OF ROMANCES IN THE RASOI

The orderly chaos of a typical indian rasoi and the work of art that everyday cooking is, brings to mind a very vivid image of beautiful fingers gently picking up a handful of chopped onions and putting them ever so lovingly into a kadhai on the stove, and then that fluid movement of the green bangles-adorned wrist sauteing those onions into a beautiful golden brown colour. Not that the onions did not put up a good fight; they spattered nad hissed their way down to the bottom of the pan.

The dough of aata on the slab has a story of its own to tell. While expert hands create beautiful circular motions with the rolling pin, what starts out as a thick round ball of dough and ends up as a beautiful thin perfectly round roti, is a journey in itself.

The perfectly symmetrically cut vegetables cooking over the flame and then experienced hands putting that absolutely correct amount of salt and other condiments in it, to make a way to the man’s heart, is perfection.

And whilst these scenes play out, the pressure cooker makes its presence known with its occassional whistles, like a roadside romeo teasing a beautiful tall fair as milk girl dancing in the house with glass walls. To this blatant teasing, the milk turns a blind eye and continues its fluid magic in the mixer. The curd looks on woefully at this spectacle from the corner of the kitchen slabs and reminisces those days in the pre- bacilli era when it used to be the object of affection of the dal- its days as pure white milk.

Chai has gone unnoticed for a while and it decides it’s high time the lady of the house pays attention to it. As it threatens to boil over the rim of the pot, the roti has reached climax in its salsa with the flame and any moment now, the crescendo would reach its peak and the roti would collapse from this heat between them.

Going over to the other end of the kitchen, in stark contrast to these budding romances between the cooker and the milk while curd turns sour with regret, and this very vulgar display of affection between the roti and the flame, the utensils are recuperating from a fleeting one night stand with the delicacies that were served last night at the party. The ladles were merely pimps leading hungry hands into the brothel of good food that the lady of the house churned out from her cauldron last night, and it was the cauldron which had the worst night ever as it was separated from the last of the kesar-tinged biryani. The glasses with their beautiful slim bodies are giggling in the corner, sharing their stories from last night when they were kissed and gently caressed in the fingers of the guests.

It is time to give them some privacy now…….And give these relationships time to mature….