By Babita BaruahIt was the 80s, when my homeland Assam was going through turmoil.In the oil town of Digboi where we lived, the agitation impacted our lives in many ways. My father was holed up in the oil refinery for days. My family also joined some of the processions that drew even women and children out of their homes.One day, there was a curfew declared. It took a lot of families by surprise. My mother was worried. Everything in Digboi was a 10-minute drive away, and she had not stocked up the refrigerator or the kitchen shelves. I heard my father tell her he knew a small path through some wooded areas that would lead to the house of my uncle, a bachelor, who may have some flour, rice and pulses with him. I also heard my mother reproaching him with fear in her voice — being spotted in a curfew could be fatal, she said.Next morning, my sister and I rose to hear my mother singing happily and waking us up. She then told us she had a special breakfast in mind, and we should stay in bed. Father was also around and we happily snuggled up against him. My mother kept talking to us from the adjoining kitchen. About how some treats make a day special. How families that do things together are the best families in the world. How “the English” – as she referred to people from the UK – had breakfast in bed on a tray.Now, the word “English” was special for us as Digboi was an oil town built by the British. The bungalows we lived in, the lawns, the fruit trees, the chicken coops, the roads, the refinery that employed people in the township, the club we went to, the convent school, were all a legacy we grew up with. That, coupled with Enid Blyton stories and our imagination, made the place seem very special for us.We waited, already excited. Seeing mother happy anyway made me happy. She entered the room with a large wooden tray. We gasped because on it was a teapot and four tea cups – it was mother’s wedding gift, and the only place we ever saw them was in the glass showcase. She set the tray on the bed and father, my sister and I formed a circle around it. We saw a bunch of freshly-picked flowers, a sugar bowl with sugar cubes (another treat), and a butter dish. With a plate of sugar-coated biscuits.My mother poured hot tea into the teacups we had never touched before, which we now reverently held in our hands. She buttered the sugar-coated biscuits and we dug into them. We laughed, played with the flowers, smiled at mother and father, listened to stories of their childhood days.It was the best breakfast of our lives. A moment I will always remember.Life took many turns. We lost our father, moved towns.Years later, mother told me that the only food in our house on that curfew day was a packet of sugar-coated biscuits. She was worried sick we would wonder why there was no food in the house if she simply shared the biscuits. She could not bear to see fear in her children’s eyes. So, she created that beautiful breakfast moment for us, painted a memory that kept us going when we lost our father.What, in reality, was a day when we had nothing at home, was the best breakfast day of our lives.My mother taught me how powerful and memorable an experience can be.Today, like many others in the industry, I focus on customer engagement through disruptive online and offline experiences, with my teams, partners and clients. A strong, insightful brand experience that resonates with consumers has the power to create disproportionate brand love.And I look back often, to that day, with pride and love. Life teaches us marketing . We just need to see. And learn.(The author is Managing Partner, GTB India — a WPP unit. This is the author’s personal view and does not reflect the views of the organisation)

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