“Watch.”
He stirred the fragrant mix, then started to add the spices. The basics. Red chilli powder, turmeric, dhaniya-jeera, salt.
“You have a proper mother’s masala dabba also,” she pointed, sounding oddly proud.
“Why wouldn’t I? I cook regularly, Ritu.”
“Where do you get the time?”
He stirred the curd gravy, then added the guvar fali that he had cooked separately.
“I used to usually make my meal in the morning before leaving. Mostly, I would eat a lunch-like brunch and go, and leave something like this in the fridge to come and make late at night. This or masala khichdi. My ultimate. With khichya papadi.”
“No papad and papadi for a while.”
“I know, Doctor.”
When the curd came to a simmer, he slowly added the crumbled rotla. And in a few seconds, the gravy became as thick as porridge. The fragrance was unbelievable. He ate this twice a week and still couldn’t get enough of it.
“Smell,” he took a ladleful to her and she inhaled.
“I can already smell it; your entire kitchen smells delicious. If I hadn’t eaten to bursting at Maya’s, I would have finished this entire pot.”
“I am not letting you go until you do that.”
“My mother would be so proud of me if I ever cooked like this. Alas, my cooking skills are limited to sandwiches, readymade-sauce pastas, salad and soups.”
“How do you survive on that stuff?”
“I make do… Hey, do you know I discovered a secret today?”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“NiP is a complete desi at heart.” She chortled.
“Don’t dent my image. They think I survive on half a kebab and soup for dinner.”
“And why would you let them think that?”
He ladled the vagharelo rotlo into two bowls even though she had declined. She would eat it. He knew she would.
“This industry is crazy, Ritu. They survive on drugs, smokes and alcohol. Nobody wants to eat. The food is abysmal, believe me. And I have been living here for the last 20 years. If I show this side of me, I wouldn’t get half the worship that I do.”
“So, then, who knows this side of you?”
“No one.”
He handed her a bowl and took one for himself. In the flow of the conversation, she took a bite. And her eyes widened. “Wow!”
He smirked, taking a bite — “Didn’t you ever learn to cook from your mother?”
She shrugged — “We had maids and Maharaj for that. I think three… yes, there were three of them. A joint family, so many people. A 6 bedroom house. I don’t think I ever went to the kitchen except to get something from the fridge. And then America hit hard. To do everything on my own, fend for my own food. Money was not a problem, but how do you make something good out of all the great ingredients that money has bought?”
“Didn’t your mother come with you to settle you there?”
“She did, but…” Ritu ate, chewed, taking a pause. “We were distant by then. I channeled all my anger on her, for being so subdued to my father, for being silent, for taking me out of my home instead of…”
“We can forget about it.”
