics crisis."
Maata looks at the golden crumbs on her fingers, then chuckles.
"That's quality control, darling. And it seems the next tray needs stricter testing."
Tara and I freeze.
That wasn't a suggestion.
That was a national emergency declaration.
Calm footsteps approach.
Pa enters the kitchen, having just ended a business call. Our faces are enough to explain the entire situation.
Behind Maata's back, Tara and I plead in silent gestures—hands clasped, heads shaking violently.
Pa smiles. The smile of a global negotiator. Maata immediately feeds Pa one nastar.
"Even better when it's warm, right? Imagine if we sold them, darling."
"Darling," Pa gently,
"it's an interesting idea."
Maata nods enthusiastically.
"But," Pa continues, calm as ever,
"from a supply chain perspective, we have a structural problem. This is low-volume, high-precision production. Our home oven is the bottleneck."
Maata goes quiet.
"So," Pa concludes smoothly,
"this cake is exclusive. Let the public taste this strategic asset only at certain moments."
Maata thinks for a second.
Then nods.
"Yaaachhhhh," she mutters.
Pa glances at us and gives a tiny wink.
Mission accomplished.
"Bhaiya," Tara whispers, relief in her breath,
"Pa just did crisis management on a God-tier level."
I return to stirring the jam—this time with new energy.
"Agreed. But I need a health audit after this batch."
Kamala smiles faintly.
"At least we won't have to grate an entire truck of pineapples, young master."
Maata returns to the sofa with a full tray.
"Come on, Dhruv," she says casually.
"Remember: jam integrity is the future of this family's happiness."