Bon Apetit

Cooking is therapeutic, they said. Well, a lazy Sunday afternoon I decided to give it a try. And I realized, they are right. It actually does de-stress you. It did not cure my stomach ulcers, or smoothen those wrinkles around my eyes, but it gave me an immense sense of satisfaction. A joy of creation.

As I deftly stir-fried those baby potatoes, and measured the ‘exact amount of pink hue’ my chopped onions should take, I lost myself to this surreal world of food fantasy. Every coat of masala on the boneless chicken pieces took me a step farther from my mundane worries. The water in the pot bubbled. As I soaked in the air laden with the aroma of freshly ground spices, I was no longer the attorney dealing with tough clients and suspicious employees. I was beholding the artist in me, alive, anxious, to give shape to my imagination.  

After I was through with the cooking, came the most refreshing part. Garnishing. I fanatically looked around in my kitchen cabinets, trying to locate that white bowl with two red cherries painted on it- the only piece on earth which would perfectly hold that exquisite recipe of mine, still brimming hot on the oven. And, as I pour out my delicacy, I can hardly control my excitement. Chopped cilantro or fresh mint? A single leaf at the corner of the bowl or a bunch at the center? A vast canvas, a riot of colors. An imagination running wild.  My masterpiece. Me, the master.  In full glory.

Food was served. One final look at the dinner table gave me a high probably no opium can match. “Ah, lovely!”, came my muttered breath. Others joined me at the table. A sudden pang of over-confidence. “This should be a fine dish”, I told myself, “I have cooked it to precision.” An equally sudden pang of anxiety. “Did I add too much salt to it”, I wondered.

As they delved into that luscious pot of chicken curry, or dipped their rotis into the still-so-hot Dal-Fry, I was almost biting my fingers anticipating their comments. In return, I saw sheer pleasure. Their taste buds tingled, senses all aroused, they were too busy licking their fingers to even notice me! Relief. Followed by jubilation. Yes, I achieved all that I had hoped for that afternoon. Maybe more. What can be more de-stressing than this feeling of achievement? Spas? Oil massage? Maybe. When I have the time and energy, I will try it out. Right now, I am  judgmental in my opinion. Cooking heals.

The Eternal Cycle

Daughter starts her school today. I drop her off at the gate, the proud mother basking in the glory of her kid’s progress. My toddler is now a school-goer. Surprisingly, I feel this lump at my throat. My eyelids burn. I sense a sudden heaviness, a dull ache gnawing at my heart. As my child grows the first feather in her wings, I realise the inevitable truth- she will fly away one day! She will soar new heights, see a new world. Me, the Mother Bird, will teach her how to fly. To fly away from me. In search of a sky brighter than mine. To build a nest prettier than mine. In a greener patch of earth.

I am tensed. Will she do well? Will she listen to her new teacher? I fret over her tiffin. What to pack for lunch? Then, suddenly I am struck by the uniformity, the evenness in the pattern of it all. Mother spent her whole life tending to me, poring over my school books, inventing meals so that I do not repeat my tiffin, trying to give me a good upbringing, teaching me the worldly morals, the wrongs and the rights, encouraging me to excel in whatever  do. I grew up and she grew old. I learned how to walk. I got my ABCs right. I found a place for myself under this sun. I left her behind, to tend to an empty home, to talk relentlessly about me and my exaggerated achievements to every kith, kin and stranger who comes in her vicinity. I call her up every day, and she patiently  listens to me ranting off about how S  got her first molars, how she bruised her knee while jumping, how frustrated I am with her not finishing her meals. She tells me small incidents from my own childhood, how I reacted to particular situations, how S eats her pudding exactly in the same manner that I did. But never ever does she tell me about this great universal cycle- the Kal Chakra which runs it all. She leaves it up to me to realise when time comes.

Some thirty odd years down the line, when S has her own babies, when I have replaced my anti-wrinkle creams with Boroline, my bedside table is lined with pills and tonics, and S calls me up from a faraway land to tell me about my grandchild, I will tell her about you, Mother. The ecstasy of creating a life, the joy of motherhood, the pride in shaping up the child’s future, and the bitter-sweet agony of letting  go it all. Sweet because I have succeeded. My child has a sparkling new world. Bitter because my own world is rusty now, crumpling at the slightest touch. I have finished and she has just begun. A strong feeling wells up inside me. Pure, unfathomable. Satisfaction? Resignation? Or simply an enlightenment about the inevitable?