In the pastry shop there is a murmur — the voices of children and adults, laughter.  Visitors order more than they can eat. When they see that they cannot eat everything, the plates are left with twisted Cham pitas, torn Baklavas, split Indian Chapattis, lifeless as if in some candy cemetery. At the very bottom, at the last table, sits a boy whose age is difficult to determine. In his plate, there is one small Tulumba next to the glasses of plain water. A little cloudy, the water from the glass casts a strange strip of light on the small fork with which the boy slowly and precisely separates the cake piece by piece. Looking in front of him, he puts each morsel into his mouth devotedly. Little by little, the whole, small Tulumba disappears from the plate.

The topping sugar of the Tulumba is the next thing the boy tries to eat with his fork. However, it doesn’t work out for him. With nothing to hold it, the topping slides off the fork’s prongs back onto the plate. After a dozen persistent, calm attempts, the boy manages to get to the bottom of the problem and he neatly puts the utensils away. Then, as if there is the most wonderful nectar in the glass, he proceeds to drink it — sip by sip. The pleasure, he feels as the drops of water slide down his throat, is reflected in the thin lines around his eyes that seem to pucker up especially at those moments. After the last precious drop, he slowly left the pastry shop, fed and happy.

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(Self-translation from Serbian)

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