Kitchen, Cooking,
and Creation
by Kamna Chhabra
Parenting
about four decades ago, when I was a 13-year-old,
was very different from what it is today.
Strictness was the norm and certain areas of the
house, like the kitchen, while not
explicitly off-limits, were sacred zones.
I had always
been captivated by my mother’s culinary
finesse, particularly her legendary baingan
ka bharta. Occasionally, she would let me
peel the roasted eggplant and narrate the entire
recipe, almost as if preparing me for the day
when I would assist her in recreating her magic.
That day came
sooner than expected, memorable as well as best
forgotten. My mother had to undergo an unplanned
surgery, leaving me, my younger sister and father
to fend for ourselves. For the first two days, we
survived on restaurant food, but my father couldn’t
stop lamenting the absence of Mom’s
signature touch. I wholeheartedly agreed and
decided to take matters into my own little hands.
The next
morning, feigning stomach cramps, I skipped
school. My younger sister, not keen on going
alone, asked if she could accompany father to
visit Mom at the hospital. He reluctantly agreed.
Once they left, I rummaged through the vegetable
basket, and found two eggplants, some tomatoes,
and an onion. Perfect! I decided to make, yes you
guessed it right- baingan ka bharta,
little knowing that it could be a challenge for a
novice.
Having heard
the process from my mother umpteen times and
contributed to it ‘peel by peel,’ made
me confident enough to place the brinjals, after
a thorough wash, on the gas stove. Meanwhile, I
chopped onions, tomatoes, green chillies, garlic,
and ginger with great zeal. The smoky roasted
pulp flesh was soon ready, and I heated a pan
with a generous amount of desi ghee.
In went all the chopped vegetables, along with
nearly every spice I could find in the masala box.
Convinced that
I was about to ‘create’ the best dish
ever cooked by anyone, I garnished the bharta with
fresh coriander and topped it with two big
dollops of butter for the final flair. I couldn’t
wait for my father and sister to return and taste
my triumph.
When they
arrived, I proudly announced, “No outside
food today!” Nonplussed, they looked at me.
“We’re having ghar ka khana- baingan
ka bharta by me and chapatis, courtesy
Shobha Aunty who dropped by and made them for us,”
I added.
“Amazing!”
they chorused, unable to ‘digest’ the
fact. As the spiced mash was being served, my
sister peered at it closely. “It looks a
touch too dark,” she remarked. “My dear,
it’s roasted well and good,” I retorted.
The first
morsel and they both grimaced, shaking my, so far,
supreme self-assurance. Apprehensive, I took a
bite and nearly gagged. My face fell, leaving me
wondering what could have gone wrong.
“I told
you. It has come out quite blackish!” My
sister's comment added insult to injury.
“Did you
peel the skin properly?” father queried. And
the secret was unravelled- the ‘bitter’
truth, imparting a valuable lesson to me.
I was far
better at cooking up stories and creating playful
narratives than cooking a meal in the kitchen.
And the fact that you are reading this, and
probably smiling, proves I’ve served you one
just right.
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