I remember how my mother disagreed and argued weakly with my father about a marriage proposal that had come for my 16-year-old elder sister. To my mother’s dismay my father won the day. My mother, who had herself wanted to go to college but was married at age 13 against her wishes, was now determined to shape me into a better person by inflicting on me various intellectual pursuits somehow. While I was in Class III she forced me to join Hindi classes, in the time of the anti-Hindi agitation of the 1960s in Madras.
I must applaud her courage. Unlike the members of today’s Gen-Y who have the freedom to decide their own paths, I attended those classes with much disinterest when all my friends were enjoying their vacations. As I reached Class IX, I slowly realised that she had other secret plans for me: typewriting classes, which started at 6.30 a.m. each day. By the time I reached Class XII, I had completed the Hindi course and was qualified to be a Hindi teacher. I had also completed my typewriting grades.
Though as a second daughter I only got to wear clothes and jewellery passed on from my sister, I was fortunate enough to attend college. My father was dead against sending me beyond a radius of 3 km from home, although the reputed colleges could be reached only by train or bus in the city. While I dreamt of a Physics major, he sent me to a college that was 20 minutes from home by foot. It had no science lab and offered only Mathematics. The bitter fruit was sweetened as I was allowed to graduate. The turmoil I experienced when I began attending the Maths course can only be imagined.
Now my mother unearthed the final time-bomb: shorthand classes! Soon I got a job and my wedding followed.
The first day in my new house was unforgettable. I was not even aware of items such as cauliflower or noodles as my parents ate only simple and traditional food. My mother-in-law showed all her expertise to present a welcome feast for her new daughter-in-law. I was awe-struck and the taste of those new foods lingers in my memory even today. Slowly I realised my new family-members were foodies. Their main subject of conversation was food.
As I had to continue working, my mother-in-law had to extend her hand in the cooking department for some time. Her expression was as rigid as that of a headmistress and I was always scared of her. After a month she enquired if I knew how to cook, and I casually replied, “Amma, I don’t know anything about cooking except the difference between a gas-stove and a pressure cooker.” She then launched me on a rigorous training programme.
As a test I was asked to make pongal . I knew the ingredients but not the proportions. Not even on the day of a public examination had I felt so nervous. I did manage to add enough salt and now came the most important part: tempering. I was told to coarsely grind pepper and jeera and temper in ghee but was unaware of the measures. So I took a fistful of both, powdered it and spread it over the rest. Something was not right.
When I served the dish I could see the faces around the table. The recipe popularly called ven pongal (white) was renamed karum pongal (black) in my home. But today I have mastered the recipe.
Slowly, cooking became my chief preoccupation. When I solved difficult lessons in mathematics, this deal of cooking tested my dignity. It was obsessive, and I was preoccupied with recipes for meals even while at work.
It took me ten years to realise the simple fact that cooking had taken over my life as I was always cooking or cutting vegetables when not in office. I asked myself whether I was kitchen material or working material. Finally, one fine day I resigned my job.
Why did I lose my childhood freedom to do various courses, only to end up cooking much of the time? What happened to mother’s dreams? Have all my academic work gone waste?
I did not want to give up. I thought and thought about how to establish my identity as an educated woman in the kitchen and finally I hit upon a plan. I wrote a cookery book in both English and Hindi, and am now waiting to get it published.
vijikumar1905@gmail.com
