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.

The One With The King Cobra

The place where I grew up, Parlakhemundi, was a hotbed of adventure. We used to spend our days like the Hardy Boys and the Famous Five, solving crimes and catching criminals. Just kidding, apart from the occasional fight about whose turn it was to hog the remote control, we seldom saw any action.

Except for that one time when we were face to face with a full grown king cobra.

Our home is located in a cul-de-sac - a small pond marked the end of the road, making the entry into our street the only exit. The pond, its surrounding shrubs, and other wayward plant growth also ensured a steady stream of slimy reptiles and insects and other creatures paying us unwanted visits every once in a while. With time, we grew accustomed to their presence, and would greet them with a brisk nod of the head and a strong whack with the nearest broom/wooden stick/similar object.

So it was, that on a perfectly calm evening, without any knowledge of the impending storm that was to follow, I cycled home from my Maths tuition. I noticed a few kids lined up on our street, goggling into a neighbor's home. My Mom told me the good news the moment I stepped in.

"A king cobra has been found just inside Murthy Uncle's gate. Do NOT go there."

Predictably, the next few seconds found my brother and me racing off like rockets to the place of the scene. The Murthys had a huge gate and the cobra had nestled just inside it, coiled like a rope, its hood wide open. Now, make no mistake, the snake was huge - a fully grown king cobra, it probably was around 6 feet in length. KKR Uncle (Dad's friend and another neighbor) was sitting some way off holding a large stick (we all stocked large sticks in our houses for the same reason). Every time the cobra made an attempt to move he would pound the ground with the stick. Snakes detect vibration, and that made the cobra stay where it was. The next course of action hadn't been decided yet.

By this time a small crowd started gathering outside the gate, everyone standing a short distance away. The decision was made to let the snake go - it was some auspicious day and some elders announced it would be bad to kill the snake. The gate was opened completely so the snake could slither out and make a run for the nearest bushes, and then for the pond or wherever else it was supposed to be that night. By then it had become dark, the road illuminated by streetlamps and light streaming from within the houses. Everyone was gathered a few feet from the Murthys' place, intensely waiting for the snake to make its appearance. It happened like in a movie - the gate was yanked open by someone, the reptile finally free to escape. We saw it slither quickly onto the road, just a few feet from us - and, as if on cue, the lights went out and it was suddenly pitch dark, too dark for us to even see each other's faces.

The ensuing cry that erupted from our little colony could probably have been heard for miles. We screamed and yelled and fell over each other in our haste to escape. I ran into the nearest house and stood on an elevated surface and yelled for my brother. "I'm here!!", came a reedy cry from the terrace - how the heck he managed to clamber onto the terrace within 5 seconds is a mystery I'll never solve. After about 10-15 seconds of pandemonium the lights came back on. Which is another mystery in itself, since in our town if the lights go out they come back again only after about a week. The lights came on just in time for people to notice the snake slip into another house. It clearly didn't understand the concept of escape - maybe it was on a suicide mission, we'll never know. That house had as residents two small babies, and their very hot-blooded uncle. Now, that was its death warrant. He ignored the pleas of his mother to spare the snake and did what should've been done in the first place. He grabbed a sturdy stick, and with a brisk nod of his head whacked the snake with it. Everything was over in a flash.

For us kids the excitement of the day ended here, and we trooped back to our houses to face the wrath and fury of our parents. For the elders, however, it wasn't over. They insisted on having a proper funeral for the snake, and that too with sandalwood. Jeez! Everyone had to reluctantly give up our little precious sticks of sandalwood so the snake could attain nirvana and not haunt our grandchildren. Sigh.

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.

Blame it on the weather

Summer - Such a warm and drowsy afternoon, the weather's making me really sleepy.
Monsoon - It's so cloudy and wet and gloomy, I feel like sleeping for a while just to get rid of the dullness that's enveloping me.
Winter - God, it's so cold and cozy, I just wish I could curl up in a nice blanket and go to sleep!

I realized a bit late that seasons change, but for me, sleep is constant.

Animal Farm

In his essay Why I Write, George Orwell speaks about his love for writing -

"I wanted to write enormous naturalistic novels with unhappy endings...."

Animal Farm might not be enormous, but it is definitely unhappy. When I first heard of it and decided to read it, all I knew about it was that it was a book about animals on a farm who could talk like people.

List of characters worth a mention -

Major, an elderly pig. He inspires the rebellion and sets down rules for harmonious living. However, he dies of old age soon after the rebellion.

Snowball the pig. He is one of the leaders after the Major dies, but is driven out of the farm by Napoleon's dogs.

Napoleon the pig. Uncontested leader after Major and Snowball. Responsible for the downfall of the farm. I hate this pig more than I ever hated any other pig.

Squealer the pig. Majorly responsible for spreading good words about Napoleon and suppressing feelings of dissent among the animals. I hate him more than Napoleon.

Boxer the horse. Accepts everything without question and works like a dog, only to be sent to the slaughterhouse when he's old.

Then there are the dogs who are feared by everyone and act as Napoleon's guards. The hens, who rebel briefly against Napoleon and are squashed. The cows, meek and defenseless; the pigeons, who act as messengers and try to get animals from other farms to rebel as well.

The story in a nutshell - It all starts with rebellion and the ousting of Mr. Jones and his wife, the owners of Manor Farm (renamed Animal Farm). The animals assume control of the farm under the leadership of the boar, Major. He lays a few ground rules for a peaceful existence that the animals refer to as the Seven Commandments.

Things work out great for the animals initially; ecstatic that they're not working for humans anymore, they work harder than ever and produce harvests the farm's never seen before. Slowly, it is noticed that the pigs rarely work but are almost always supervising or ordering the other animals about. This is put down to their superior intelligence and the animals accept the turn of events without complaint.

With the old boar Major now dead, the leadership falls into the hands of two pigs, Napoleon and Snowball. Snowball is always full of intellectual ideas for the farm and how it could be bettered; Napoleon's only job is to undermine Snowball's ideas. One fine day Snowball is chased away by Napoleon's ferocious dogs and never seen again.

As the years fly by, Napoleon becomes supreme leader and dictator and the Seven Commandments initially written by Major are now altered to suit the pigs. Napoleon's descendants are now the rulers, not allowed to mingle with the other animals, the lower classes. The pigs' supremacy is now absolute, and they even start walking on their hind legs, just like humans.

My take on Animal Farm - The book is a political allegory on the then situation in the Soviet Union; and I felt George Orwell was able to put forth the details of Stalin's rule beautifully. Accepted, the novel is depressing; but then so was Stalin's government.

The only thing that disappointed me was the manner the novel ended. I expected the animals to fight against the injustice that was meted out to them; however, they mutely accept their fate, their memories of good old days dimming day by day; they just have no idea that if they wished, their lives could be better. Maybe in some distant future Napoleon might have faced rebellion, but Orwell ended the novel before it could.

Nevertheless, the book is a must-read and a must-have in any library.

PS: You can also read George Orwell's essay, Why I Write. I loved it.