There was a rhythm to exam mornings. The scribble of sharpened pencils, the rustle of last-minute notes, and somewhere in the background—the sizzle of the sandwich toaster. While most homes fired up pressure cookers or reheated leftovers, our kitchen smelled of mashed potatoes, green chutney, and just-browned bread. Because in our house, exam day meant one thing: aloo sandwiches.
Not for celebration. Not for reward. But for strength. For grounding. For that quiet sense of assurance that no matter what happened in that cold exam hall, you’d carry something warm in your stomach—made with care, not panic.
The Filling Wasn’t Just Aloo
The filling was a simple mash—boiled potatoes, a bit of salt, a hint of green chili if mom thought I could handle it, and always a spoon of amchur for brightness. Sometimes there’d be peas. Sometimes grated carrots. But never too much masala. This was a sandwich made for focus, not flair. Spread between two slices of white bread (never brown, not on high-pressure mornings), with just enough butter on the outside to crisp golden in the toaster, it crackled when cut into triangles, and steamed like reassurance.
There was usually no conversation while eating. I was too nervous. Mom was too busy packing my pencil case, my ID card, my anxiety. But the sandwich was a message. A quiet, edible hug saying: You’ve studied. You’ll do fine. Eat this. Breathe. Go.
Wrapped and Tucked Like a Blessing
Sometimes, there’d be a second sandwich, wrapped in foil and tucked into my bag. “Just in case,” she’d say, pretending it was casual. I knew it wasn’t. It was for after the paper—when hunger hit like delayed gravity, when your brain had used up everything it had and only soft, spiced carbs could make you feel human again.
And that foil-wrapped sandwich always tasted better. Cold by then, slightly soggy at the edges, but somehow more emotional. Because it carried the relief of being done. The knowledge that no matter how the exam went, at least this part—this triangle of spiced aloo and buttery bread—had turned out right.
A Ritual More Than a Recipe
We never ate aloo sandwiches on regular days. That was the rule. It would dilute their purpose. These were not everyday snacks. They were talismans. Like tying your hair a certain way or writing with your lucky pen. They carried intention. They meant: today is important. You’re going to need something solid in your belly and your spirit.
Even now, decades later, I can’t eat an aloo sandwich without feeling a slight flutter in my chest—like I’m late for something, like I should be reviewing formulas, like I’m thirteen again and wearing too much hair oil. The smell alone can bring back entire chapters of chemistry I thought I had forgotten.
Passing It On
When my nephew had his first big test, I made him one. No fanfare. Just the sandwich on a plate, cut into triangles, a smear of butter melting into the crust. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and ate quietly. But I saw it—the small moment of comfort. The grounding. The hand-me-down ritual that had nothing to do with textbooks and everything to do with being seen.
Because exam day isn’t just about what you write. It’s about what you carry. And sometimes, the most important thing isn’t in your bag. It’s in your lunchbox. Warm, spiced, and shaped like home.
Aloo sandwiches don’t get you top marks. But they get you through the day. And sometimes, that’s the bigger win.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
