The cook book

1. For some reasons , unknown to mankind , it was called “Elegant Rasoi Sikhiya ” , roughly translating into Learn to cook “Elegant Recipes” . It never failed to crack us up . Elegant? Seriously? 

   But , what it unwittingly did , was bring the family closer . We learnt some good ,( Moong dal dosas ) and some forgettable ( subzi kadhi with tamarind water , Eeks!!) recipes from that small , paperback sized book . Even the pages consisted of newspaper material . Those ones that remind one of cheap , B grade novels , sold by railway vendors. 

   Yet , it taught me some difficult (and parliamentary ) Punjabi words. Allowing me to show off my newly learnt alphabets , to my fawning parents-in-law . Once I cooked some paneer with some carom seeds , a culinary crime , as per my carom- hating father-in-law. The blame was laid squarely at the cook-book’s doorstep , and the dish never mentioned again. 

   When my Mom-in-law had to leave for foreign shores , she carried a copy with her , so impressed was she , with the book . Some where along the various movements of households , the book disappeared . But the memories remain.

My friend

I can’t call her my friend , as she was friendly with everyone . She wouldn’t let the stamp of authority of a group or clique , sully her pristine , free existence . That she didn’t align herself to , or swore allegiance to , a group , made itself felt painfully , on more than one occasion . 

Our board exams were round the corner , and teachers were racing with each other to finish the pending syllabus. The dress code for extra classes on weekends would be a bit hazy . On one occasion, everyone arrived in crisp, white , starched uniforms , and she came in a floral T-shirt with a corduroy skirt . She kept sitting at the last bench , smiling at everyone , enjoying every bit of the “sore thumb” appearance . 

On other occasion , she finished an assignment , way ahead of everyone , submitted it to the said teacher , a certified terror, and plunged the rest of the class into hot water. No one talked to her for days after that trespass. An unwritten moral code of conduct had been violated , and the class was in no mood to forgive. She was ostracized , no one would talk to her . Any number of apologies , hastily written in chalk on class black board , couldn’t suffice .

The Corner

It was the cosiest , warmest , and loveliest corner in the whole of the house .

Ravi remembers coming bounding in , his satchel flying , tripping on his shoe lace , hair all over his face , dusty uniform , barging into the kitchen , grab a wooden “Patta” ( a really low stool), plonk himself, and begin recounting everything that had happened in the school , play ground, class room , at the assembly , school play . 

She would smile indulgently , wipe the brow off her sweat , and listen to him , enraptured . The hands , of course , would be automatically making rotis . She was always making rotis , or turning some stew over , in a steaming pot , fanning the flames . The kitchen was always ops, the fire burning , and food cooking . It was the yummiest and the most welcoming place on earth. 

“What ?” “She doesn’t whack you with the back of the ladle ?” “Or shoo you out with the rolling pin?” Ravi’s friends found this behaviour of Ravi’s mother , highly suspicious , un-mother-like . Yes , she would gently tell him to take off his dusty shoes outside his bed room , place his satchel on the string cot, wash his hands with soap . And he would comply . But all this was accomplished in gentle undertones , and while he continued his stories , babbling , non -stop.

Ravi would consider himself lucky . He had a beautiful , gentle mother . Not the whacking psychos others had . 

Years later , into his twenties , when away on a job in the city , he would hear of her grave illness , and would rush down , to find , hand wringingly , she having passed away quietly . A quiet woman , who was always cooking , smiling ,  uncomplaining , with her back to the door . A befitting end . The kitchen fell silent , and no fire burnt . For the first time , in Ravi's lifetime , there were no hot rotis being made , and no quiet soul , waiting to hear his stories.

When he returned back with her remains in a brass pot , placed reverently next to the Gods , in the Puja room , did someone whisper behind his back " Did someone tell him , she was his step-mother ?"

Keep it up

“Keep it up !!” The teacher wrote in red ink , bold letters , ending with a smiley and some x,os. The kid learnt later , they were kisses.

She kept staring at those words , then sighed .

“That means no more fun ” The teacher was stern , bespectacled , cross armed , intimidating , like all teachers .

“I will now forever have to do well , won’t I ?” Shoulders drooping , she slunk away downcast . The burden of success. The burden of expectations , the unending scrutiny under limelight. It almost seemed as if she was “keeping it up”, the burden on her tiny head . 

She walked that way till the door , where she chanced upon two friends of hers giggling and chasing each other , breathless frenzy of playtime. She looked at them , and then at the paper in hand , stuffed it in her satchel , dumped it at the doorstep, and hopped-skipped her way out , shouting at the “thief” to catch her.