To this day, I cannot down an entire chocolate bar on my own.
For this I blame my Calcutta childhood of the '60s and our very generous aunt, Bulu-mashi.
An occasional, welcome, warm-hearted visitor, Bulu-mashi could always be counted on to produce a 'Cadbury' whenever she dropped by.

From the depths of her copious maroon Rexine handbag, she would bring out the shiny, silver-and-purple-wrapped treat.
Waving it in the air with all the flourish of a punter redeeming the winning ticket at the Calcutta Derby.
Of course along with the ‘Cadbury’ came the cautious corollary:
"Tora eta bhaag korey khabi kintu"
(You must share this amongst you!)
Causing consternation and squabbles among us siblings about bigger pieces and smaller pieces, straight lines and crooked lines; showing more interest in geometry and percentages than all week at school.

There was a time in India when chocolate and Cadbury were interchangeable terms.
And Cadbury was either plain or ‘fruit-and-nut’.
The smooth, plain ones much preferred by us siblings, as ‘fruit-and-nut’ bars were notoriously difficult to divide equitably, ensuing loud howls from the child who ended up without a raisin in their chocolate square.

Chocolate bars were never part of Ma's monthly grocery list. They were always a treat gifted by a visiting relative or friends of my parents.
Often coated with a furry white bloom from an overlong wait in a glass jar in a grocery store. But coveted, none-the-less.
There were very few options.
But as children with limited choices, we never felt deprived. We knew no different: either/or seemed a far sight better than neither/nor and that occasional chocolatey treat brought sticky fingers and a happy little glow.

To this day, I cannot eat a chocolate bar on my own.
I share each bar with family, friends and even random eyebrow-raising colleagues.
Almost as if the act of giving bequeaths to me the permission to fully enjoy what's left.
The ghost of Bulu-mashi nods approvingly.

Piyu Majumdar lives in Dubai, and writes mostly for her own pleasure, and occasionally for the wider world.

We’ve grown up hearing that “it’s the small things” that matter. That’s true, of course, but it’s also not – there are Big Things that we know matter, and that we shouldn’t take our eyes, minds or hearts off of. As journalists, we spend most of our time looking at those Big Things, trying to understand them, break them down, and bring them to you.

And now we’re looking to you to also think about the small things – the joy that comes from a strangers’ kindness, incidents that leave you feeling warm, an unexpected conversation that made you happy, finding spaces of solidarity. Write to us about your small things at thewiresmallthings@gmail.com in 800 words or less, and we will publish selected submissions. We look forward to reading about your experiences, because even small things can bring big joys.

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