As the name of the story suggests, this story was inspired by a bag of potato chips. I was sharing a packet of chips with my friend one day and the way I was hogging it was as if I’d never had it before. And the idea stuck. So I decided to write a story. I really enjoyed writing this story and, I hope you enjoy reading it as well. The featured image is taken from Pinterest.

***

I tapped my finger against the steering wheel as we waited for the traffic to move. The clock on the dashboard said we had exactly thirty minutes to reach the venue. I inhaled deeply before exhaling, a breathing exercise to soothe my nerves. Traffic was Shillong’s biggest problem, an inevitable issue when the number of cars increased exponentially. 

“Mom, we’re going to be late,” June, my thirteen-year-old daughter, said with arms crossed over her chest.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get there in time,” I said, more to myself.

Our spirits lifted when the cars ahead of us moved. Relief washed over me as I started the car and drove towards State Central Library, praying we wouldn’t be stuck again. We reached our destination five minutes before the curtains went up. Holding hands, June and I ran to the large hall, showed our tickets at the entrance and found our seats. Still catching our breaths, the opening act began.

A line of young musicians stepped on stage. Dressed in a uniform colour, they made a synchronous bow before their audience. One of the girls stepped out of the line and sat at the piano. She collected herself before playing Mozart’s Sonata in C.

I glanced at June and noticed the glint in her eye. Unlike most budding teenagers, June had developed a taste for classical music. One year ago, she stumbled upon my old keyboard, sitting in the basement covered in dust. To our surprise, the instrument still worked after years of unuse. I taught her what knowledge of music I still retained, and a look on her face formed. Her eyes sparkled with excitement and hope. She looked at the keyboard like it was a rare gem she had discovered. That was the day her love for music was born. Since then, I found myself driving June for music lessons and the few concerts held around the city. 

Today was the day we were attending the concert June had always dreamt about. Iba Kharshiing, the first Khasi woman to make it in the classical music industry, was finally performing in her hometown. She performed with orchestras all around the world with her mighty cello. Seeing her picture on the brochure brought back memories.

When we were children, Iba and I attended the same music school. Coming from a wealthy family, Iba intimidated everyone. Even though she dressed down to fit in with the rest of us, she still looked expensive. It was in the air she carried with her. Despite having the same music teacher, we never spoke. Always competing for the top spot, an invisible barrier existed between us. Then Iba did something that changed everything.

It was a Saturday afternoon. The sun was high in the sky while a cool breeze blew past. Iba and I sat on the front steps, not saying a word to each other, waiting for our respective parents to pick us up. As we waited, I pulled out a bag of potato chips and ate to while away the time. After I had popped in two crispy crackers, I noticed Iba staring at my food like it was gold.

“Want some?” I asked, offering the packet of chips towards her. I hoped that my small gesture hid the surprise on my face.

“Thank you,” She said, reaching into the bag.

The savoury taste of the unhealthy snack seemed to ignite something within her. While we talked, her hand reached into the packet several times as she hogged on the chips like a homeless person eating food for the first time. Before I knew it, the bag of potato chips was empty. I stared at her dumbfounded as she licked the remains on her fingers. Noticing the look on my face, Iba turned red with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry I ate all your chips. The moment I eat one, I can’t stop myself from eating another,” Iba said, bowing her head apologetically. 

“You ate the whole packet, Iba,” I said, shaking the empty plastic bag. 

“My parents don’t let me eat junk. So when I do, I can’t control myself,” She said, her cheeks flushed a darker red.

Her words carried a tinge of sadness. Iba might have the most expensive things money could buy. But she was missing out on a pleasure of life, eating junk. I softened, and the barrier between us came down. 

I smiled at the memory. It was a defining moment that impacted our lives. We formed a formidable duo. Iba, armed with her cello and I on the piano, played pieces crafted by the greats with gusto. Our performances always ended with a standing ovation. However, unlike her parents, mine couldn’t afford to send me to a professional school. I settled for a life of familiarity and stability. And Iba became a renowned cellist, making our little state very proud. 

The curtains went up, and there she stood, a grown woman. Under the spotlight, Iba looked ethereal in her red gown. Her long dark hair flowed over one shoulder in waves as she stood soaking the applause. June gasped as she saw her idol standing on stage, smiling at the crowd. Jealousy reared its ugly head. If I was on that stage instead, would June have the same reaction? I shook my head and focused on the performer in front of me.

Iba bowed at the mass of people before taking her place with an orchestra behind her. I watched in awe as music resonated throughout the hall. Iba played with such ferocity she gave music life. Years of honing her skills helped transform her from a talented student to a professional. She was the living embodiment of everything I could have been. Watching her perform made me tear up. Everything we went through replayed itself in my head. The first time we met, the bag of potato chips, our performances, even our first kiss. 

“Mom, are you crying?” June whispered, leaning into me to prevent others from hearing.

“My allergies are acting up again,” I said, shaking my head. It was a poor excuse one June would not believe in. But it was better than explaining the overwhelming emotions that flooded me. Iba was the first person I fell in love with. And after ten years, I was seeing her again.  

As the music crescendoed, my heart swelled. I remembered the last time we saw each other. We were at the airport. Iba was leaving for London while I stayed back in the little town that offered musicians nothing. With tears running down our faces, we promised to call every day. I clung to her as I hugged her goodbye, scared to let her go and lose her to the world. My fears eventually became my reality. As time passed, we lost all connection. We went from lovers to friends and back to strangers. 

I composed myself and held back tears that threatened to spill. I was glad June was so mesmerised by the performance she forgot about me. We sat in silence, listening to music I once played. When Iba ended the show with a solo performance, the crowd stood up for a standing ovation. Applause rang out as she stood with a bright smile beaming across her face. Iba bowed once more, and the cheers grew louder. I clapped till my hands hurt, proud of the person she had become. The curtains dropped, and people began filing out of the hall.

“That was the best concert I’ve ever attended. Iba is so good,” June said, walking in step with me as we made our way to the door.

The overwhelming emotions died down to a warm simmer. I wasn’t going to cry about my past, and neither was I going to tell June about it either. That story belonged to us. It was short with a bittersweet ending, and I wouldn’t exchange the experience for anything else. All I could do was hope Iba remembered me the way I remembered her. 

“I agree with you. Iba is the best,” I said.