A Frankie for Me, Please: A Story on Quite Defiance | Thursday Tale No. 14

  We grow up believing that maturity means control, and that to be disciplined is to rise above impulse. But what happens when control becomes its own kind of cage? 

  A Frankie for Me, Please explores this delicate tension through the story of a woman whose simple craving becomes a mirror to years of restraint, and a reminder that self-denial is not always the same as strength.

A Frankie for Me, Please

AI-generated image created using ChatGPT (GPT-5), powered by OpenAI’s DALL·E model.

She had walked the same lane for 8,475 days. She had seen him set up a stall first as a lean, teenaged boy. She had seen him upgrade it year by year into the noshery it was today. He had begun with selling Chinese bhel, then he added manchurian to his menu, then soup, then fries, then burger, and frankie. And today, it was a full-fledged fast food centre. She saw his customer base turn from one to ten thousand per day over the years. She saw him become a man, now married with a baby on the way. She saw him grow. 

  Although she earned well, she never contributed a deed to his growth, except for her sight, her witness of his life, his struggle, and growth. It was unlikely that the aroma from the sizzling frankies or the boiling soup, or the puffing crispies enticed her, but she'd always hold restraint. It was not the time that was the issue; it was only a matter of a few minutes for the takeaway to be packed, and even if she missed the 5:23 local train, then she could easily catch the 5:27 train. Train frequency was never a problem in the Western-line. 

  It was neither the finances that was a major concern; if she walked instead of taking the rickshaw for a day, she could guiltlessly buy herself a savoury bite. Nor was it the fear of her seeing herself walk, and being seen walking and waiting by a thela that was the problem. Although she had some discomfort pertaining to this, it could have been easily overcome by the power of her cravings, had she given in to the gluttonous temptation that every human is bound to feel.

But it was the sight of her young children, waiting for her at home that raced to her mind first, before gluttony growled in her unsated stomach. It was more so the guilt of enjoying all by herself the pleasure — of the bite of the hot, crispy cover of the frankie filled with the spicy, savoury, schezwan chicken with a dash of cheese that bothered her, and made her not buy a thing from Chottu in so many years. It was not that she and her children had not tasted a frankie; it was just that she had never done it alone. They'd always go out, eat street food of their choice, and return only after they were excessively satiated. But she had never done it alone, never given in to a temptation the moment it arose. She’d always wait, assess, discern, and then act, by which the purity and intensity of instant gratification would fade, and the gluttonous desire no longer excite her. 

  Gradually, Chottu’s corner became a backdrop to her life, with all the turmoil of her marital conflicts, to her children's adolescence, and the financial crunches following her children's educational pursuit. It revived itself in her view only once in a while when the aroma awakened her nose. But it soon faded away when she focused on the direction of the railway station and strode away faster. 

  Every once in a while, especially recently, her young colleagues would invite her to join them at Chottu's for a bite. And she would always politely decline and hurry towards the station. 

  Today, just like every day, she got off work when the clock struck 5 p.m. She hired a rickshaw, and saw the street lamps blink to life earlier than usual because of decreased daylight. She de-boarded at the rickshaw stand, paid the driver ₹100, and watched him return her one ₹50, two ₹20 notes and a ₹2 coin. She held them in the clutch of her sweating palm. She felt her feet sore between the clasp of her sandals; her legs reacted this way these days if she stood for too long. Despite it being early November and the weather being pleasant around this time of the year, she was perspiring. She noticed her kneecap creak as she walked on the footpath. She became aware of how slow her walk had grown recently. She continued in the direction of the railway station, ignoring the sputtering cast iron pan, and the pungent smell of the charring noodles still stuck to the corner of the pan as Chottu packed a tray of kothey momos for one of his customers. She felt her nose excite itself over the embrace of the aroma, but she looked straight ahead. 

  Suddenly, her feet — her sore feet responded differently than her brain’s signal. They turned in the opposite direction, walking in the direction of Chottu’s corner. Something within her protested against her body following her feet. She felt the opposition force grow feebler and feebler as the aroma overpowered and awakened all her senses. 

  As she stood there, still clasping the cash in her fist, watching her stand at a place so familiar yet new, she felt her senses burst with a sense of inexplicable contentment. She paused with the options of turning around and going home, or lifting her hand to pay.

  “How much for a schezwan chicken frankie with cheese?” 

  “₹90.” 

  She drew out her purse, dropped the ₹2 coin inside. Pulled out a ₹20 note. Arranged the note with the other notes in her palm in decreasing order of intrinsic value. Lifted her hand to the Chottu on the other side of the counter. Held out the cash and said, “A frankie for me, please.”    

- Mercy Rebonica