THE BHINDI CONUNDRUM
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All through childhood, I loved bhindi, the ubiquitous lady's finger, a vegetable that rose to the occasion every time it was fried with onion, chillies and spices. It went beautifully with chapatis and parathas, blended well with rice and curd and, in general, warmed the cockles of my heart.
When I tied the knot at the age of 22, I knew nothing about the rudiments of cooking. At home, delicacies appeared magically on the table and vanished in a jiffy. I could not even boil an egg! Later, when I got married to an Army officer, he assumed that I would be a culinary wizard, judging by the food he had eaten at our home. Those illusions were dispelled very soon.
Immediately after marriage, as is the custom, I was welcomed into my husband's regiment as a brand new bride. The Indian Army is an extremely hospitable organization and since there were three other brides apart from me, all of us were given royal treatment by the senior ladies and gentlemen. We were out for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and often brunch and tea as well for around a fortnight.
Once that 'honeymoon' period was over, it was time to explore our own kitchen. Luckily, my husband had a batman who knew his beans and dals. He painstakingly explained the different dals to me, all of which were in shades of yellow, red, green and white.
The first few trials were rocky. I delved into the few cookbooks I had, desperately striving to discover recipes that I could make sense of. Potato, onion and chillies seemed the safest bet. Unfortunately, the potatoes were not very obliging and remained rock hard. The dal, likewise, lay like pebbles at the bottom of the ocean, wide-eyed. To give full credit to my better half, his resolute Army genes kicked in and he manfully consumed all my burnt offerings without a demur. 40 years of marital bliss later, I can truthfully say that not once has he complained about my cooking, though he had many occasions to do so.
Came the day when I decided to try my hand at making bhindi. How difficult could it be? Wash it, dry it, cover it and forget about it! I did just that, adding all the masalas, and finally, a generous amount of water. I let it simmer, humming a tune to myself. Simmer it did, and as I looked on, horrified, it congealed into a gluey, blubbery mess. I tried to prise it out, but it was next to impossible. Even our normally ravenous Labrador, Bozo, turned his nose up at it.
As the years trundled by, my culinary skills got better. After all, there was no way they could get worse!
Today, when my husband and I cook meals together, sautéing vegetables, baking bread, steaming momos and recreating dum biryani, we laugh at those initial days. Our daughter and our son-in-love are MasterChefs in their own right. Our little grandchildren cook us breakfast on certain Sundays. Life has come full circle, one lives and learns, and thank God for that!
After all, nothing brings people together like good food!
This was such a delight to read Deepti and so relatable! I love to tell my mother that I have observed her enough to be able to cook everything. Yet, whenever I'm trying to cook, I always need precise instructions from her :D Love that last bit of food getting people together.
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