Selected as the Great Read in the January issue of The Australian Women’s Weekly.
There is a Mute in the Kitchen
Devi never cooked. It wasn’t like she was a terrible cook; she’d just never done it before. Saroj had tried to teach her children to cook without having them actually cook in her kitchen, messing it up, and she’s failed.
“Some girls are just not domestic,” she would complain, ignoring Devi when she pointed out that all her attempts at learning were thwarted because Saroj couldn’t even stand the idea of any one else but her cooking in her kitchen. Saroj lived in fear that Devi, Shobha, or even Vasu would put things away in the wrong place or ruin her perfectly managed kitchen. That was unacceptable and to avoid any kitchen mishaps, Saroj banned everyone from using her kitchen. She never said it out loud, but everyone knew anyway.
“How dirty can she make it?” Vasu interfered once when Devi pleaded that she be allowed to try a chocolate cake recipe a friend of hers had made all by herself.
But when it came to the kitchen, Saroj ruled supreme and no one could make cake or anything else there.
So after a childhood of only watching the cooking process in the kitchen, it gave Devi immense pleasure to walk into her mother’s kitchen and start cooking. She knew no one would argue, make a scene, or ask her to leave. She was a suicidal mute, who would want to take a chance and tip her scales off again?
The idea of eating Saroj’s regular, everyday, garden-variety mint chutney didn’t sit well with Devi. She wanted to eat something else, make something new, start fresh.
And she liked the idea of cooking, being in a kitchen, an uncomplicated world of spices, produce, lentils, meat, poultry, and rice. There were no arguments to be held here. This was sacred land. Her mind could wander on all sorts of possibilities here and she wouldn’t have to worry about where she ended up. Anything was possible and everything was acceptable, as long as she kept her mind confined to food and cooking.
Devi found the dry apricots in the pantry. They weren’t exactly old, but they weren’t bought yesterday, either. She couldn’t imagine why Saroj would’ve bought them, but was glad she had because they were perfect for what she had in mind. Devi soaked the apricots in sugar water while Saroj watched, her nose crinkled.
“The samosas will get cold, Devi”, she said. “Why don’t we eat these now and you can tell me what you want and I will make it for you.”
Devi didn’t even bother to acknowledge Saroj or the questioning glances of her family. She knew they were staring at her, trying to figure out what she was up to. Saroj was hovering inside the kitchen while Avi, Girish, Vasu, and Shobha stood by the counter that separated the large kitchen from the spacious dining area. The house had been built to Saroj’s specifications when Avi’s company started making money, and the kitchen was the crowning glory. Everyone knew that and maybe that was why Devi took great pleasure in spilling a spoonful of sugar on the marbled floor.
Saroj was ready to run with a hand vacuum and cloth when Avi pulled her out of the kitchen.
“Let her be,” he said firmly. “And I’ll clean the kitchen if it gets too dirty.”
Saroj’s chin jutted out and she removed Avi’s hand form her arm. “I was only trying to help her,” she said tightly.
“Don’t help her, just let her figure out whatever it is she’s trying to figure out,” Avi replied just as tightly.
“Why are we standing here watching her?” asked Shobha as she smothered a yawn. “It makes me very uncomfortable to look at her as if she’s some lab rat.”
“Do you have to go back to work?” Girish asked Shobha, who shook her head. “Then just shut up and watch,” he added with a smile.
“Mama, did she hit her head on the bathtub or something?”
Shobha turned to her mother, ignoring her husband. “I mean, she never seemed all that interested in cooking before.”
“I don’t know,” Saroj said and winced when Devi indelicately plucked mint leaves from her precious herb pot on the kitchen windowsill.
“What is she making?” Vasu asked.
“I don’t know,” Saroj repeated, sighing as Devi jerkily opened a closed ziplock bag of ginger and the three big pieces fell on the kitchen floor. “I think she’s making chutney for the samosas. I am not sure.”
Devi picked up the pieces of ginger and left them on the counter. She took one piece and started peeling it.
“Ginger-and-apricot chutney?” Girish wondered aloud.
“Let’s all not forget the mint,” Shobha reminded. Saroj grimaced, looking at her herb pot, which now had lost its symmetrical look. She was so careful with it and Devi had just demolished all that work. The neat freak inside Saroj wanted to rage: the mother kept her quiet.
Devi’s concoction was a ginger, apricot, and mint chutney, along with a good amount of chipotle chilli peppers found in a bottle, hidden deep down in Saroj’s everything-is-in-there pantry. The end result was a fiery, smoky, tangy concoction that beat the pants off Saroj’s mint chutney.
Devi told herself that she knew the difference between “afraid of suicidal person” praise and real praise. This was the real thing. Her chutney was a success. Pride swelled inside her and for the first time in a very long tome she felt a small measure of confidence. But then she thought of all the coming days and panic filled her. She couldn’t just make chutney every day and get a sense of accomplishment. Oh God, what was she going to do?
After the samosa was eaten without anyone saying anything to Saroj about how good they tasted, Girish opened the conversation up to more serious matters, beyond food.
“You gave us quite a fright”, Girish said tenderly, his gaze holding Devi’s. “We’re very happy you’re home.”
Devi nodded and slid a forefinger on her plate, scooped up some chutney, and licked her finger, daring Saroj to tell her she was eating like a junglee.
“Why? What happened? You couldn’t tell us?” Saroj asked as Devi sucked noisily on her forefinger. She scooped up some more chutney and shrugged.
“What do you mean by that? You have to talk…. You can’t just….” Saroj became silent when Avi glared at her. “We don’t want to put any pressure on you,” Saroj said on a long-suffering sigh.
“But you are putting pressure on her all the same,” Vasu snapped at Saroj, flustered, and then looked at Devi, forcing herself to be calm. “How about a walk? Some fresh air?”
Devi picked up her plate and ran her tounge on it. She set the plate down, perversely pleased that she’d been able to do what she just did without Saroj yelling the place down. As a child it was a treat to lick a plate smeared with remains of delicious goodies and she used to have to do it stealthily, but now, now she was a basket case, she could do anything she wanted to do.
Devi nodded to Vasu. On her way out, she realized that for the first time in her mother’s house, she’d not picked up her plate, rinsed it and put it inside he dishwasher. She’d also left the kitchen in a small mess. It made her happy.
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