The Kitchen

 The kitchen . It was a separate building . It still beats me , as to why was this so ? A small passageway connected it to the rest of the house . This passageway was unroofed , originally . So , during blazing summers , you could be roasted to a crisp by the fiery sun , or drenched to the skin during the relentless monsoons , on your way to and from the kitchen .

Later my grandfather built a roof over it , so it became a hideaway , a passage to culinary delights , and a clean cricket pitch . The cricket pitch ended the day my smashing delivery broke one of my grandmother’s enormous water pitchers .
There were raised platforms , where one could sit and eat , discuss politics or peel and chop cucumbers.
They were strategically placed . One could flee at the sound of my grandfather’s walking stick on the cement .
The kitchen floor was smooth , cool , cement . It was mopped countless times through the day . We sat around the open fire , and ate , laughed , joked and became adults . 

My sister , fresh from her hostel , reed thin , would be plied with mounds of soft, steaming, white rice . The moment my mother turned her back , she quickly distributed her rice amongst us younger siblings . We were three of us . Three fistfuls , and her rice mound would disappear , by the time Maa came back with dal or curry . Surprised , more rice would be piled onto her plate , and we all would be in stitches , rolling on the floor .

My father worked in a far off metropolis . He would come occasionally . So , whatever he said or did , however ridiculous , was considered sacrosanct . Not so in our eyes . We were growing , rebellious teenagers , and looked at everything with curious , unsullied , critical eyes . 

So , when he sliced tomatoes , we would wait with bated breath and true enough , he would either squirt tomato juice onto my grandmother's hitherto unsullied kitchen walls , or send one half tomato rolling down our cricket pitch . 

We would all disappear to burst into giggles , some place else , as we were not allowed to make fun of my father in plain sight . 

Best days were the poori days . When my mother served us with hot mini balloons of delight , crisp , sizzling . To go with heavenly coconut laced chana dal . 

What's that smell ?

 It is late evening . Babblers are still arguing about the best perch in the tree . Some kid runs past , curving full tilt into his garden , hooting all the while . Mothers on phone are checking phones and absently pushing prams on their way home . An old man with his arthritic wife walk slowly ahead .

Somewhere , off the road , in some kitchen , potatoes are being fried , with garlic . To go with crispy paranthas . Both the smells waft out on the road . Seductively intertwined . Snaking into the still summer air , sitting there , heavy with promise . Hastening people’s footsteps . Dieters , who want to avoid the smell , foodies welcoming it . The aroma of nostalgia for some .

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December morning , fog and sweaters . Mom in hospital . Tiffin has been packed . My poor sister made jam sandwiches while it was still dark . 

After hot water bath , I wear my uniform . My sister combs my hair . My mom's sister is at the helm of the affairs . She is strict about my cup of bournvita in the morning . 

But wait . What's that smell? It is fried arhar dal . My favourite . I burst into the kitchen . Maasi is stirring a pot of yellow deliciousness . She sees me . Pinches my cheeks . I redden . Missing mom more than ever . Papa enters the doorway . He sleeps in the hospital , next to Maa . There are lines under his eyes . He too brightens up at the smell of the dal .

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