FORGOT

”Main kaun hoon? Main kahan hoon?”
With the dazed look on his face and a white bandage wrapped around his head, Chimanrao lay on the crisply ironed bedsheets of the hospital bed. A metallic frame with green cloth surrounded the bed enclosing it in an island of its own.
The remaining space around the bed was 
crowded with medical personnel clothed in white coats. A nervous elderly Parsi gentleman dressed in his ’angrakha’ (loose coat without any belt), loose cotton trousers, and a China silk skull cap stood on the periphery of the ring of people who had crowded.
The monitors near the bedhead blinked and bleeped, each screen throwing out information indicating various levels of Chimanrao’s wellness. The stand holding the overturned plastic pouches highlighted the flow of liquids that was being injected into his arms through thin transparent pipelines of fluids. 
A few minutes earlier, activity had escalated as Chimanrao had opened his eyes and given out a huge sigh.
”Main kaun hoon? Main kahan hoon?” floated out from the dry parched lips of the patient again and again. This had alerted the nurse who in turn had called for the doctors. ”The patient has gained consciousness.”
The doctors confirmed their concern.
It seemed to be a case of transient global amnesia. It is a type of memory loss where one suddenly forgets where you are or what's happened recently. You might ask the same questions over and over to get your bearings. The injury on his head indicated why this condition had developed. It was temporary and he would spring back into action.
As soon as Chimanrao had opened his eyes Pestonji also had rushed in with the doctors. His neck craned, he watched all that was happening. The consensus was, ”There may be some incidents that the patient would not recollect just before his head injury but the rest of his memory will be fine. He will be ok.”
Glad at what he saw and heard from the doctors he looked up towards the heavens and thanked Ahura Mazda for saving the man's life. 

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Rustom Pestonji owned a small rustic Parsi cafe, Pestonji Bakery and Cafe, that had maintained the same look for ages. His grandfather had started this cafe around 100 years back in this small lane in Bombay’s Grant Road. The century-old Minton tiles, almost a century-old wooden chairs and marble tabletops still adorned the place. Along with very limited seating for dining-in, a long counter sold the packed food and bakery products to queuing customers. Sales were brisk. After all, this place was the epitome of tradition and culture
The restaurant served the most authentic Parsi food. Known for its Akuri, Omelettes, Bun Maska and Irani chai people also thronged the place later in the day for the Berry Pulao and Dhansak. Popular desserts were the Caramel Custard and the Chocolate Mousse. 
It had a great bakery section that sold textured to perfection fresh mawa cakes, plum Cakes, mawa puff, jam puff and all kinds of biscuits and bread. One could genuinely say that they were “selling like hotcakes”. 
But there was one dish, influenced by The Boudin Bakery in San Francisco, that stood out. 
It was the sourdough bread. 
The French baker Isidore Boudin, son of a family of master bakers from France, had started this bakery in 1849. Boudin had started by blending the sourdough recipes prevalent among miners in the gold rush with French techniques.
Senior Pestonji, influenced by his foreign travel, had picked up and started using this technique from day one in his Bombay cafe. Replicating the yeast-bacteria culture like Boudins, Pestonji started using a batch of the dough he first made as a starter for the next batch of sourdough bread. This tradition continued day after day. It was followed by his son and now grandson.
After grandfather and father had passed away the responsibility of the cafe had come to Rustom Pestonji and he would personally make the dough for this every day. So in reality, one could say that the sourbread sold in this cafe had 100 years old culture in them.
This was proudly advertised on a special lit neon signboard at the cafe’s entrance. 

Chimanrao was the new cleaner who had turned up last night. A friend had recommended him. He was a replacement to the regular night sweeper who had last-minute called in sick. 
Leaving him with one night watchman and another regular night staff who worked on cleaning the gas burners, ovens and the extraction ducts, Pestonji left to catch up on some sleep. Before leaving he explained to Chimanrao all the areas that needed cleaning and sweeping. He especially highlighted the big bowl of the starter dough that was kept in one corner of the kitchen and instructed him not to touch it. 

He asked the regular staff and the watchman to supervise and keep an eye on the new cleaner and left for the night. He would come early the next morning.

Around midnight, in the process of his sweeping and cleaning, Chimanrao came across the bowl of the smelly, sticky mixture. He forgot the specific instructions that the boss had given him.  Dumping the dough in the rubbish bin he washed the steel bowl couple of times and left it overturned on the table beside the sink to dry out. 

Pestonji returned early the next morning. The watchman and the regular night staff bade him goodbye and left. He walked into the kitchen and his eyes fell on the overturned steel bowl which he immediately recognised as the bowl for the sourdough starter. He let out a shriek. Chimanrao came rushing to him and asked, “What happened, Bawaji?” 
“Where is the dough from this bowl?”
“It was stinking so I threw it out with the garbage, Sirji.” 

He innocently added, “I have washed the bowl very well. See there is no smell coming from the bowl.”
“B*******, I had specifically told you not to touch that bowl of dough. Why did you throw it?”
Apologetically he replied, “Oh Oh!! Sorry, I forgot Sirji”

Pestonji could not control himself. He picked up the big rolling pin lying on the table beside the sink and gave one whack on the young man's head. Grabbing his head with both hands the sweeper buckled down unconscious. Pestonji quickly composed himself. He checked that the fallen man had a pulse and was breathing. He also checked and observed that there was no bleeding where he was hit. It looked like he had lost consciousness. As he was all alone he rushed out to a waiting ’kali peeli’ taxi. He called the driver to give him a hand and help him lift Chimanrao and take him to the nearby hospital. The excuse he gave the driver was that the sweeper, while working, had walked into an open door and banged his head by mistake. Before leaving he locked the cafe. 

The doctors started the process of trying to medically help the patient. They also had got the same explanation for the accident. 
Using the hospital payphone Pestonji called up his assistant and asked him to rush to the cafe and take care of the business. Throughout the morning and afternoon, Pestonji hung around outside the ward till the nurse came running exclaiming that the patient had gained consciousness and was talking.
Now that Chimanrao had come around, everyone heaved a sigh of relief. Doctors assured him that he would be fine and by evening he would have remembered everything apart from short memory loss of events leading to his injury. They would discharge him the next day.  Pestonji thanked the doctors and agreed to pay the hospital bills of the sweeper.

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It was evening when a tired Pestonji returned to the cafe from the hospital. 
The main entrance and name board were lit up. However, his assistant had forgotten to switch on the small neon signboard. 
He went into the cafe and hobbled towards the antique black switches on the electric switchboard behind the cash counter. He was thinking to himself. ’Chimanrao would not remember that he had thrown out the starter dough. His secret was safe.’
He had an idea. He would go to the kitchen and quietly start a new sourdough batch using flour and fresh yeast. His grandfather's tradition would continue without the customers knowing the truth.
He was silently smiling as he flicked on the switch that lit the neon signboard.

It immediately lit up, 
TRY PESTONJIS SOURDOUGH BREAD. 

TASTE THE CENTURY-OLD TRADITION.

.