In her ground floor flat, Mrs Gandhi was instructing Bahadur, the cook, to put the finishing touches to the special anniversary dinner. He had come in only at half past six, having been sent to the market to get grapes by her mother-in-law when he should have been assisting her.
The kheer was ready; only water-soaked dry fruits were left to be added to it and also some powdered green cardamom seeds. “Just a pinch,” she told him.
The mutton-mince koftas were fried and had to be added – very gently – to the tomato gravy that needed to simmer on the stove for at least fifteen minutes. “Don’t turn on the stove full flame,” she said. “And remember not to sprinkle any coriander leaves on it.” Sunil disliked coriander in meat dishes and it had been a real challenge to find a substitute for it. The mint leaves she had found as replacement were not very fresh – Sunil might point out that they were yellowed; he could be quite critical.
“Onions have to be cut very fine and fried till brown and crisp. Take care that they don’t burn. The peas pulao is already sitting in the rice cooker. Don’t overcook it or the taste will spoil. Sprinkle the fried onions last of all,” she said as Bahadur began to chop the onions as if he had a train to catch.
“You have to make the children’s dinner before this and then Mummy-ji’s,” she reminded him. Bahadur knew that her older daughter didn’t like koftas and the two younger children would find them too spicy. He also knew that her mother-in-law was vegetarian. But he had a way of looking put-upon and confused if there was any extra work to be done.
“I have soaked rajma, and you can do the usual potato chips as well for the children,” she added before beating a strategic retreat. Mummy-ji was staging an entry into the kitchen. Whenever the old woman found her instructing the cook who came in twice a day, in afternoons and evenings, or the full-time, all-purpose maid, she got very excited and began to interfere by giving contrary instructions of her own. Mrs Gandhi knew from years of experience that the evening cooking was far from over and that she would have to apply herself again at a more propitious time.
Her mind ran to the new arrival in the colony as she came out to the verandah that overlooked the step-well and provided a panoramic view of the flats around the square. Mrs Gandhi perched there for her evening surveillance of the block. It had a deserted air; all the women must be in their kitchens. Shailaja must have finished moving in hours ago. She could see her flat clearly from her verandah.
Poor, lonely woman! Nobody to speak to; nobody to cook for. Why had her husband divorced her? Must be because she hadn’t had children. Suddenly, the lights in Shailaja’s flat turned on.
What would she do alone in the flat all evening? pondered Mrs Gandhi.
She squinted her eyes, as if to peer into Shailaja’s apartment. Was she unpacking those few cartons? It seemed she possessed very little by way of furniture, crockery and kitchen gadgets. She was dressed very simply too – black kurta and orange printed salwar – like Shruti Mathur, the journalist who lived there before her. These single and divorced women rented the top-floor flats because they were the cheapest. But then, the black wedge heel sandals Shailaja was wearing were Italian. Mrs Gandhi recognised the distinctive design. Who even wears imported footwear while moving house?
And her hair was cut stylishly too... Although, what was the point if one didn’t take the trouble to dye the greys? Shailaja probably had more money than Shruti. Sunil was bound to ask many questions about her. Men were all alike, weren’t they? A woman just had to be single to get their interest. “Nilima, why don’t you call Shruti also for the kirtan?” he would say. “If Mrs Malhotra and all the other women from the building are coming, why leave her out?” He would insist on calling her every time they had a kirtan, even though Shruti invariably made an excuse for not being able to attend. Once, she had even made a face when Mrs Gandhi offered her prasad. She would have liked to point her rudeness out to Sunil, but he was always busy offering to carry something or the other up the stairs for her. As though Shruti was old or disabled! To top it all, the thankless woman didn’t even have the courtesy to come and say goodbye to them when she left. Sunil had been surprised too: “Has Shruti left already? I didn’t realise she was going away this month. Didn’t she leave a forwarding address? You should have taken it from her in case an important letter or something comes for her.”
Shailaja seemed different. For one, she had talked much more to her than Shruti ever had. Also, she looked affectionately at Ganesh. Should she take up some koftas for her? Mrs Gandhi regretted not asking whether she was vegetarian or non-vegetarian. It would have been a good idea to try the mutton-mince kofta on someone beforehand. For the first time, she had used raw papaya in it, like they did in Lucknow. Or she could just take up some kheer.
Just then, she saw a delivery boy from Chimney, the eating outlet, enter the courtyard on his moped. She stopped to see which flat had ordered Chinese. It was still early for dinner. The boy took the stairs in the building across hers and ran all the way up to Shailaja’s. So, Shailaja had decided not to cook. The gas stove and a whole carton full of provisions were all there; Mrs Gandhi had seen the movers taking them up. Shailaja too was just like Shruti, who used to buy all sorts of fancy provisions and order in five evenings out of seven. Why were these single women so wasteful and lazy? How much time did it take to cook for one person? Mrs Gandhi tut-tutted her disapproval and made for the kitchen.
It was full of smoke. Bahadur had burnt the onions, just as she had feared. “Mummy-ji told me to make a vegetable too; I got distracted,” he said by way of explanation. The next hour was spent in procuring more onions from the corner shop and getting them fried just right. “I am not going to leave anything to you from now,” Mrs Gandhi said to Bahadur after the meal was ready at last. “I am thinking, if I have to do everything, what’s the point of employing a cook?” she threatened for good measure. After he left, she sank into the sofa. She had tasted a spoonful from every dish to check the seasoning – everything was perfect. Sunil should be coming back any minute; she had asked him to come early. After all, it was a Saturday, and he had not refused, as he did almost always, by saying there was too much work.
Excerpted with permission from Aunties of Vasant Kunj, Anuradha Marwah, Rupa Publications.
