Brrring! The bell screeches, telling us that lunch is here. 

A herd of tiny, boisterous bodies rushes into the open courtyard, waiting to eat, play, laugh, and talk together. Amongst them, a large group of girls congregate, buzzing with renewed excitement, eager to witness the daily ritual. I follow my friend, Githushka, out the door, rushing to get a prime spot. 

Slowly, the girls trickle into the playground, gathering in a dark stone archway filled by a large cement bench. Pehel, the leader of the clan, plops into her designated seat above us; she sits atop the towering, magnificent bench while the rest of us cluster on the dusty ground.

A tension hangs in the air, an invisible curtain between Pehel and the rest of us. I take out my lunch along with everybody else. 

“Hi Pehel,” one girl pipes, breaking the ice.

“I really like your ponytails,” another adds innocently. 

I turn to look at Githushka. She rolls her eyes as if to say, “kiss-ups.” I stare at her rebukingly, then turn away. 

I tear off the yellow plastic lid of my lunch to reveal a lump of cold mac n’ cheese, the kind made with fake, powdered cheese and cardboard noodles that congeal into a Jell-O imprint of the container. Yuck. 

Without attempting to eat it, I turn my attention to Pehel who has already begun unravelling a tureen of surprises. The daily specialty: Gulab Jamun. 

A sweet ball of dough made from heavy cream, Gulab Jamun is fried until golden brown and doused in a sticky, sweet syrup. It’s an extreme luxury I rarely get to enjoy. Having a family that hasn’t taken a liking to Indian sweets, this is my only opportunity to indulge in my Indian sweet tooth. I am desperate to do so.  

As Pehel opens the container, the golden crust gleams in the afternoon light and the pools of syrup sparkle and swirl. I watch, mesmerized, as the smell of sugar clouds my sanity. 

Pehel grabs a plastic knife, carefully sawing her way through the first sweet, taking her time to let desperation overcome her audience. Her tactics never fail. 

“Who wants some?” she asks.

Her words ignite our responses, waking the crowd from a hypnotic trance. The group clamors and flails, waiting to be blessed with Pehel’s generosity. 

I raise my hand and arrange my face in what I believe to be a welcoming expression, hoping — yearning for her to look my way. 

But, as usual, I hope in vain. 

Pehel turns to the two girls closest to her, offering up her coveted items in a thick and sugary voice, nearly as sweet as her prized goods. They smile a practiced, unsurprised smile and eat together while the rest of us watch.

I shouldn’t be surprised since this is what happens every day, yet a flicker of naive hope dies inside of me. How could I fall for the same ploy when the same girls are chosen every day? There is no chance, no competition, no kindness—only Pehel and her hypnotizing, manipulative Gulab Jamuns.    

I turn to Githushka to see what she thinks. She sits, unbothered, as she shovels spoonfuls of rice into her mouth. 

“Let’s go play,” she says in between bites. “This is boring.”

So we leave. And as we stumble through the jungle gym, I realize something for the first time: Gulab Jamun is not my friend. Something so small, so inconsequential, so seemingly wonderful has managed to corrupt even the most innocent of children. It’s a power hold, something that feeds every child’s desire to be liked, to be paid attention to, to be heard. Pehel is caught in a trap of her own weaving, something she probably doesn’t even realize. Gulab Jamun has made her the opposite of what she believes herself to be: kind, hospitable, waiting to give and share with the world. 

We have all fallen into Gulab Jamun’s trap. Spending each day waiting to get Pehel’s sweets, we encourage the cynical cycle every day. We’ve enabled the false personas we put on—seemingly giving, seemingly friendly. Not to mention the air of competition Gulab Jamuns brings, the feeling of worthiness spelt upon Pehel’s audience by the simple act of donating a sweet to the “craving.” Somehow, we had all individually decided she was a friend, a leader, even a philanthropist, and she relished it. All because of one, over-glorified Gulab Jamun.

Did Pehel even want to share with us? Or had the power hold of Gulab Jamun gotten to her as well? It had started small, but eventually forced her to keep us at bay somewhere between friendship and worship. It was a cycle I had failed to recognize.

From that day, Githushka and I stopped following the ritual. As soon as the lunch bell rang, we skipped out together, not even giving Gulab Jamun a second glance. We opened ourselves up to the myriad of possibilities a first-grade playground held. Soon, others followed suit, and eventually, Pehel did as well. Over time, we became what we had once been, but had gotten distracted from: friends. Without any complications, without Gulab Jamun standing in the way, we were friends. We laughed and played and had fun together. 

Gulab Jamun was eventually left without an audience. It no longer held us all in a trance. The rest of the year became a whirl of laughter, horseplay, and most important, togetherness.

Gulab Jamun became a thing of the past. We soon forgot about it. It was an exquisite feeling, having no desire to kiss up to anyone or compete with the other girls for attention, wonderful and liberating! 

-Kavita Sundaram

Kavita Sundaram is a rising Senior at Saratoga High School in Saratoga, CA. She is an emerging writer and food blogger who loves loves discovering healthy foods and new recipes. She has a deep love for music and can think of no better way to unwind than to practice some tunes or record a cover to her favorite song. Kavita is on the editorial committee of her school newspaper, The Saratoga Falcon. Some of her favorite classes in school are Creative Writing, Journalism, Chemistry and Math. Kavita adores her cat Luca who gets smothered with cuddles on a daily basis. She lives in Saratoga, CA with her parents and has an older sibling in College.