I grew up on trees. Not quite literally, but I grew up in an old dusty village just a few local train stops away from Bombay (that's what it was called then). Tall and gangly, my dog Rambo by my side and lots of guys my age. I was one of the guys and the pet reason of all the sweet old aunties of my building to frown down upon me. "That girl is a real tomboy!" and they'd all sadly agree.
Credit be to my mother that I grew up an honorable, respecting, God-fearing citizen. But even the Gods would have feared lest I cook.... she could never teach me that. Being a doctor, she would get up at 4.00 in the morning sharp and have the entire spectrum of a meal ready before I could even so much as stir from my peaceful slumber. Most of the mornings I would wake up to the smell of fish curry and rice, our Goan speciality. And all I had to do was walk out of my bed, doggy and all in tow, to go do my morning chore of brushing my teeth.
She never raised a finger at me nor did she ever remain angry at me for more than 30 seconds at a time. But it was only when I grew past my teens that she started looking at me with that quaint look. More like disdain than ever at my complete lackadaisical attitude towards cooking. "What will your in-laws think of me? That I raised you to be a complete sloth!" I had heard those sentences more than once to be really bothered about them. Let my in-laws think what they wanted to think. I hated the kitchen and that was that.
If I could have only seen how hard she was working so that I could afford to be lazy, I'd probably have not been such a bum about it. It was only when she fell ill, seriously ill that I really realised how much she did in a single day. My mother was diagnosed with slip disk when she fell in the bathroom one day and couldn't get up because of excruciating pain in her back. She was advised complete rest for atleast 2 months. "Two months??" She almost started out of her bed. How would that be possible? Who will do the cooking? Where will she go to find a maid??
We couldn't find a maid for atleast a week in that time. That was when I realised the amount of work she crammed into her day. Washing clothes, going to the market, paying bills, and all that daily grind of cooking. When I realised that all that responsibility had now somehow come upon me, I panicked. How was I ever going to be able to do that, what with my college and my classes? For godssake I didn't even know where the salt was kept!
So that day I woke up a few hours earlier than I usually did. I checked up on my mom. She seemed to be in pain, but more so out of worry. So I went to the kitchen and rolled up my sleeves. I HAD to make something to eat for us. Fish curry was out of the question, too many intricacies. So I thought of the simplest thing I could manage to make. Dal and rice. "Our father in heaven, Holy be Thy name...." and so I began.
How much water do you use to make rice? After I had found the rice, I threw in a handful of it in a cooking pot and covered the entire vessel with water. This I placed on one side of the gas stove. Then I took a cupful of dal and a cupful of water and placed it on another stove, The rice was done in about 20 minutes ( although a bit soggy from too much water) But the dal??? Good heavens! I kept watching the stove, trying the dal grain by grain to see if it had cooked. Poured water after water to make sure it didn't burn. Who knew what pressure cookers were used for?
Sometime during the day the dal was cooked. I just threw in a chopped onion while I was at it ( a chore which also took me about 20 minutes..) and a chopped tomato. And I managed to cook what I proudly called my first dal and rice.
When I took it to my mother, she just looked at me unbelievingly for a few seconds. I helped her to sit a little upright. And just like she had fed me as a child, I fed her my soggy rice with half cooked dal. When I looked into her eyes, I saw that she had fresh tears in her eyes. And yet that smile said so many things. Most of all was the feeling of being grateful. I knew then that she had remembered her mother and my grandmother who had fed us all so lovingly, albeit many years ago. I asked her how it tasted and she said that it was the best dal and rice she had ever eaten and was proud that her daughter was such a good cook! My heart swelled with pride. It was only later when I had my first bite that I realised.... the dal wasn't cooked fully and I had forgotten to add salt!
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