Of Sugar and Stories

Though it now feels like a previous century, not so long ago there was a time when running out of sugar was not a problem. It was an event. We did not sigh, unlock our phone, and summon a silent delivery rider like a minor deity of logistics. You grabbed a steel bowl, shouted toward the home in general, “I will just go to Seema Khuri’s home for a while,” and stepped into a living, breathing ecosystem called the neighbourhood, the “para”, where familiar faces coloured our lives with vibrant hues.

Borrowing sugar was not just about sugar. It was diplomacy. You did not simply knock; you announced your presence with a rhythmic knock that was half confident, half apologetic. The door would open a crack, then fully, and there she was, Seema Khuri, already smiling because she knew. Of course she knew! This wasn’t your first sugar crisis. “I just need a few spoonfuls of sugar Khuri,” you would say, holding out the bowl. “A few spoonfuls?” she would laugh, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with a generous scoop that clearly exceeded “a few spoonfuls” by a comfortable margin. Because generosity, like gossip, was never measured precisely.

And you did not leave immediately. That would be rude as well as impossible. Within minutes, you would be updated on everything you never knew you needed to know. Someone’s new toaster would be discussed with deep suspicion, someone’s child’s career would be analyzed with surprising authority, and at least one domestic disagreement would be narrated with dramatic flair. You stood there, clutching your bowl, nodding seriously as if you were part of a confidential intelligence briefing. By the time you returned home, the sugar had warmed in your hands, and your head was full of stories that would travel further than the sugar ever did.

Then there was the “gela-maal” store, which was less a shop and more a social institution. We went there to exist among people, not only to buy random things. The shopkeeper knew our family’s preferences better than some relatives. He did not need a list; he needed a glance. “Same as last time?” he would ask, already reaching for items before you confirmed. Around you, life unfolded in real time. Someone debated rising prices like it was a personal betrayal, someone else inserted themselves into conversations uninvited but not unwelcome, and a child pleaded for chocolate with a persistence that deserved an award. Time moved differently there. Transactions were slow, but not inefficient.

Now, when I run out of sugar, nothing dramatic happens. I do not even fully register the inconvenience. I open an app, type “sugar,” select the exact quantity with almost clinical precision, and press “Order”. Nine minutes later the sugar arrives. Nine minutes, which is less time than it once took a neighbour to find the right container in the kitchen. The delivery is seamless. A quick exchange at the door, a polite nod, and it is over. The sugar is perfectly packed, measured, and sealed. No excess. No conversation. No lingering. Modern delivery is undeniably remarkable! It works at odd hours, demands no effort, and fits neatly into lives that are already too full. It removes friction, saves time, and spares us from small inconveniences that once felt bigger than they were. 

But in smoothing out those inconveniences, something else has quietly faded. We no longer depend on each other in the small, ordinary ways that once stitched everyday life together. The steel bowl still exists in many kitchens, but it no longer travels. It sits there, waiting for a moment that never comes, because shortages are solved by apps now, not by people. There are no accidental conversations, no unexpected laughter in doorways, no borrowed cups of anything that come with borrowed moments of connection. Life has become more efficient, but also more contained.

Sometimes those small detours become the memories that anchor us. I think of the times I have lingered in a doorway after borrowing a book or sharing a plate of fruit, when the conversation stretched into laughter and the evening felt lighter because of it. The errand itself fades, but the warmth of being welcomed in, of being part of someone’s ordinary day, stays vivid. Perhaps the answer isn’t to turn away from convenience. That would make little sense. But maybe, once in a while, it is worth choosing the longer way. To knock on a neighbour’s door, to ask for something small, to stay a little longer than necessary. You might come back with sugar that isn’t perfectly measured. The chances are that you might also come back with a story, a smile, or a reminder that not everything meaningful needs to be delivered in exactly nine minutes. And to let life unfold in its slower rhythm, where connection has the space to surprise us.