Apples à la Dadu

Baroda, 1997. I’m eight, maybe nine, and the only room with an open TV is Dadu’s. He comes home from work around four, when the sun turns everything slow and sticky. I’m already there, cross-legged on his bed, knife in hand, turning apples into wedges.

My snack ritual is precise: squeeze half a lime over the slices, dusted with salt and a bit too much chilli – tart, sweet, a little dangerous.

Dadu steps in, kicks off his shoes, unbuttons his sleeves—on his way to change into his evening kurta-pyjama—and raises an eyebrow.

“ये क्या कर रहे हो?” (“Yeh kya kar rahe ho?” / “What are you up to?”)

“It's not bad Dadu! एक try करिए?” (“Want to give it a try?”) I grin, spearing a slice on the knife tip.

He’s sixty, world-travelled, iron-willed—and, famously, hates apples. But he humours me, bites down, and pauses. In an amused, disbelieving tone he says: “सेब का कुछ स्वाद ही नहीं रहा!” he chuckles, “पर बुरा भी नहीं है.” (“Seb ka kuch swaad hi nahin raha—par bura bhi nahin hai.” / “There’s no apple taste left at all—but it’s not bad.”)

We finish the plate together. From that afternoon until he passed in 2015, Dadu ate every apple the same way: lime first, salt kick, suck the juice, spit the pulp. It looked ridiculous; it was completely him.

Dadu & Prateek

In the ledger of his life—Rockefeller meetings, presidents, palatial boardrooms—this tiny column is mine. He shaped the world I step into; I changed one small thing he put into it.

That tiny ritual is mine to keep—one small way I left my mark on the man who left such a giant one on me.

– Prateek