a cook. Haan, I might not be as good as your Baiju Maharaj yet, but wait and see. You will soon be begging for stuff I cook.’
‘You know, Nisha, how diet-conscious I am. I am careful about what I eat, and Baiju knows exactly what I want. He’s been with me for ages. Just leave the cooking to him.’
I did feel a bit upset at the way he put it so frankly. But a marriage is all about honesty, isn’t it? I do know how very careful he is about his diet, and how he will not miss his workout at the gym for anything in the world (A lean, taut, muscular body like that of Adonis does not come without all that hard work). But still, there was no need to be so upfront about it.
‘Okay, Samir. I won’t do the course and I won’t cook for you. Happy?’
‘Hey, Nisha. Don’t get upset. Go do the course! It makes you happy, right?’
‘It’s not that it makes me happy, Samir. You are at work the whole day and when you come back, you don’t want to talk about it. I am at home the whole day. Cooking and cleaning is taken care of by your efficient staff.’
‘Not “your”, my love, it is now “OUR”. This home is as much yours as it is mine,’ he gently corrects me.
‘Well, what I am saying is that this is not how it used to be before, Samir. I felt good at work, I felt good discussing every project with you, and how you valued my inputs. And now suddenly I am at home, with nothing to do except waiting for you to get back. Thenyou don’t even want to discuss things that happened at office with me anymore.’
‘I leave my office worries in the office itself, Nisha. And besides, when have we really talked work after office? I need to unwind once I get back home, I need to take a breather, and talking about work is a strain. I thought you of all people would understand that.’
He was right as usual, of course. In office, we gave work our hundred per cent, but once we left office, we made it a point not to talk about it. We just ended up having some amazing sex and we were recharged for the next day.
‘Yeah, Samir, you’re right. I don’t know why I am getting so worked up these days.’
He had kissed me on the forehead and said, ‘Go do the course baby, you will feel good.’
The course turns out to be a very good one. When it came to cooking, I knew only the basic items like rice, dal, rotis, and a few vegetables. In my growing up years, Malati Tayi had cooked for us, and after she passed away, I had managed the basics. My father never cooked, except for the regular cups of tea he made for himself. He had once said that my mother had been a really superb cook. So maybe it was genetic, I don’t know, but I find myself really interested in learning all that the course instructor has to teach. She is Mrs Indrayani, a round, fat, Punjabi lady, and she proudly announces that food is her passion. It shows.
We have learnt how to bake a mouth-watering pineapple cake. The course includes everything—right from starters to main course to desserts. It includes the basic dishes from four styles, namely, Mughlai, Continental, Indian, and Chinese. I get to learn the various terminologies used in cooking; I learn the difference between sautéing and blanching, and the julienne style of chopping vegetables. I also learn how in Chinese cooking, cutting the vegetables with precision is the most important thing, and how it has to be cooked on very high flame for very little time.
Baiju has already cooked for the day and left. But I badly want to cook, to try out all that I have learnt in my cooking class. I zero in on a sumptuous-sounding Chinese meal and decide to go shopping for the ingredients I would need. When I finally make it, I am so pleased with the results. The fried rice and noodles are cooked to perfection. So are the stir-fried vegetables in hot garlic sauce. And so is the chilly–garlic chicken. I am so darn proud of my first home-cooked meal that I simply sit and gaze at it in admiration. It looks so
‘You know, Nisha, how diet-conscious I am. I am careful about what I eat, and Baiju knows exactly what I want. He’s been with me for ages. Just leave the cooking to him.’
I did feel a bit upset at the way he put it so frankly. But a marriage is all about honesty, isn’t it? I do know how very careful he is about his diet, and how he will not miss his workout at the gym for anything in the world (A lean, taut, muscular body like that of Adonis does not come without all that hard work). But still, there was no need to be so upfront about it.
‘Okay, Samir. I won’t do the course and I won’t cook for you. Happy?’
‘Hey, Nisha. Don’t get upset. Go do the course! It makes you happy, right?’
‘It’s not that it makes me happy, Samir. You are at work the whole day and when you come back, you don’t want to talk about it. I am at home the whole day. Cooking and cleaning is taken care of by your efficient staff.’
‘Not “your”, my love, it is now “OUR”. This home is as much yours as it is mine,’ he gently corrects me.
‘Well, what I am saying is that this is not how it used to be before, Samir. I felt good at work, I felt good discussing every project with you, and how you valued my inputs. And now suddenly I am at home, with nothing to do except waiting for you to get back. Thenyou don’t even want to discuss things that happened at office with me anymore.’
‘I leave my office worries in the office itself, Nisha. And besides, when have we really talked work after office? I need to unwind once I get back home, I need to take a breather, and talking about work is a strain. I thought you of all people would understand that.’
He was right as usual, of course. In office, we gave work our hundred per cent, but once we left office, we made it a point not to talk about it. We just ended up having some amazing sex and we were recharged for the next day.
‘Yeah, Samir, you’re right. I don’t know why I am getting so worked up these days.’
He had kissed me on the forehead and said, ‘Go do the course baby, you will feel good.’
The course turns out to be a very good one. When it came to cooking, I knew only the basic items like rice, dal, rotis, and a few vegetables. In my growing up years, Malati Tayi had cooked for us, and after she passed away, I had managed the basics. My father never cooked, except for the regular cups of tea he made for himself. He had once said that my mother had been a really superb cook. So maybe it was genetic, I don’t know, but I find myself really interested in learning all that the course instructor has to teach. She is Mrs Indrayani, a round, fat, Punjabi lady, and she proudly announces that food is her passion. It shows.
We have learnt how to bake a mouth-watering pineapple cake. The course includes everything—right from starters to main course to desserts. It includes the basic dishes from four styles, namely, Mughlai, Continental, Indian, and Chinese. I get to learn the various terminologies used in cooking; I learn the difference between sautéing and blanching, and the julienne style of chopping vegetables. I also learn how in Chinese cooking, cutting the vegetables with precision is the most important thing, and how it has to be cooked on very high flame for very little time.
Baiju has already cooked for the day and left. But I badly want to cook, to try out all that I have learnt in my cooking class. I zero in on a sumptuous-sounding Chinese meal and decide to go shopping for the ingredients I would need. When I finally make it, I am so pleased with the results. The fried rice and noodles are cooked to perfection. So are the stir-fried vegetables in hot garlic sauce. And so is the chilly–garlic chicken. I am so darn proud of my first home-cooked meal that I simply sit and gaze at it in admiration. It looks so
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