The last time I visited a flour mill, I think I was in 5th standard or somewhere around that age. I had gone along with my father, mostly for fun, no special agenda.
After that, either my father or somebody else from the family used to regularly handle those visits.
Then life moved ahead.
I grew up, set up my own tiny house, became more than a full-time mother, and because good quality flour became easily available everywhere, we mostly opted for ready-made options for years.
For specialized flours like jowar and other millets, either the nearby super-shoppy owner would lovingly get them ground for me along with the regular society orders, or my elderly maid would quietly jump in to help. She used to see me constantly running around and would often take over such tasks on her own.
Now the kids have grown up and started working.
And today, after ages, I thoroughly enjoyed the new avatar of that same flour mill.
What an experience it turned out to be.
The moment I entered, nostalgia quietly surrounded me from all directions. That fine layer of freshly ground flour floating in the air, the fragrance of grains and seeds getting crushed into softness, the sounds, the movement, the rhythm...
Honestly, no combination of words can fully describe the aroma of freshly ground flour.
I stayed there for almost 45 minutes, and by the end even my hair had happily accepted a new layer of flour dust on them
The place was overflowing with people. The queue kept growing every few minutes. Yet the mill owner was handling everything in such a systematic and effortless manner that simply watching him work became an experience in itself.
I had carried only a tiny quantity for grinding.
Good that I did.
Now I think I will continue carrying tiny quantities only, so that I get reasons to visit more often. Many readers may laugh after reading this. After all, a flour mill is not exactly considered a “place to visit.” But for me, today it truly was.
Somewhere during those 45 minutes, I deeply missed my father too. His bicycle. His storytelling while going and coming back. His explanations about how flour mills actually work, why different grains behave differently, how the machines function...
Today, standing there quietly, I connected many of those old dots once again.
Sometimes nostalgia arrives covered in flour dust.
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