Scene I, Ranchi: “Promise me , You’ll have two boiled eggs everyday for breakfast before leaving for the plant.” My mother was virtually in tears as she stuffed my travel bag with almost everything edible she could find. On earlier occasions I would audit the packing she would carry out religiously and do away with superfluous eatables.” Less luggage, more comfort” I am a firm believer…Unfortunately my mother isn’t. This time she was not even ready to let me have a look, leave alone the screening. And she had reasons strong enough. I was leaving for Pune after two months of medical leave at home and somehow the doctor had managed to convince my parents that the reason for my prolonged ailment was my carelessness towards diet. So I had been through long sessions on what to eat ,how to cook etc. Unfortunately this time around my mother had the support of everyone else in the family. And I had to abide by.
Scene II, Pune: Day-Thursday, Time:11 am. I am off my bed wandering in my apartment to find my roommates cosily scattered on the bed. I was missing the juice, an apple, some dry fruits, a glass of milk and neatly buttered bread along with some eggs which would be beautifully laid down in front me as soon as I was off the bed. The doctor’s words echoed in my ears “Eat high protein diet and don’t skip a meal” I went down to the grocery bringing back some eggs and a packet of bread. I was determined not to starve myself to ailment again. I was sick of lying on the bed with thermometer stuck up my throat. I started off with boiling the eggs which was the easiest thing to do according to my mother. You just have to put some water and two eggs in a boiling pan and put it on the heater and wait till the eggs boil. Sounds simple-I had thought then. I followed my mother’s instructions and after putting up the pan on the heater I went on to watch some news showing Shri Ram Sene sainiks beating up girls in the pub in Mangalore. The gory images and the stark immorality of the so called moral police had me stuck to the idiot box a little longer. The eggs by the time were beginning to send signals by spilling hot water almost everywhere and I had to rush to the kitchen to pacify them. Buttering the bread was not that difficult and I sat on the sofa with the bread and boiled eggs to get a hang of what was happening in Mangalore. To sit for a breakfast prepared entirely by oneself is indeed a great satisfaction. Alas….the feeling was short-lived. I peeled off the outer shell of the eggs only to find a pulpy interior and when I cut open the eggs into halves my disappointment knew no limits. I was shattered. The egg was far from boiled and all I could do was stare at the yellow yolk flowing out soaking my neatly buttered bread. I remembered how I used to demand for another set of eggs to be boiled for me if I found even a tinge of unboiledness and how easily my mother would oblige. I was beginning to miss my mother. Recovering from the egg fiasco I decided to put some milk into my system. This time I wont hurry. I had decided. I left the milk to be boiled and got myself glued to the Mangalore debacle again. And by the time I recalled that I had an appointment in the kitchen, it was too late. All I was left with was a burnt finger and milk spilled all over the place to be cleaned up. My first attempts with cooking had met with a disastrous fate.
It was 12.30 and I was feeling miserably hungry. I had lost every little hope that I had with my cooking acumen. I rushed to Chaya Parantha House ordering “Ek chicken masala aur rice”. As I ravaged on the delicacies I pondered over the answers I would be giving to my mother’s incessant questioning. The inevitable had happened. My phone rang and it was my mother. “How are you? Are you having proper diet? Did you boil the eggs for yourself? Did you have milk for your breakfast? Did you weigh yourself? How much weight have you put on? Are you having fruits along with milk and eggs? “ She was firing questions. My first instinct was to narrate the kitchen ordeal to her. But then I chose to be my natural self and just answered her questions with a nod and an unconvincing YES. I just hope that the girl I am married to is not as bad a cook as I am. I am amazed at the genuine attempts I have made. And you call me a chauvinist….Not fair..;)
Scene II, Pune: Day-Thursday, Time:11 am. I am off my bed wandering in my apartment to find my roommates cosily scattered on the bed. I was missing the juice, an apple, some dry fruits, a glass of milk and neatly buttered bread along with some eggs which would be beautifully laid down in front me as soon as I was off the bed. The doctor’s words echoed in my ears “Eat high protein diet and don’t skip a meal” I went down to the grocery bringing back some eggs and a packet of bread. I was determined not to starve myself to ailment again. I was sick of lying on the bed with thermometer stuck up my throat. I started off with boiling the eggs which was the easiest thing to do according to my mother. You just have to put some water and two eggs in a boiling pan and put it on the heater and wait till the eggs boil. Sounds simple-I had thought then. I followed my mother’s instructions and after putting up the pan on the heater I went on to watch some news showing Shri Ram Sene sainiks beating up girls in the pub in Mangalore. The gory images and the stark immorality of the so called moral police had me stuck to the idiot box a little longer. The eggs by the time were beginning to send signals by spilling hot water almost everywhere and I had to rush to the kitchen to pacify them. Buttering the bread was not that difficult and I sat on the sofa with the bread and boiled eggs to get a hang of what was happening in Mangalore. To sit for a breakfast prepared entirely by oneself is indeed a great satisfaction. Alas….the feeling was short-lived. I peeled off the outer shell of the eggs only to find a pulpy interior and when I cut open the eggs into halves my disappointment knew no limits. I was shattered. The egg was far from boiled and all I could do was stare at the yellow yolk flowing out soaking my neatly buttered bread. I remembered how I used to demand for another set of eggs to be boiled for me if I found even a tinge of unboiledness and how easily my mother would oblige. I was beginning to miss my mother. Recovering from the egg fiasco I decided to put some milk into my system. This time I wont hurry. I had decided. I left the milk to be boiled and got myself glued to the Mangalore debacle again. And by the time I recalled that I had an appointment in the kitchen, it was too late. All I was left with was a burnt finger and milk spilled all over the place to be cleaned up. My first attempts with cooking had met with a disastrous fate.
It was 12.30 and I was feeling miserably hungry. I had lost every little hope that I had with my cooking acumen. I rushed to Chaya Parantha House ordering “Ek chicken masala aur rice”. As I ravaged on the delicacies I pondered over the answers I would be giving to my mother’s incessant questioning. The inevitable had happened. My phone rang and it was my mother. “How are you? Are you having proper diet? Did you boil the eggs for yourself? Did you have milk for your breakfast? Did you weigh yourself? How much weight have you put on? Are you having fruits along with milk and eggs? “ She was firing questions. My first instinct was to narrate the kitchen ordeal to her. But then I chose to be my natural self and just answered her questions with a nod and an unconvincing YES. I just hope that the girl I am married to is not as bad a cook as I am. I am amazed at the genuine attempts I have made. And you call me a chauvinist….Not fair..;)
Comments
Well written bro.. btw, how are you doing now?
it was gr8 aashu how u managed to bring out a blog with this simple and humble incident....carry on....
Off i go
@patra- baba .... aap kahan hee cooking seekhne lagee.. aap log room service waale log hain.. bandee ko salary bataiyega.. koi sawaal aage nahee poochhegeee :D
@aashu: Talking about my culinary skills, it is as good as a cave man's :P