STORY OF A LUNCH

It is seven in the evening and, on the fifth floor, Mrs. Kapoor is ready to devote herself to preparing dinner. Like every night. At that time, you will be able to see her busy in the kitchen. The first thing you'll notice through the open curtains is the flamboyant color of her Sari. Looking closely, you will notice the graceful decorative effect created by the folds, similar to the petals of a flower. In many years, I have never seen her dressed differently. It holds true to its traditions, despite having moved here to Venice for some time now. He does it with clothes and food. Every day, at seven in the evening, you will always find her there, struggling with the preparation of Roti. You will see her carefully knead all the ingredients, expertly dose the spices for the accompanying curry, divide the dough into many small balls of equal size, heat the usual old plate until it becomes hot, place each cooked disc in a cloth after having brushed it with oil and close the flaps with extreme delicacy. His are habitual gestures. Simple. Family members. Actions repeated almost mechanically every evening. Year after year. Mrs Kapoor, every evening, without knowing it, makes me feel at home.
Mrs. Kapoor is a certainty in a world full of uncertainties.

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