Shobha

Shobha had realized in the first few days of her entering the kitchen that she could never match the cooking skills of her mother-in-law. No matter how hard she tried, the flavours were never the same. The spices did not taste the same. Her cooking lacked that ‘touch’. Her rotis (flat wheat bread) did not turn out soft, even if she kneaded the dough to a smooth consistency. Her dal (Indian lentil preparation) was too watery, in spite of using the same spices and condiments that her mother-in-law used, in fact it was not even close enough.  Her vegetables regularly missed the mark and were either over or under done. Her cooking lacked ‘soul’.

Shanta, her mother-in-law, had spent half her life, wrapped in a sola (a 9-yard soft cotton saree worn by Maharashtrian women in traditional households) cooking meals for the family. Soon as she married at the tender age of 18, she had to take over that mantle from her mother-in-law. Shobha had often wondered how Shanta, who came from an affluent and non-traditional family had managed in this orthodox household. Her father had been a doctor in a small town, and had a roaring practice. She and her siblings had lacked for nothing. Her parents had not been too ritualistic and Shanta had been brought up in a fairly liberal atmosphere. In her mother-in-law’s words, “they were expected to do well in school; the girls in the family (she and her two sisters) were required to learn the attributes to become good housewives, — cooking, sewing, embroidery to name a few— and the boys, (her two brothers) to study to earn a living.”

Her father-in-law Krishnaji, on the other hand, had been and still was an autocratic, authoritarian figure in the house and his word was law. Shobha at a certain level admired Shanta, who as a wisp of a girl had suddenly found herself in a joint family set-up, ruled by traditions and age-old customs, and melded seamlessly, at least by the look of it, into the family.

***

Shanta

Even today, the words of Krishnaji, her husband reverberated through her ears as clear as they were spoken five decades ago.

“Get up woman, don’t dilly dally, take over your duties”, he had thundered. And she had done just that. She was made to wear the ‘sola’, a garment which she had never seen till then. Wore in the traditional Maharashtrian navvari style, without a petticoat or a blouse.it was to be worn right after the bath and not removed till the kitchen duties were over. She felt naked within its folds, wary of the male gaze as the men of the family sauntered around in the house.

This yellow piece of cloth had since then had been her faithful companion. Her sola, which she had wrapped herself in as a lissome 18-year-old, had seen her grow into womanly curves, had swelled with her as she grew round in her two pregnancies and was now an armour to protect her shriveled body from curious eyes.

She spied the washing on the drying line, swaying wildly. A storm was gathering. Unusually dark for this time of the day, the sky was darkening by the minute. Pregnant with heavy clouds, a lightning bolt razored the sky. Ear splitting thunder followed in a beat.

She grimaced and hurried out. Nobody had bothered to take the clothes in. Wind was blowing furiously as she reached out to pluck the garments. Gathering the clothes in her arms, she reached the end of the line. Only one garment remained. As she reached for it, it enveloped her in its folds. A whiff of spices hit her nostrils. She inhaled the faint aroma of her cooking that still cling to her saree. Reaching to gather the saree with one arm, she shook her face free from the cloth. Mmmmmm....she inhaled once more.  Her sola was flapping wildly, in the wind as if wanting to fly away.

She closed her eyes as the bleached wisp of a saree covered her face and hugged her to itself. The faded aroma of her cooking —the spices that she ground herself daily, the khada hing (rock asafoetida) that she was particularly fond of using, the red chillies which she dried in the sun before using, the star anise, cinnamon, big cardamoms, cloves — everything that made her masala (spice) unique wrapped itself around her and she sighed with pleasure. This pale piece of cloth told her story as no one could!

Hmmmmm.....like her, her saree also wanted to be free. Free from domesticity. Free to live on her own terms. Free of the boundaries laid down by the family that she had married into. She sniffed the thin muslin cloth again, as if to hug to herself the memories that it evoked. She smiled to herself ..her sola, her entire being for almost a decade. Her life encapsulated in this papery garment, worn thin by use. A lifetime of memories embalmed in this yellow piece of cloth; her life, her world.

Shanta squinted her eyes towards the fiery sky as she remembered her first day in her new family. The ‘lady’ of the house handled the kitchen. The household help will not enter the kitchen. They cannot touch the food which was to be eaten by the family; they will make it ‘impure’. The ‘lady’ of the house was the only one who could enter the kitchen in the morning to make the family meals. She had to bathe early in the morning, wrap the ‘pious’ saree around her body and prepare food for the day. She could divest of the saree only after the kitchen was closed for the day.

Krishnaji, her husband was different from her father as chalk is to cheese. Her father made time for her mother, they spent their evenings together, talking about their day   and sometimes in compatible silence. Their house rang out with unabashed laughter and merriment, with both the parents smiling broadly to see their children happy. The picture at her marital home was completely different. Krishnaji had no time for her. He left for work in the morning after a hurried breakfast, came home briefly for lunch and spent the day at his shop. The evenings went in tallying the day’s accounts, stocking the wares and other sundry work.

Left to her own devices from day one, she had thrown herself into mastering the art of cooking. Newlywed and neglected, she had poured her passion into her cooking. She had seen her life go by through the curtain of smoke that had spiraled out of the wood stoked stove. She had seen all her dreams as a wife evaporate like the steam unfurling from the cooking vessels. Her trousseau sat idly on the racks of her wardrobe, gathering dust. Her gold given away as dowry to the girls in the family. Her bitterness somehow kept adding to the flavours of her cooking and she watched in amusement as it was devoured by all. Her non-existent relationship with her mercurial husband made her find sanctuary in her kitchen, amongst her beloved spices, her condiments and her seasonings. She immersed herself in her sola and made peace with what her destiny had laid out for her.

Though her husband’s heart always remained an enigma to her, her cooking drew him home for lunch like clockwork and she poured out her love in the meal that she had ready on the table at the stroke of one! Krishnaji savored the meal that she presented him with every day, ate without acknowledgement but wiped his plate clean and left for his store after a satisfactory burp. This daily ritual had continued for years and Shanta had found her voice through it, she spoke with her cooking. If she was happy, Krishnaji was treated with an unexpected delicacy which he acknowledged by asking for a second helping and if she was disturbed or upset, her meal spoke for itself. His austere bearing showed no signs of unbending even as he ate the frugal meal before him.

She sometimes wondered when had she found time to raise her two children she had produced with the man who never became her husband. Prasad, her elder was docile, subservient and barely stepped out of his father’s shadow. But her second son, eight years younger to Prasad, was a rebel. Shikhar was willful, roughish and followed his own heart.

She had watched with envy as Prasad had married the beautiful Shobha. True to her name, she had added sheen to a tired household. Her youthful energy made Shanta feel jaded and old. Krishnaji’s eyes glittered the brightest by the sheen of Shobha’s dowry. He gracefully ‘allowed’ Shobha to add a blouse and a petticoat to her sola.

“After all, she is not used to this tradition. She will feel awkward.”

***

Shobha

Shobha knew her cooking was no patch on her mother-in law’s. Like Shanta, she too  was expected to take over the reins of the kitchen. The very thought of spending her mornings in the cheerless kitchen dismayed her to the bones. She hated cooking. 

When she had suggested employing a cook, Prasad had perfunctorily dismissed the thought even before she could vocalize it fully. “No way, Shobha. In our house, an outsider cannot enter the kitchen. Women in the family take over the kitchen duties. Infact the lady of the household has always been in charge of feeding the family, which in this case is now you. Mother has done it, you can too.”

Case closed.

She knew she could never be as good as Shanta. But she had other aces up her sleeve.She knew she looked alluring in her thin, transparent sola and the male gaze of the family was on her as she pottered about getting the food from the kitchen to the table; the saree dipping at the waist, exhibiting her belly-button and her curves.

Krishnaji pretended not to notice her enticing form under the guise of eating heartily; Prasad openly appreciative and she knew what was coming in the afternoon snooze that followed. Shikhar, his eyes trailing her every move.

She had them where she wanted.

Her thin transparent saree was her brahmastra- the ultimate weapon. Slowly the taste of Shanta’s cooking was replaced by her inviting and provocative moves. The top of her breasts visible through the wet drape as her blouse became more deep-necked; the curve of her waist flashing as she adjusted her saree, the flash of her slim ankle as turned to go back in the kitchen for refills, made them forget the taste of Shanta’s cooking. Her flirtatious way with Shikhar had him exactly where she wanted him to be.

As regular as clockwork, at the stroke of 2.00 pm, she would hear the bungalow gate creak open and Shikhar’s cycle being propped against the wall with hurried impatience. Within a minute, she would hear Shikhar striding towards the kitchen to savour the sight of her moving about in the kitchen wrapped in her ankle length sola, wet around her body by her sweat, with her figure etched out in crests and troughs.

“What’s for lunch, Shobha bhabhi?”

“Your favourite.... Tadke wali dal.”

“What? Again?”

“Shoo”, she said, walking upto the door, putting her finger on his lips, ......pressing herself lightly against him.  “Yes, again. You will love it, I will feed you with my own hands,” she smiled up at him.

Shikhar inhaled the aroma of spices that clung to her saree. The smell of her cooking, the tadka of ghee (clarified butter), mixed with hing, garam masala emanated from her and he was lost in dreaming about her in her wet clingy saree.

“Come on, hurry up ..... I can’t keep re-heating your food,” she smiled up at him.

He rushed to the bathroom before she changed her mind. He knew, she could not change out of her damp saree, till all her kitchen chores were over. She filled his world. He could not stop thinking about her. To him, the fragrant tadka of ghee (clarified butter) the crisp papads (thin Indian wafer), the spicy chutney(Indian sauce with spices and seasonings), the moist saree, the aroma of spices and condiments was sex. Her pallu slipping just that bit, allowing him to peer inside her blouse when she bent to serve him, the swell of her breasts as she straightened up, the curve of her waist as she adjusted her damp saree around herself, was sex. The sight of Shobha bhabhi’s wet saree, her lush figure and her face flushed with perspiration, the kitchen fragrances......and beyond, was sex.

Every afternoon after lunch, had him masturbating in his room wrapped in the thoughts of Shobha bhabhi in her moist yellow saree.

***

Praniti

Praniti measured the rice in the measuring cup. One third rice, two-thirds water, she remembered her mother’s words. Carefully tipping the rice in a vessel, she filled it up with water and set it to cook. Rice done. Now for the dal, sabji and the inevitable papads. It was too hot to slave over the stove, but the task had to be done. Shikhar wanted a hot meal ready when he came home for lunch. Her morning routine never changed. The drudgery of it all killed her. After seeing Shikhar off and a hurried breakfast later, the kitchen beckoned. The same dal, sabji, papad, chutney and rotis. Every day without fail. No change. She hated it all.

She looked longingly out of the window. A big banyan tree near the back gate, chirped and rustled. The birds too could feel the heat and were resting in between the branches. She envied them, they could fly when they wanted and where they wanted, without a care in the world......unlike her, who could not even take a day off from the drudgery to just sit back and relax.

The twittering on the tree dwindled down and silence descended on the courtyard. The cloudless sky mercilessly rained heat from above, imprisoning everyone in their tracks.

She still couldn’t figure out why Shikhar insisted on coming home every day. He had even picked their home near his office, so that he could save time on commute. She had tried telling him to carry packed lunch, but he had dismissed the idea immediately. He liked coming home for lunch. She envied the wives whose husband’s carried packed tiffin. How did they spend the day? Watching TV? Reading? Or maybe lunching out with friends? Shopping? Oh! the possibilities were endless; how lucky they were that they had the whole day in front of them to do as they pleased!

Flushed by the heat, she brushed her forehead with one end of her pallu. The yellow saree that she wore for cooking. She had been amused by her sister-in-law’s insistence that she wear this particular saree after her bath, for cooking every day. Sola, she called it. Their family tradition. Though dismissive of old customs—she did not believe in following any rituals— she had given in good-naturedly. It took little to make the family happy. Besides, Shikhar’s eyes lit up every time he saw her in that saree. He would hold her close, rub his face into her pallu and inhale the aroma of spices and masalas that her sola smelled of.

“Hmmm, heavenly ....” he would whisper, caressing the pale pulpy cotton with his fingers.

It baffled her to see his obsession with this thin piece of cloth that hugged her figure tightly for most part of the morning. She hated to wrap herself in it every day; the saree slowly losing its sheen and fading with use. But Shikhar insisted that she wear it for cooking every day.

The whistles of the cooker jerked her back to present. Rice was done. She looked around her cluttered kitchen with dismay. Her maid had still not turned up, guess it meant the utensils and cleaning was her job too, today. She hurried with the rest of the lunch. Papads— again a mystery, why every day? — could be done just before lunch for them to remain crisp.

She heard Shalini enter the kitchen. Their PG. Praniti wanted some company as she was alone for most of the day. Shikhar had reluctantly given in and so Shalini had come to stay with them. Shalini was a post graduate student; doing her doctorate along with some part-time work. As long as Shikhar rarely saw her, he was happy and could ignore the fact that someone was occupying the outhouse. 

She chipped in with the kitchen chores whenever she had time. Though Shalini could not cook to save her life, Praniti welcomed her help, it saved her labour and time. She could not tell anyone in the family about Shalini entering the kitchen. Shalini was not a brahmin (Higher Hindu caste) she was from a lower caste, so to speak; but it made no difference to her. But she knew it would cause a furor in the house and Shikhar, the brahmin would throw a fit if he came to know......

They spent compatible mornings, cooking or talking whenever Shalini’s schedule permitted. It was an unspoken pact between the two of them, to keep these meetings to themselves. Shalini would quietly melt away in the shadows as soon as they heard Shikhar’s car turn in the driveway.

Making space for Shalini, Praniti got busy with the rest of the meal. She found it fascinating that Shalini loved making the chutney. Infact, that was the only chore Shalini loved doing. Unlike her, Shalini did not use the mixer, but instead she liked the old-fashioned way of grinding it on the sil-batta (grinding stone). Seeing her slaving over the stone, grinding and mashing the ingredients with a single-minded focus, with sweat pouring from her face and disappearing inside her pallu was a sight which stayed with Praniti for a long time.

Like clockwork, at the stroke of two, they heard Shikhar’s car entering the gate. Shalini quickly slipped away. Wiping her hands on the napkin, and carrying the plate of papads, Praniti went to the dining room. The table was set. Dishes were in place. Lunch was ready and waiting for him. Piping hot rotis, clove enriched rice—she had added cloves at the end, just as he liked them— she wanted to make him happy. She was in a happy mood today. Moist jeera aloo and the fragrant tadka dal filled the room with their aromas. Shikhar looked at the spread on table and walked up to her.

“Hmmmm......the meal looks delicious,” he mumbled.

Drawing her close, he sank his head and inhaled into her sola; something he did when he found her particularly alluring.

“Mmmm......” he swooned with his eyes closed.

She saw with detached interest as Shikhar wolfed down his meal. The routine never changed. The daily lunch was followed by an afternoon snooze after a daily bout of love-making. The only time they had sex. He came home late. After work, he either went to his club or out with friends. She had her meals in front of TV and was on her own most evenings.

“You are smelling even more delicious today,” he said, pulling her to him and tearing her saree off her. Sinking his face into the cloth, he rubbed it all over his face. The smellier the saree, the more aroused he became. She could never understand his obsession with the sola and the cooking smells. She looked at him with renewed interest as his eyes faded into faraway, as if the saree and its smell was reminding him of some other era.

She smiled to herself. It was over .... all too soon. Shikhar rolled over, fast asleep. For the next one hour, he would be dead to the world. Gathering her saree around her taut naked body, she quietly slipped into Shalini’s room.

The banyan tree in their backyard shook violently as a flock of birds flew upwards in the sky.

***

The idiom -Barking up the wrong tree

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