Back in the 1990s, Valentine’s Day fever was yet to catch up. But, in February, many pretty young things in a Delhi neighbourhood were blushing pink, and the heroes in the gully were mustering courage to gift roses to their chosen girl.
In between all this was a young couple yet to celebrate their first anniversary. The girl had just been told about Valentine’s Day and the young man was at work, hoping to return early. She wrapped up work at office and went to pick a greeting card, only to be met with a red carpet welcome — red hearts, red balloons and red roses! She made a dash for the exit and decided to do something nicer — cook her man a nice dinner that he would cherish. And no red in the menu, she decided. So off went tomatoes, strawberries and even beetroot.
These were the pre-Google or home Internet days, so no scouting the Web for recipes. She checked her rarely-used, handwritten recipe book with jottings by her mother and mother-in-law. Nothing excited her. She peered through the window of her second floor home for inspiration from the next door lady’s kitchen. Auntyji was washing a mound of cauliflower.
Out came the cauliflower from the girl’s refrigerator and small florets piled up in a vessel. Fresh pea pods yielded emerald pearls and the juicy carrot bled orange as it was cubed. A fragrant tadka of cumin and methi leaves later, the vegetables tumbled into the pan. Garam masala and salt went in, and five minutes later the cauliflower and carrots were cooked but crisp, and the peas burst in the mouth with a sweet aftertaste.
On the side, she kneaded dough for roti , with a smattering of ajwain and a dash of salt, like the lady the next door had taught her. “Nothing must stick to your finger, beta ” she had said. Some carrot was grated, mint leaves chopped and added to creamy dahi , fresh from the dairy down the street.
As a special treat, she decided on an unusual dish — a jaggery-infused bitter gourd gravy, with just a hint of spice. The husband loved bitter gourd; it could transform him from a grump to a bundle of smiles. The gourd was prepared and fried over high heat using precious gingelly oil kept aside for such days. In went pale brown tamarind juice and a dash of turmeric. As it bubbled into a golden yellow mixture, a handful of jaggery and some salt were drizzled. Ten minutes later, the bittergourd slices were mere speckles in a sea of glorious brown.
The bell rang at 9 p.m. and in walked her man. The table was set, and two pink-and-white carnations stood cheerily in a vase. She got ready to roll out the rotis , when he suggested they eat in the kitchen, a tiny space where two people could stand together with difficulty.
The fine cutlery was set aside and a stainless steel plate took their place. A single chair was dragged to the kitchen, an oasis of warmth in a city still in the clutches of winter. As phulka after ghee-dabbed phulka landed on the plate, it was dunked into the bitter gourd gravy, the raita and the vegetable. Like children, they ate in turn — a mouthful for you, a mouthful for me.
There were no candles, no roses, no expensive gifts, no cards and no fancy menu. But there was a lot of love floating about in the warm hearth that night.
