‘She can make it if she wants to. I am not that hungry. Let it take time,’ my
mother said and switched on the TV.
Ananya cradled the cauliflower in her lap like a newborn child. She couldn’t
cut it like a pro, with the knife and thumb action. She cut florets one at a time,
using the knife like a saw.
My mother sniggered. I gave her a dirty look. ‘I have a headache. I’ll rest in my
room. Call me when dinner is ready,’ my mother said and left.
‘Ananya, you want help?’ I said.
‘Leave me alone,’ Ananya said, her gaze deep into the cauliflower.
‘Use your thumb, like this,’ I said and mocked the action with my hand.
Ananya tried. Two florets later, she cut herself. ‘Ouch!’ she screamed.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ she sniffed. ‘Nothing, go rest with your mother.’
‘Is that blood?’ I said. ‘You are hurt!’
‘It’s OK. I said I will do what it takes. What’s a little blood?’
‘This cut is not my mother’s fault,’ I said.
‘Shut up and get me a band-aid. And bring the bhindi from the fridge,’ she
said.
An hour later we had cut the gobi, bhindi, onions, garlic, ginger, tomatoes,
cucumber and green chillies required for the various dishes. Until you do it
yourself, you don’t realise the effort your mother puts into every meal.
We went to the kitchen. I took out the atta in a bowl.
‘I have no clue how to knead this,’ she said.
‘It’s OK, I’ve seen my mother do it. Let me try,’ I said and poured water into the
bowl.
‘And you fry the onions in ...this?’ Ananya pulled out a kadhai from the utensil
shelf.
‘Yes, please,’ I said and switched on the gas. I opened the box of spices. She
didn’t know how to use them.
nora
(Nora)
#1