C.V. Sukumaran
As lunch and dinner times near, our house becomes a battlefield most days. On one side is my son, leading a one-man army and on the other side my wife, heading a one-man nay, one-woman army. The issue at stake is my son’s profound aversion to Kerala dishes and my wife’s insistence on his eating them. Born and bred in Mumbai, he always favours non-south Indian dishes, and his only concession to Kerala food is Kerala papad and he luxuriates in it. And, you know, no mother can help being ill at ease if the sonny is fond of feeding only on this junk food. She, living in this city almost from birth, is a bit traditional and roots for Kerala dishes most times, though she doubtless has no dislike for north Indian ones. As the war rages, she turns to me for support, but one always remains neutral, bemused by the spat. The war comes to an end once the repast is over.
Speaking of dishes, my bachelor days saw me master culinary skills. A host of Kerala vegetarian delicacies were my culinary triumphs. In fact, I had thrown myself into honing my cooking skills heart and soul. It is said that your skills in the kitchen should approximate to that of Nala of the scriptures. He was not a run-of-the-mill cook but an accomplished one. Nala’s recipe is a benchmark of superb cooking. All later Indian recipes are only footnotes to his. My inexorable journey to gastronomic perfection had won me accolades from friends and relations.
“Keep your knowledge of cooking from her if you want to lead a hassle-free life after marriage,” advised a friend upon hearing about my impending meeting with the girl I had been engaged to tie the knots with. “Else the consequences will not be of your liking. At the risk of being branded an anti-feminist, let me tell you, women, especially the working ones, like your fiancée, are quite eager to know if their future husbands are kitchen savvy,” he added. I scarcely gave much thought to his words then. But later I learned that he spoke from experience. In his house, he did most of the cooking. Friends nicknamed him ‘Captain Cook’! Poor guy, the insight he imparted to me dawned on him postnuptially. He thus paid the price for not being insightful sooner.
She had an array of questions. The very first, inevitably, was, “Do you know cooking?” I was about to wax eloquent on my culinary skills, but in the nick of time recalled my friend’s advice. My answer made her face fall. A cloud of disappointment moved across her visage which was until then cheerful. “My friend’s husband knows cooking well. His flexible working hours always find him home early. The whale of a time he has at his disposal he utilizes profitably. Helping his wife is a passion for him. By the time my friend returns home, famished and haggard from work and gridlock, yummy dishes are on the dinner table. She is indeed quite lucky,” said my prospective wife wistfully. So, that’s it. Now I knew what she was driving at!
Thank goodness, I hadn’t disregarded my friend’s astute advice. Had I, I might have, probably, rued my foolishness to this day. Imagine what would’ve been my fate. Most evenings I would be languishing within the four walls of a kitchen like a Galley slave. I thanked my ‘philosopher’ friend profusely.
