‘Remember the five constant spices in every Punjabi dish – salt, turmeric, red
chillies, coriander powder and garam masala,’ I said.
Ananya cooked the vegetables while I worked the atta. I had to refill the atta
twice due to too much stickiness. A pungent smoke rose in the kitchen. Both of
us had a coughing fit.
‘What did you do?’ I said.
‘I ... don’t ... know.’ Ananya coughed uncontrollably.
My mother came into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing?’ she ran to the stove
and lowered the flame. ‘Who cooks on such a high flame? See, the spices have
burnt.’
Ananya backed off from the stove.
‘And you? What are you doing here?’ my mother said.
‘I ... I came here because of the burning smell,’ I said.
‘And you hands fell into the atta?’ she said, pointing to my dough-smeared
palms and fingers.
I kept quiet.
‘See, this is how she will use you after marriage. She can’t even make rotis.’
Ananya exited the kitchen. I wanted to go after her, but with mom present, it
didn’t seem like a good idea. I threw up my atta-filled hands in despair.
‘She is South Indian, mom, how can you expect her to....’
‘You said she wants to make dinner. PK, tell her to make dosas if she wants.
Can she make dosas?’
‘Yeah, I am sure. But you need a grinder....’
Ananya came back into the kitchen. ‘No, aunty, I can’t make dosas,’ Ananya
said. ‘And I can’t make a roti either. In fact, I am terrible at cooking anything.’
‘Apart from cooking schemes to trap my boy,’ my mother said.
They exchanged battlefield looks, Ananya left the kitchen in disgust.
‘Mom!’ I said in frustration.
nora
(Nora)
#1