A matter of principle

(This was published in 'Foreign Flavours' an anthalogy on food writings from all over the world)

A Matter of Principle

There were very few things Rina couldn’t do. And there were some
things she didn’t want to do, even if she could.

Rina was often labelled superwoman, with her job as a sales
director, her beautiful five-year-old daughter, her successful
husband, and their immaculate detached house in Surrey. Her
friends agreed she was the perfect hostess and cook par excellence.
Effortlessly, she could mix Western with Indian cooking, create a
fusion between spices and herbs, just as she could mix and match
Western tops and Indian skirts with panache. The only person who
didn’t see what others saw in Rina was her mother-in-law.

This year, when she arrived in Rina’s house all the way from
India, she had come prepared.

‘Rina, this time I have got everything you need to make idlis.
The powdered rice, the biri dal – and even a stand. You just put the
batter into the moulds, microwave for a few minutes, and there,
your soft idlis are ready! And for the chutney, I have got the
desiccated coconut, and the special roasted dal. This Sunday I can
teach you how to make them. Rakesh likes idlis for breakfast.’

‘Sorry Ma, I am out on Sunday morning – I have a pilates
class.’

‘Pilates, what’s that?’

‘Nothing connected to idlis,’ she said under her breath.

In the living room, Rakesh watched Peppa Pig with Renee.

‘Bath time, Renee,’ she said, and walked out of the kitchen,
leaving her mother-in-law with all the packets she had been
displaying. Rakesh and she had been married for eight years, and
every year his mother had tried to teach Rina how to make the
traditional south Indian food which Rakesh loved. You had to
admire her persistence.

‘White and tasteless, unhealthy as well; why does anyone like
them?’

‘First of all,’ Rakesh had said in Saravana Bhavan, a South
Indian restaurant in Eastham which they visited once a month, ‘it’s
not unhealthy. Idlis are steamed, hence no oil. They taste wonderful,
with sambar and chutney – a perfect marriage of blandness and
spiciness.’

‘No nutritional value,’ she persisted.

‘Wrong again. You get carbohydrates from the idlis, proteins
from the lentils in the sambar, then chuck some vegetables in and
you have your vitamins. A complete meal! Renee, do you want
some?’ He held out a piece of idli soaked in the steaming sambar
for her. ‘This place is so good, really!’

‘Yuck,’ said Renee. ‘Mummy, can I have some pancake?’

‘This is a dosa, honey, here try it.’ The dosa did look like a
crispy pancake, stuffed with potatoes. Renee didn’t care much for
that either and went back to her ham sandwich.

That had been a week ago, but now that Rakesh’s mother
was visiting for a few months, there would be no trips to
restaurants. She believed in home-cooked food.

All week, Rina was away at work, and it was a relief. Her
well-ordered home became a bomb site. A hundred things stood on
the granite tops in the kitchen. Rakesh’s mother believed in cooking
for her only son. Puris were fried in hot oil till golden; mustard
seeds and dry chillies spluttered and were added as garnish to
vegetables fried in turmeric and salt; curries simmered for hours till
the meat was tender. While this should have helped Rina, it only
added to her work of clearing up after her mother-in-law’s mess.

Every August they had a barbeque for their friends. Rina
assumed they wouldn’t this year, but Rakesh felt his mother would
enjoy it. She had been rather lonely since his father had passed away
four years back. Rina knew better than to challenge Rakesh about
his parents. Her normally loving husband went berserk if he
thought any criticism was being launched on them.

‘Something new like bacon and prawn with aparagus spears?
Chicken, lamb salad of course, potatoes.’ She was deciding on the
menu.

‘Why not make some puris?’ Her mother-in-law said.

She didn’t deign to reply, leaving it to Rakesh, who strangely
enough said nothing. Who could even think of eating deep-fried
puris with hot potato curry in the summer? Rakesh would stand
patiently at the fire and fry them one by one; if you overdid them
they would burn, if not they wouldn’t fluff up.

‘It won’t go with the rest of the things I am making,’ she
said.

‘Too much work, Ma,’ Rakesh added eventually.

‘Oh, I know, what about idlis? How many people are
coming? I will show you how to make them.’

‘Doesn’t really go with meat.’

‘Rakesh loves them, why don’t you learn? Then you could
make them once a week or month. The same batter could be used
to make dosas too. A nice light Friday dinner.’

‘She just won’t, Ma. Why don’t you accept it?’ said Rakesh.

Rina ran upstairs, tears in her eyes. She did so much, so
much, yet it wasn’t enough. When this woman came to her house,
Rakesh became a different person. As if home-made idlis made such
a difference in life – yet she would be judged till eternity if she
didn’t comply.

Upstairs, she rang her mother. ‘People may love a thousand
things: am I meant to make them all?’

‘Maybe it would make him happy? Just as a gesture? He
would feel you care for him.’

‘Ha! I love sushi, but I don’t see him making that for me. If
he loves it so much, then he should eat out.’

‘I am not telling you to make it, beti, you know I never
would. I am just trying to explain the expectation.’

‘Mum, you know it’s all about us women always having to
do something for men. And isn’t it enough that I do so much?’

‘You just need to manage these people. Relax. Take it
lightheartedly. Go along with them instead of getting upset. It’s
been eight years and it’s still troubling you. Just tell them you can’t
make them at home as it’s too cold in England for the batter to
ferment properly. Tell them I tried it, and it didn’t work.’

Rina wished her mother were here instead: her mother,
who from childhood was determined that her daughter would have
her career first, her kitchen next.

At work she told Ava – single, independent Ava. ‘If her
opinion and liking matter so much to you, then why don’t you just
do it? Then the problem will be solved. Don’t tell me you can’t
make this recipe?’

‘Of course I can! But I don’t want to. It’s a matter of
principle. I don’t cook things which embody a deeper problem –
that of the woman being subjugated. Being considered lower than a
man, and forced to do something. Why doesn’t anyone tell Rakesh
to make something for me?’

Ava rolled her eyes. ‘To me, it’s simple. Just make it once.
That will shut the woman up and you are free. Let’s face it, you are
a superwoman. You need to be liked and appreciated by everyone.
So why don’t you do what she wants you to make her like you?’

‘Why can’t she like me the way I am?’

‘Why bother? She only wants you to do this as she feels it’s
important to her son.’

‘Come off it. Ava. What do you know? You have no
mother-in-law, lucky you.’

‘No husband as well, mind you. They come in one package.’

The next day, they went shopping for the barbeque.
Chicken drumsticks in Jamaican jerk spices, Tandoori paste and
Piri Piri. Lamb chops in salt and pepper. Kebabs with onions and
chillies. Couscous with peppers and garlic. A cool strawberry trifle
as dessert. Pimms and lemonade. It would be a wonderful day.

Six families were coming. Two of them were South Indian
just like Rakesh, one was from the East like Rina, the other three

were a mix of English and Europeans. A global mix of flavours and
tastes to suit all palates.

She thought of her birthday a month ago when Rakesh had
taken her to Nobu. ‘You love sushi and you have never been to
Nobu?’ So she dressed up in her new fitted black dress they went
out to dinner, leaving the nanny to look after Renee.

When the Orangerie had reopened, he had booked a
weekend trip to Paris so that she could see Monet’s lilies. Then they
had gone to the Opera. He knew what she liked; he did appreciate
her interests. So if he still loved something as a part of his
childhood, never mind if it was a prosaic idli and not a sophisticated
French delicacy, did that really matter?

Rakesh lit the barbeque a few minutes before their friends
arrived. She started getting the food out, the raw meats and fish to
be barbequed, the salads and breads on the side. But when she
emerged with her last plate, she watched Rakesh’s smile grow wider.
A large bowl of white idlis, some sambar and chutney.

‘Well I never! You made these! When? How did you learn to
make them?’

She smiled modestly. ‘Really, it’s not hard at all. Try one.’

He smiled even more broadly. ‘Wait till Ma sees this. She
thought you couldn’t make them. She has no idea!’

‘I’ll be back in a second, just need to put some lipstick on.’

‘You don’t have to, you look stunning anyway.’

She smiled at her husband and went inside. She had just
remembered something. She rummaged in her bag till she found it
– a receipt from Saravana Bhavan. She tore it into shreds, flushed it
away, and then reapplied her lipstick.

Now they had their ‘home-made’ idlis and she didn’t have to
compromise. After all, it was a matter of principle.

©Mona Dash