The Curious Case of the Vanishing Vellam

I need to preface this gripping story with some harsh truths of life:

Vellam, or jaggery, is a blessing bestowed upon us by nature. It is only the purest creation on planet Earth, and surpasses any and all other "sweets". What is sugar in the face of vellam? If you google this and wish to disprove me - therein lies the problem, right? The internet is full of fake news. You will just have to trust verified sources that state, and I quote, "Your opinions are irrelevant. Vellam is the epitome of bliss and happiness."

(The verified sources are my taste buds which ooh and aah at the sweet delight that is vellam.)

Alright, then. Let's get on with the story.

We're now nearing 100 days of quarantine in a world that seems to be crumbling around us. There is no end to the pain, the suffering. Emotions are running high. Statistics continue to paint horrific pictures in red. If you're reading this, I hope you are safe. For those of us at home with our families, we have something to be grateful for everyday. We laugh and cry with our loved ones, and hold onto the hope that things will get better.

This is the story of such a family. 

I'm currently at home with my parents and two grandmothers; my sister is all the way over on the other side of the world. (I'm waving at you, sister. Say hello.) Sometime around the second week into quarantine, mother dearest ordered the greatest quality of vellam that has existed till date. Dark, rich, sinful excellence. And thus began the downfall of a moderately sane family.

What started as a "little something for dessert post-lunch" evolved into me or my father being found in the corner of the kitchen at odd hours of the day, enjoying a tiny piece of vellam. If either of us caught the other in the act, being true hypocrites, we would raise our eyebrows and "hmmmmmmm" in apparent judgement for all of two seconds before asking for a piece ourselves.

Now comes the real cherry on the top.

Yesterday, I find my mother savouring some vellam herself. As I laugh, grandmother enters the scene of crime. Mother fumbles and defends herself, blaming us (oh, please). She eventually relents and gestures helplessly at the vellam. Grandmother stays silent for a minute and then tells us, "... I had some myself this morning. Couldn't resist."

Well then. There you go. We have all turned. Addicts, you might say. Monsters, even. But you know who the real monster is? He, who sits as silent as a rock inside our cupboards. He, who draws us in, whispering into our ears. Changing us.

Vellam.

THE END.

NOTE: I feel like I need to address some things at this point. Firstly, that we are not out of control, folks. We maybe eat a spoon of vellam or two occasionally. Secondly, I apologize to my family for the liberties I have taken as a storyteller. Thirdly, and most importantly, I'd like to dedicate this post to my father, without whom the vellam debacle wouldn't exist. You are a force of nature, SuperAppa. 

Happy Father's Day!