Cook Sukh

Four days.

That’s how long mom lasted in the kitchen after bidding adieu to Iyer maami. (Pssst, the family ate out two of the four days, so technically it’s only two days in the kitchen, but mom would beg to differ.)

“I can do this,” she stoically told herself, waking before the rest of the household to fetch the milk packets from the gate and ending her day by cleaning out the kitchen sink with a dull crick in her neck and her back screaming for mercy.

“Of course you can do it,” encouraged grandma over the phone. “We all manage. Didn’t you cook over there all these years, along with working outside the home?”

Mom did have a larger house to run there, but the kitchen chores didn’t seem as draining, thanks to a dishwasher and an open kitchen plan that wasn’t designed to make the woman of the house feel like an outcast while the rest of the family lolled in air-conditioned comfort.

Dad (muah! muah!) pulls in his weight in the household by doing the dishes, for which mom is truly grateful, even though she wonders why she feels like building him a temple when he clears the sink as he is a major part of the family and not a house guest, but somehow, kitchen duties here would daunt even Martha Stewart.

“Why are you always in the kitchen, Amma?” asked Kuki, pulling mom by the hand one sultry afternoon. “Come with me. Come. Come.”

Mom’s heart melted at the filial concern and she allowed herself to be dragged away from peeling potatoes. Her little one led her to the bathroom and said, “Come, Amma. Just stay here and watch me go potty, OK?”

Right. What a wonderful trade-off.

“You know what your problem is?” said dad, looking up from his laptop. “You don’t know how to enjoy life. You love making things harder on yourself.”

In a fit of indignant retribution, mom flipped the pages of The Hindu newspaper to the classifieds section and called the first number listed under “Home Services.”

“I need a cook,” she said to the woman on the other end. “Somebody who can make North Indian food.”

“Wokay madam. Full-time aa? Come-and-go aa?”

“Come-and-go, but the person has to make vegetarian North Indian food,” repeated mom.

“Wokay madam, no problem. Will Muslim or Christian do or you want only Brahmin?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said mom. “As long as she can make North Indian …”

“Yenna madam, Naarth Indian means fried rice and noodles wonly no?” interrupted the woman.

Mom’s eyes widened. “Er … of course,” she said slowly. “But it would be nice if the person could also make chappati, dal and …”

“Yes, yes, tiffin items also in addition to sambhar, kootu, poriyal,” cut in the woman. “Don’t worry. I have one party in mind. When can she start?”

And so, the following morning, Shakeela arrived to take Brahmin maami’s place in the kitchen.

“What? Muslim aa?” asked grandma over the phone.

Mom braced herself for fireworks.

“Can she make our food?”

“Ma, she can make Chinese!”

“That’s all right. Can she make our food?” repeated grandma.

As my humans’ repertoire of “our food” is limited to sambhar and rasam, even Rani the maid can pass the test with flying colors. Instead, it’s Shakeela’s skill at preparing Hakka noodles, palak paneer, mushroom omelets, aloo paranthas, etc., that leave mom salivating, even as she pats her widening gut in dismay.

The lady does have her drawbacks, of course, but four months in her homeland have taught mom to lower her expectations on personal hygiene.

“Please wash your hands before you start cooking,” she instructed, wiser after her last encounter with a cook.

“OK, madam,” said Shakeela, washing her hands thoroughly on the first day – with NO soap - and drying them on her synthetic sari. Mom bustled around the kitchen, mortified at the thought of telling a grown woman to use the bar of soap right in front of her face.

“In addition to salary, she needs monthly bus charge and two days off a month,” said the agency lady. “If you don’t like her, we can always send a replacement.”

“Didn’t they mention I need coffee-tiffin also?” asked the new cook. “I have sugar, you see.”

Shakeela’s is the first human face mom sees every morning. Even though she doesn’t speak much, the woman is far from quiet. The tinkling of her glass bangles as she boils milk and chops vegetables is often accompanied by the sound of crockery chipping and steel vessels crashing on the floor.

Moving at the speed of a bullet train, she’s done with her chores in less time than it takes mom to stop scratching around in her pajamas and figure out what day of the week it is.

“You don’t eat any meat aa?” the cook asked mom on the occasion of Ramzan.

“No,” replied mom. “Why? What did you make at home today for the festival?”

“Nothing that you can eat," the woman tactfully replied.

Mom's glad she was spared the details, but she refuses to believe that there's no vegetarian Muslim dish that she can enjoy.