Ram Ladoo ki Chahat – Chapter 7

The next day at school, my friend Sonia bought a few Ram Laddoos from the canteen and shared them with me.
(A tangy snack.)

Oh my God, what to say about it…
It melted in my mouth.
The taste was like a visit to heaven.
It satisfied all my senses.

Every day, she brought two Ram Laddoos, and I looked at them like a greedy puppy.
For a few days, she tolerated it.

Then one day she said,
“If you like them so much, why don’t you bring your own money? Sometimes you should also buy and share things with me.”

(She was right.
But if even Mom and Papa aren’t allowed to keep money,
where do I stand?)

Even if I told her my situation, nobody would believe it.

I ignored her.
She didn’t like it.
I think she expected me to say, “Okay, I’ll bring money tomorrow.”
(But I knew I never could).

She found me rude and stopped eating lunch with me.
(Fair enough.)

But now the tiger had tasted blood.
I was longing for Ram Laddoos. Desperately.

Stealing from Granny?
Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea.
But it didn’t even occur to me at the time.

(Well, even if it occurred, still, I could not do it. Stealing the Kohinoor diamond is easier than stealing money from Granny.)

Suddenly, I remembered—
The canteen guy is Papa’s friend!
I must take advantage of that.

But… what if he doesn’t recognize me?

How will I remind him that I’m Papa’s daughter?
What if he refuses me?
What if he’s rude to me… in front of everyone?

I started planning each word in my head, in every possible way.

“You know my Papa. He has a bookshop in Lajpat Nagar. I came here with him the other day… with my siblings… we were five… he paid you later. Give me one Ram Laddoo, he will pay you later again…”

(Oh no.
Too long.
Too confusing.
He’ll definitely know I’m lying.)

I thought, I should just say, “Uncle, give me one Ram Laddoo,”—like any normal child who has money.
But even if I had money, I don’t have the confidence to ask. That’s the real problem.

Still, let’s say I manage to say it. He’ll definitely ask for the money.
I’ll say, “My papa will pay you later.”
He’ll ask, “Who’s your papa?”
I’ll tell him, “Vijay Kumar.” No, wait—“Mr. Vijay Kumar.”
But what if he says, “Who Vijay Kumar?”
Then I’ll explain, “You remember the day I came with him? We were five kids. He owns the bookshop in Lajpat Nagar. He paid you later that day.”
Before he asks any more questions, I’ll pretend to be confident and leave the canteen casually.

But do I have the confidence to fake confidence?
No. Just thinking about it makes my hands sweat.
Forget the Ram Laddoo.

I already have enough stress at school—teachers, homework, punishments, Granny. Why add more?

But the taste of that laddoo—it stayed in my head far stronger than I expected.
Then came Lolo 2.0, my inner drillmaster:
“Take it as an opportunity to learn how to talk to people. Communicate! Take it as a challenge. When will you learn to be more confident?”
(Valid point.)

I tried ignoring Lolo 2.0. But she wouldn’t let me off. She kept coming back with even stronger arguments.
“What’s the worst that can happen? He’ll say no. That’s it. At least you’ll know.”

Honestly, Lolo 2.0 is much stronger than Lolo-me.

So, I decided to do it—not for the laddoo, but to shut her up.

I would keep it short and sweet.

So, I walked toward the canteen with a dry throat and trembling knees.
It felt like I was walking into a courtroom. The canteen uncle looked extra serious today. Was he always this tall?

The canteen was full of people, (great, busy time should work in my favour, he would be not focusing on me totally)

But how to reach counter.

Being the shortest and thinest in the whole class sometimes helps, I managed between the space and stood in the front of the counter.

He was busy serving someone.
I rehearsed my lines one last time in my head.
Uncle, one Ram Laddoo. My papa will pay later. Vijay Kumar. Bookshop. Lajpat Nagar. Leave fast.

I stood there, trying to look normal… like a confident child… with money… (who also possibly owns a bank).

Then he looked at me. “Yes?”

My heart stopped. This was it.
“Uncle…” I squeaked, my voice betraying me.
I cleared my throat.
“Uncle, one Ram Laddoo… my papa will pay you later,” I said, staring at the menu board like it owed me emotional support.

He looked at me. Paused. Tilted his head.
“Papa?” he asked.
“Vijay Kumar,” I blurted. “Bookshop. Lajpat Nagar. I came with him before. He paid later.”

Silence.

He stared for another second… then his face relaxed.
“Oh ho! You are Vijay bhaiya’s daughter?”
I nodded, still unsure if this was a good sign.
He smiled. “Why didn’t you say that earlier? You kids ate half my stock that day!”

He handed me a Ram Laddoo wrapped in paper.
I looked at it like it was the crown jewel of my life.

“Tell your papa it’s fine,” he said. “He’s a good man.”

I couldn’t believe it. I nodded so hard I might’ve dislocated my neck.
I turned and walked away fast, before he could change his mind—or ask me anything else.

I took the ladoo to a lonely corner—I didn’t want to share it with anyone. It wasn’t just a ladoo; it was the fruit of my hard-earned effort. Not some easy money children get from their parents. I unwrapped it like a hidden treasure and let it melt in my mouth like a cotton ball. Pure joy. What could be tastier than this in the whole world?

As I took the first bite… heaven.
Victory never tasted so tangy.

And somewhere deep inside, Lolo 2.0 gave a proud comment.
“See? You’re capable of more than you think.”

Soon, I wanted more Ram Ladoo.

Don’t be greedy, I scolded myself. At least wait a few days.

Every day during lunch, I found a new job for myself—observing the canteen. I watched everything closely: how children talked to the canteen guy so confidently, how some took food on credit without a second thought. I noticed what irritated him, how his face changed when he had to give out food on credit, and how he dealt with children who never paid at all (like me). He could be pretty rude. He didn’t like to argue; he preferred attending to the next customer quickly.

(If I had paid this much attention to my studies, I might have been a topper.)

The next day, I gathered every ounce of courage and went back. The Ram Ladoo was calling me again.

In the middle of the crowd, I asked, “One Ram Ladoo, please.”

He handed it over and asked for money again. (He seemed to have forgotten me.)

I gave him the same response as last time. This time, his face tightened. He looked annoyed. But after a brief pause, he gave a ladoo half – heartedly.

(He is so mean, it’s just 50 paise. Treated me like I have robbed his counter at gun point)

Still, I had no courage to tell Papa. Or anyone else.

This time, I promised myself a longer gap. Let him forget my face.

But now, my confidence had started growing wings.

A month later, I returned. The moment he saw me, he recognised me instantly—(the fee fund child).

He didn’t say anything. He just ignored me. Served everyone else. I stood there like a rock, blocking the line. His irritation was visible now. Before things turned ugly, I quietly stepped away and left.

A week later, I spotted a good moment. The canteen looked calm, with only a few students around. Senior school was off that day. Through the window, I saw the canteen guy chatting cheerfully with his workers. He looked relaxed.

I walked in, riding on my luck.

“You’re here again!” he said in a lighthearted tone.

“One Ram Ladoo, please,” I said, trying to sound confident.

“Who’s going to pay for all the laddoos?”

(All? It was just two! I thought.)

“Papa,” I replied.

“When?”

“Soon.”

“It’s been many days.”

I had no answer.

“You’re just fooling me,” he said, louder this time.

I froze. Breath stuck in my throat.