When Men Cook

In the average Indian middle-class household, guys are usually quite content to take the backseat in the kitchen, but some days, if the girls are especially lucky, they decide to cook.
Like today, when my husband decided he wants to cook the chicken. My mother-in-law, hovering near the kitchen, has that nervous look on her face that says something will go wrong any second now, just a matter of time before it does.

The kitchen is a flurry of activity, and every single well-meaning piece of advice is struck away with the force of a thousand suns.

Me: "Here, shall I cut the onions?"
Husband (starts attacking the onions with great force): NO!!!

Me: "Listen, did you remember to add the spices?"
Husband (gives me a withering look): "Yes."

He says yes, but his look says, "Of course I did you dumbass, I'm a better cook than you are!"

The chicken is cooked in ten minutes flat, give or take a couple of minutes. Normally, with the tender ministrations of a female hand it would've taken about three quarters of an hour. My mother in law assured me the chicken was tasty (me being a vegetarian blah blah). Luckily for me and my mom in law, my husband, while not a great cook, is definitely a good one. Others are not quite so lucky. Take my brother for example.

A few years ago, when the rest of the family was out of town, my brother decided to call his friends over for an evening snack. He had planned on making vegetable soup and astonishing the hell out of them with his cooking capabilities. How he thought people would applaud for emptying ready made soup sachets into a bowl of boiling water is a mystery we'll never solve.

So, he puts the water to boil and goes into the hall to regale his friends with some PJs, when ka-booom! There was a resounding exploding noise from, you guessed it right amigo, the kitchen. Everyone rushed to see if aliens had just somehow crash landed inside the kitchen but were instead faced with the gory sight of my mother's favorite glass casserole splattered across the walls, the floor, and the ceiling.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that my brother put some water into a glass bowl and set its ass upon the stove to burn. His friends were rewarded with the unwelcome task of cleaning the kitchen out before my folks came back. To this day, my mother has no idea where her favorite casserole dish went. She blames our maid. My brother blames her too, and all women for good measure. For failing to tell him what would happen if he set a glass bowl on fire. Go figure.

Finding Home (Part One)

He stood on the edge of the precipice, his small beady eyes on the constant lookout for danger. He had just started rebuilding his home at a new location that he had finally decided was safe after weeks of careful deliberation. He took a deep breath, and as his eyes rested on his pregnant partner they visibly softened. He had never really thought of himself as a family guy until he had taken one look at the pretty lass preening herself at the small pool he and his friends frequented. It was love at first sight, and he had hopped over to her as fast as he could without raising eyebrows, stumbling in his haste. His friends thought he would get shooed away in seconds and were visibly surprised when she looked at him coyly and smiled, marking the beginning of a relationship that would withstand the test of time.

That was all several months ago. A lot of things had happened since then. They had tried building a home of their own for several times, getting thwarted every time by the blue and white monsters. The world abounded with them; they were everywhere. Even here, from the lonely precipice he stood on, he could spot around ten of them in the distance. It was just a matter of time before they came and took over this spot too, he thought ruefully. This time though, I won't give up without a fight, he vowed to himself. His partner was busily giving their home a few final touches, making it comfortable enough for the babies.

This time he had chosen to make his home atop a huge concrete cave, which housed giants that were too advanced for his taste, and though the world abounded with them as well, they usually gave his brethren a wide berth. They were not in direct competition for survival. He found he might be able to trust them, with time. Twice the giants had offered him food, and made no visible attempt to catch him, or kill him. Perhaps, he might have found a safe place after all! The giants might actually give his family the protection they required, both from the living and the natural elements. He just prayed the blue monsters wouldn't find this haven and make it theirs.

His prayers went unanswered, however, and he heard a great fluttering of wings and two of the monsters swooped in to usurp the food the kindly giantess had left out for him. How dare they! How dare they get into his territory unasked, unannounced, as if it was just theirs for the taking! He flew into a terrible rage and let out a murderous roar that would have sent chills down the spine of lesser mortals.

The two pigeons paused for a moment to stare at the little sparrow who was chirping away as if his life depended on it. They paused for a few more seconds to grab the remaining grains that the people had sprinkled on their terrace, and flew away unperturbed.

The Pigeon's Egg On The Windowsill

It all started when my mother-in-law found a pigeon's egg on the window sill.

It isn't everyday that you wake up to a thing like that. An egg sitting nonchalantly on your fourth floor windowsill. My mother-in-law picked up the egg gingerly and called out to my husband who immediately set to making a makeshift nest. A shoebox was produced, the top removed, and some old cotton clothes arranged neatly at the bottom, with some coir acting as a tiny mattress. The egg was laid inside gently and the nest was put on a shelf in the balcony beside our kitchen. All that remained now was for the mother pigeon to dutifully take her place, and boy, she did that with gusto. In fact, she was so impressed by the turn of events that after a few days she decided to make friends with the people.

One fine morning the mother pigeon sauntered in carelessly to the kitchen, completely unafraid. Mummyji was alarmed, but there was no sign of nervousness in the bird; her attitude showed she was there for a leisurely stroll. It took quite a bit of hollering on the human's part for the bird to go back to her nest, and her face showed she was more than a little miffed at this blatant rejection. Ah well. A few days passed this way, and the egg showed no signs of hatching. We were all almost resigned and had given up hope when the egg cracked. The much awaited telephone call came (we weren't married then), and yoohoo! It's a boy!

Alright, we didn't really know whether it was a boy or a girl, but hey, we decided the baby pigeon was a he. I rushed over to take a look. The mother pigeon was all protective now; she allowed only mummyji and my husband near the baby, fluttering her wings angrily if anyone else went closer. The moment she left to get food I hurried over to get a good look. He looked like a tiny untidy bundle. A teeny tiny ball of feathers. No, not feathers, he was more like a ball of fluff. He didn't move, just sat there all puffed up like an angry kitten. I thought he was more than a little stupid, with his little beak and bulging eyes. Hard to say now.

Both of them were terrified of each other.

Days passed, mother pigeon grew bolder and started venturing inside the house. The people woke up one day to find her perched royally on top of the bookshelf. My husband decided to put an end to these uninvited visits. He caught her unawares when she was trying to fly out of a closed door - yes, she was flapping her wings and clawing at the door when he caught her - and introduced her to Rocky, our not-so-ferocious Pomeranian. He was petrified of her, but hey, she didn't know that. Let's just say that after that day, no pigeon has ever dared to come inside our house again :P

The baby, meanwhile, grew into a most handsome young guy. He would give us these tough looks whenever we went to the balcony, but was meek as a kitten and would offer zero resistance whenever my husband picked him up to clean his nest. The day came when his mother took him out for his first flying lesson. We have no idea how it went, or whether he enjoyed the outside world, but my mother-in-law said he didn't venture out again for several days. But it had to be done, and as he grew older he started going out of his nest more and more, albeit for short periods.

It happened suddenly one day, and without warning. We were greeted by the sight of him sitting forlornly on the ledge; his mother was snugly tucked in his nest with another pigeon (hopefully his father, we don't know for sure). We shooed them away so he could have his home back, but this little episode started repeating itself frequently. Once a bunch of the mother's friends came over for a little pigeon kitty party, promptly rewarding us with a ton of pigeon poo on our washing machine. We saw less and less of our baby pigeon - he was quite clearly building a home elsewhere. We took the hard decision to finally take down his nest and turn out all of them. We covered the empty space with cardboard cartons so the birds couldn't nest there.

As time passed and he became a fully grown bird, we could barely recognize him anymore. We still have pigeons resting for a short while on the balcony ledge, but we don't know if one of them is our baby. Nevertheless, my mother-in-law religiously kept a bowl of water everyday throughout the summer months out there for him and his friends. We never know if he was among the numerous birds that came by for a drink everyday, but it feels good that just in case he needed it, we were there for him.

This episode, in its entirety, is something that our family will never forget. Perhaps, neither will the pigeon. Like Shakespeare said,

How far the little candle throws his beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world.

The Caffeinated Joys of Filter Coffee

Growing up in a Telugu household, this is only predictable. One develops a deep rooted love for filter coffee. One tends to get irritated if the early morning shout of, "Amma, coffee!" is not complied with alacrity. One might even say, one is addicted to it.

I got hooked on to coffee at a tender age of I-don't-remember-when. That occasional drop of decoction in my daily glass of milk was a reward - a reward for being a good kid, or perhaps for having completed the necessary homework without too much prodding. I don't recall the exact day when my big glass of milk laced with decoction was substituted for a steaming glass of filter coffee. I can only imagine it must've been a big deal for me. Almost like an acceptance into adult society, that one.

Pictured: Little glasses of heaven.

Tea for me was always the poor country cousin - only drunk under extreme circumstances (meaning, when coffee isn't available).

College was hard. I was in the heart of Orissa, no relatives for miles on end, and the few hotels that served coffee had only the Instant kind. Yuck. FYI, Instant Coffee isn't coffee. Just another hot beverage. After four years of making disgruntled faces at the chai-wallahs, my luck made this abrupt U-turn, kind of like what the auto-wallahs do when they see a potential customer.

I came to Hyderabad.

Life did a full circle when I camped at the same aunt's place with whom I grew up, and - surprise, surprise! - her entire family were coffee people, just like yours truly. Ah, those magical stainless steel filters, they should be a part of Hogwarts studies! Another stint of coffee drinking followed, which went unhampered for several years. I got completely hooked onto it - I woke up to the smell of coffee everyday; and when I came back from office a steaming glass of the magical brew would be waiting for me.

Fast forward to the present day - married to this great guy who loves black coffee, and what's more, even makes it for me every morning. I know, I know, black coffee is filter coffee too, and what if he makes it with brown sugar? Isn't it kinda like Irish Coffee, with just the cream and whiskey missing? I could live with that!

But that little imp in the back of my head nags at me, "Itsss not the same, preciousss!"

I've found a workaround though - weekdays are dedicated to my husband's recipe; and I make my beloved filter coffee on weekends. On the days when I visit my aunt, she looks at me with an unspoken understanding, and makes sure that I am plied with all the filter coffee I want. Hell, the tummy can take care of itself later.

Comics and kids

I started reading books when I was about eight to ten years old. My earliest memories of reading books include my Dad - he would buy stacks of Chacha Choudharys, Champaks, and Tinkles and hide them somewhere at home. Every time me or my brother did something constructive (could be as simple as walking on my Dad's back for five minutes) he would produce a book with a flourish, make us yell and scream for it a bit and then leave us in peace to read.

When I look back and think about my childhood, I am sure it wouldn't have been the same if all those books weren't in my life. I cannot imagine a world where I didn't know Chacha Choudhary and Sabu, or Billoo and his famous hair which always hid his eyes. I cannot imagine how it would have been if I didn't know who the Famous Five were, or how the Secret Seven won their battles. Half my childhood was spent in that world, a world where anything could happen - it was my world. Thus said, I want to stress that this habit of mine never adversely affected my studies. If and when my grades suffered they did because of various other reasons ;-)

I know several people who won't let their child read any book apart from what is in their academic syllabus. Maybe it is because they feel their children might score better if they spent the same time doing some math sums. I want to say to you, don't rob your children out of the incredible joy of reading. While they might enjoy watching the occasional Tom and Jerry on television, the happiness a kid gets when he reads a Tinkle, or a Calvin, is unparalleled.

For all you parents who might not be able to afford the costs of buying storybooks, that is what second hand bookstalls are for. You can easily get Tinkles, Amar Chitra Kathas, Chandamamas, etc. for as low as 10 rupees per book.


Perhaps this activity can be on your To-Do list for this weekend.