A Reason for Cheer

by Sudha Nair

[box]Food plays a poignant role in Mira’s life, symbolising the love, comfort and security of home. When a new chapter in her life causes upheaval and threatens to cast a shadow of gloom over her happiness, will she be able to provide nourishment to her soul? Sudha Nair’s story has the answer.[/box]

It was a dull, overcast Saturday morning. Mira woke up early out of habit. Her sparse and tiny rented studio in downtown New York was much smaller than her parents’ home in Mumbai. The kitchenette stood against one wall, a small bed was tucked near the other, and a work table laden with a pile of books, design sketches, a canvas board and artwork crowded the rest of the space that she now called her new home. There was one window by the bed with no curtains yet. She had stuck newspaper on the frame—now rolled up and glued with tape to let in some light. It was still partly dark with the streets and cars covered with snow. A blizzard warning was issued this weekend. She’d stocked up on bread, cornflakes and other essentials ahead of the storm that could force her to be stuck indoors.

A cup of instant coffee in hand, she walked up to sit at the window sill, looked across the empty street below, and sighed. She yearned for a cup of her mother’s extra sweet filter coffee. She missed home badly. She had come to New York to do a masters course in fashion design; it was her dream of many years to open her own boutique. She idolised her father, a self-made textile businessman, and hoped that one day she would start a successful venture too. It had been a rather rigorous process of filling admission forms and visa procedures. She was lucky to find referrals from friends for a place to stay. But after all the trouble, here she was, finally in the place of her dreams, feeling terribly lonely and homesick. The ironical turn of events shocked her so much that it drove her to a point of despair at times, when she wished she could give up this whole idea of New York in simple exchange for the rather cosy and less challenging life she had lived back home.

Mira’s life had changed so much in New York, it was so different from back home. She missed the daily chit chats and outings with her friends of many years—the difference in time zone made it almost impossible to talk to them every day, when she wished to fill them in on daily happenings. Yes, technology did help bridge the gap but nothing, she felt, could replace the joy of being in the company of one’s friends in person. Strangely enough, she was also finding it quite tough to fit into a crowd of foreigners. She always had anticipated adapting in a foreign place could be a challenge but she had felt that with time she would overcome her loneliness. Only that she hadn’t realised how tough it really was.

She had just begun to make friends here, but hardly anyone dropped in home. There were no Hindi movies to go to, or friends to go out with, no shopping at Fashion Street where you could buy chappals in so many different colours, and no occasions to wear colourful duppattas and bangles or bindis to match them. Mira missed the roadside pani-puri haunt outside her Mumbai home. The mere thought of the mouth-watering crispy, deep-fried flour pockets filled with mashed potatoes, and a sweet, sour and spicy concoction of tamarind water, mint and chilli, shooting spurts of assorted flavours through her salivating mouth, was spinning a delightful cocoon of memories and images in her head.

And she suddenly went down a trail of food memories! How she missed her mother’s upma and coffee for breakfast, and the hot and spicy bhajjis with ginger tea on cold evenings! Mira’s lunch box used to be the envy of her classmates; fresh and flaky samosas or hot puris were a treat when she came back from college. Her mother’s rich cinnamon carrot cake worked wonders on her frayed exam-time nerves. Malathi, her mother, was really excited and proud about her cooking. She was like a seductress, a temptress, and Mira’s father, Bhaskar, was an eager victim of her culinary charm—his weakness lay in Malathi’s hot, puffy phulkas and zaphrani pulav.  Their home was forever abuzz with neighbours, classmates, kitty groups, business associates and friends—the tempting fare enticing guests to keep coming back for more.

Mira’s reverie ended when her thoughts flitted back to her present situation. Meals at her campus cafeteria were so monotonous and boring. Most days she ate peanut butter sandwiches for dinner if her classes or assignments made her stay back late. Weekend outings with friends always meant pizza, the thought of the stringy cheese on the crust filling her with revolt lately, unlike the pav-bhaji, her all-time favourite, laced with ghee and topped with crunchy, raw onions and sprinkled green coriander bits.

She didn’t look forward to food anymore like she did when her father brought home jalebis if business had been excellent that day, or when her mother made ragada pattice if they were going to the movies. Everything she ate now seemed so bland, even the Thali meal at the Indian joint was a pathetic excuse for authentic Indian. The Chinese take-out paled in comparison to rasam rice and alu palya. Bagels and cream cheese for breakfast seemed like a hollow substitute for soft idlis dunked in spicy sambar and topped with thick coconut chutney. Haste cuisine was soon turning into hate cuisine. Days had passed into a month, and now three! It was then that Mira realised that food was probably what she missed the most in her life away from home. She craved for a home-cooked meal so much that it pervaded her thoughts at all times. Just give me one meal that tastes like my mother’s or even close, she pleaded to the universe. If only she could cook, she groaned. She had never seriously ventured into the kitchen before, except to help or watch her mother cook. Cooking had seemed a little daunting then, and there had hardly been any need for her to cook until now. Food had always been taken for granted with her mother around. Even when Malathi coaxed Mira to try a few recipes before leaving for New York, Mira had been so busy and in a way indifferent about the whole thing that learning to cook had been the least of her concerns. Little had she anticipated her current distress!

At the window sill, Mira sighed wistfully, thinking of everything she missed about home, particularly the food. The depressing thought of consuming bread or cornflakes alternately for the long, gloomy and trapped weekend made her remember the box that her mother had packed in with her baggage to New York. Mira’s hectic schedule, her apprehension about cooking and the inertia to spend her free time in the kitchen, had caused her to almost forget the untouched box. If it weren’t for the fact that she couldn’t go out or order any food this entire weekend, the box would have slipped her mind altogether; she wouldn’t have finally opened what her mother had so carefully packed for her. She pulled out its contents one by one: medium-size packets of rice and yellow dal, tiny packets of Indian spices, a small plastic bottle of ghee, spoons, a couple of plates, a notebook, some pans, and the rice cooker, her mother had implored her to take. “I’m packing only basic kitchen things to help you settle in,” her mother had said.

Mira held out the small notebook with recipes her mother had written down, and looked for an easy recipe to start. She drooled on spotting the recipe for khichdi, a blend of slightly overcooked white rice and yellow dal, the memories of her favourite comforting meal taking her back to happier times. Khichdi it is, she decided. It felt like it was time now to face the mighty task, to assert her confidence, to bring the tickle back to her taste buds. She was fed up of wishing and wanting. It was deprivation pitted against longing, anguish against gratification, feeling-sorry-for-herself against resolve.

Without further ado, she got to work, gathering up the ingredients, and setting up the rice cooker and pan. She read the recipe instructions meticulously, and followed them, word for word, step by step, slowly and steadily. She washed the rice and yellow dal and put into the rice cooker with measured cups of water, a dash of turmeric and salt, and set it to cook. When the rice and dal were cooked, she melted a spoon of ghee in a hot pan, and scattered a few cumin and mustard seeds in it. The spice duo kicked up a fuss and set off into sputters. She gently lifted the pan with the aromatic ghee and spices swimming in it, and poured it into the rice and dal, mixing it all in to let the rice absorb the flavour and aroma of the ghee. Voila, her khichdi was ready; she had finally cooked her first meal.

She took out the beautiful plate her mother had packed in, served the khichdi onto it, placed it at her work table, and sat down to admire it, inhaling the aroma of the steaming dish. She imagined the look of pride on her mother’s face knowing that her daughter had finally taken the first step to cook. The sight of the gleaming khichdi glazed with ghee, misted her eyes and brought a lump to her throat.  She said a little prayer for the glorious meal that was before her. As she tasted the first spoonful of khichdi and felt its melting softness in her mouth, her heart swelled with pride. Umm. Ummm…she went. She couldn’t stop. Victory was finally served; it was feeding her soul. It was love at food sight. The months of melancholy gave way to contentment. Her spirit felt rejuvenated. She felt ready to embrace life with renewed passion. Life began to feel so much better.

Sudha, a mother of two, is constantly trying to pursue new avenues to push her creative boundaries. A chronic daydreamer, she is in awe of people who have followed their heart. Sudha is passionate about music, fitness, her family, and most recently, writing. She aspires to inspire through her writing and thanks her family for putting up with all her idiosyncrasies while she channels the writer in her!

[facebook]Share[/facebook] [retweet]Tweet[/retweet]