I am not a huge fan of algorithmically generated memories, the kind that pop up on one’s newsfeed daily, not so much to provoke a sense of nostalgia but to reiterate our unhealthy dependence on digital technologies. I believe a memory is best savoured when it creeps up on you through the act of remembering; like, for instance, when you walk through the heat of a Delhi summer and stumble upon the scent of honeysuckle and suddenly, as if out of nowhere, all the months of May of your childhood unravel in that single sniff; the daily rosaries when the statue of Our Lady was placed on a lowly stool in the compound just outside Uncle Benny’s balcony, and everyone would gather to pray, and after, partake of offerings of what we eventually came to call ‘Rosary Chana’ — impeccably boiled gram with a hint of chilli powder and thin waifs of coconut, along with trays of Vienna’s finest plum cake and crispy potato wafers. Then we played Housie. My girlfriends and I would go around the Garden Rose Colony compound collecting flowers to garland the figurine. Eventually, the community collected enough funds to build a small grotto, which still exists, and where the rosary is still recited, but not with as much fervor as when we were children. When we were growing up, the 8 pm call to prayer felt like an extension of playtime. We were allowed to hang out until at least 9.30 pm, and that went a long way in building a sense of community. Even now, when I walk up the stairs to my house on the first floor, I find myself unconsciously making the sign of the cross. It’s a gesture that reminds me of where I’m coming from, the formidable solidity of my childhood memories, and the strange emotional attachment I feel to my neighbourhood in Kurla, where I grew up and spent my formative years.

As I wolfed the eggs down (eat it hot, my mother used to say) — the yolks velvety, the whites as slim as the tender lining of a young coconut, the butter intervening with the bits of pepper and salt — I felt strangely good. Pic/Thinkstock