I must have been nine or 10 years old. With my father by my side, I was also squatting on the carpeted ground. We had gone to a family friend’s place in a suburban area where we had been invited for a community feast.

We were among scores of people sitting in rows waiting for food to be served. In the traditional Indian style, jumbo plates made from banana leaves were placed in front of us. Another person put two earthen bowls and an earthen tumbler before each person.

Men from the host family then started serving various food items. In the last round, came two persons carrying a load of ‘Boondi-ke-laddoo’ (a must-have sweet on auspicious occasions). They placed these ball-shaped sweets on the leafy plates — four pieces for an adult and two for a child.

As a child I was shocked by the discrimination. Being a voracious sweet-lover, I wanted four pieces, because nothing short of it would satiate my hunger for laddoos. I felt like raising the issue, but being a child, accompanying my father to a family friend’s place, I felt helpless and kept quiet.

However, I was constantly thinking about how to make up the shortfall of my favourite sweet treat. I was not interested in other items.

My eyes were fixed only on the laddoos.

Then, I found the solution. I discreetly consumed the two pieces that had been served, ensuring that nobody was watching and then innocently pretended that I had been inadvertently left out. One person serving food promptly brought two pieces for me. I was happy and quickly finished them too.

Even at that tender age I was a connoisseur of sweets, a trait I had inherited from my grandparents and father. In my teens, I became a voracious eater and consumed lots of sweets; sometimes even 500 grams in one go. My preference was for heavily-sugared items.

For me, it did not matter whether a ‘mithai’ (sweet) was made from milk or its by-products, flour, fruits, jaggery, honey and the like. But sweet it should be.

My craving never showed any signs of diminishing at any stage of life. During adolescence, I was once asked to bring ‘jalebis’ (a syrup filled delicacy) from the market for the family. A visiting guest of my age, who accompanied me, looked at me in disbelief when I told him that the 1.5 kilo pack had to be finished by us at the shop itself. I would buy another one for home.

There is no particular time when I feel like going for something sweet. Most often, the urge gets strong after a siesta, especially during summers. I have often got up in the middle of the night, opened the refrigerator and eaten up whatever had been stored for the next day.

During the sizzling month of May this year I went to meet a friend. While I waited for him in the living room, his wife brought a jug full of cold ‘sherbat’ (sweetened water) for three.

She went inside to bring tumblers and to remind her husband about my arrival.

Unable to restrain myself, I picked up the jug and emptied it in one go down my throat. On her return, the poor lady was aghast to see the empty jug. I apologised to her for consuming her share of sherbat as well. I told her that I acted promptly on a desperate call from my thirsty throat.

I can’t forget one childhood incident that should have taught me to be discreet.

As refrigerators were not in vogue in those early days, sweets and other edibles were kept in shelves or in the open. Looking for something sweet, I picked up one in the semi-dark room and quickly started chewing it. I did not want anyone to know about it.

Next moment, I was vomiting and rinsing my mouth with water — what I had gulped was a piece of washing soap cake!

Lalit Raizada is a journalist based in India.