Neeta

I wiped off my forehead instinctively- more like a habit rather than a need. The stuffy old kitchen, which has bore years old stains of curry stains and sticky sweetness, was then filled with steam and humidness. I could sense the whiff of biryani from the counter, the punchy fragrance of rezala and all other dishes that I had hastily prepared. It smelled of routine tasks and paroles, like a worn-down laptop with dilapidated keys and dimming screen. To me, it was more a duty to be fulfilled, less a kingly meal.

I always had this unique quality, that I could taste a food from just its fragrance. Chilly red gravy was swirling on the pot, and I could say that it would be excruciatingly spicy just from its seasoned smell of herbs and spices. Maybe it was too thick as well. Let me make it slightly less thick, and try to bring down the peppered essence.

Burning, blue flames danced whimsically beneath the black coated iron pot. It sneered and hissed at me, not realizing the fact that I could control the knobs. Puffs of steam arose from the curry while I stirred. Clangs and clings of utensils, hissing flames, and constant humming of the ventilator were enough to block out the jovial aura out of the kitchen. Perhaps the better term would be “adequate.”

Children were playing around the house. Ladies were engrossed in trivial rumors about a distant relative one had. Men were either out in the garden gossiping, or glued to the screens of whatever devices they could lay their hands upon. The whole world was up for festivity and happiness. Well, mostly everyone.

Sweat drops paved their ways across my moist forehead, and I could feel my head slightly spinning. It was heat from the stove, I told myself, but I knew that it was fever. Not that it matters anyhow. My maa used to say, you should never feel any pain. Now that I think of it, she probably meant that you get numb to the afflictions you’re blessed with, but who knows?

She told me only this much, but she never told me how was I supposed to do so? Thus I came up with my own strategy: Ignorance is the best solution when you cannot talk back. It might not be the "best", but it has helped me survive this far.

The gravy was done, finally. I put off the stove; for some odd reason, it actually felt great to see those taunting blue flames die down. Like a mother carrying her child, I carefully held the handles of the steel utensil and put it gently on the dining table. I sprinkled some tiny coriander leaves on top. It looked beautiful, like an art. However, the only thing that mattered was that it should be appetizing.

It was the last dish, so hurray, I was done. I quickly went for a shower and put on my red saree. It was my favorite- mesmerizing designs of green leaves were spread out across the whole fabric. I wanted to let my hair down, but….. No, I felt that tying it up would be better. So I pulled up my hair into a tight bun, and rushed back to the dining hall again. 

“Neeta, are you done yet? The kids are complaining about food. It’s high time we should start the meal,” a lady complained. She wore an electrifying blue dress, which clasped her portly figure and contrasted with her red-dyed hair and deep red-tinted lips.

I thought maybe she was hungry- the kids were merely an excuse. It is one universal truth, that I knew and believed, is that children could be anything but hungry when they all are busy playing. They would get hungry, eventually, but would never, ever want to get up from their games and gossip. 

 “Yeah, I’m serving now,” I smiled politely. Poor thing must be devastatingly hungry.

I swiftly set out the plates across the dining table, and a few extra plates so that people could also eat in the drawing room. I carefully put out the dishes on the table- not a single drop of soup nor a grain of rice should fall on the table. Each plate must get an equal amount of biryani, unless asked for more. The ceramic plates must not fall from my hand, and the rice is to be served from the corner of the glassware. I have done this for fifteen years of my married life, and yet every time I get extremely conscious while serving out food to the whole family.

The elders sat on the dining table, while the rest took their plates and sat on the sofa. TV was on at full volume, as well as the speakers were blaring out some sort of popular music. Everything was in chaos, but everyone was still happy. That made me feel glad.

“Neeta, the food is absolutely delicious!” A man cried out. He was licking his fingers- he might as well chew them. “Y’know, food’s the only reason I attend the parties.”

Everyone roared out in laughter. I smiled inwardly. Great, the food was then appetizing.

“And the presentation…. Wow. You should have become a chef, Neeta!” his wife chimed in.

“It’s a bit too spicy for me, though,” the lady in blue commented, “go easy on the peppers, dear.”

The conversation went on and on. I never had a great sense of humor, but I was baffled why the whole table burst into laughter every now and then. I was glad that the topic soon shifted from my cooking to someone named something. It was …… confusing enough as it was. I silently served more rice and gravy to everyone, and checked upon the kids in the drawing room time and time again. Sometimes, they asked for more gravy, sometimes more biryani, and most of the time for another round of Pepsi or Sprite. The blue woman took a lot of gravy; I think she would probably have eaten the whole dish if there weren’t so many people eating together with her.

After an eternity, everyone got up, gradually. They were still gossiping about random things plucked out from their universe. I followed up to clean the table.

“Thanks for the meal, dear.” the lady in blue studied me from the opposite side of the table. She put emphasis on the word “dear,” perhaps. “You might be, well, not that brilliant. But, hey, it is as if you’re made for the kitchen.” Her voice was laced with mockery, but maybe I was over-analyzing.