Saroj, the Cook

Saroj had been with the Malhotra household for as long as he could remember. Having been inducted into one of Raipur's most illustrious family as first helper to the main cook when he was a slip of a boy, he now stayed with Bhaiya- Rahul Malhotra and his wife in their high rise apartment, a strapping man of twenty one. 'Keep him, beti', Rahul's mother had sighed over miles of ether- ensconsed in their palatial Raipur home- when Rahul's wife had complained about the lack of trusted servants in the city. Though Amma ji was reluctant to let him go first, the battle between crunchy puris and motherly love had been won by the latter.

And so, Saroj had arrived in Mumbai with a small duffel bag containing his three t shirts, three pairs of hand-me-down jeans and one grey towel and had gotten down to work soon thereafter.

After the long hours spent dusting the carved Saharanpuri wooden furniture and complying with the whims of the younger bahu, not to mention the inevitable cousin who would be an almost permanent fixture demanding his share of mango milk shake and a meal separate from the rest of the house, working in the Malhotra residence was a breeze. Though their apartment was almost five rooms, they were smaller than the Raipur ones and far less cluttered and it took him exactly half the time to dust them all. Cooking was another activity that Saroj started enjoying- there were just  two people to cook for, and though he had sometimes got the proportions wrong in the beginning, he was actually loving the variety he could cook up wihout any interference!

He loved haggling with a roadside vegetable vendor he had befriended, crunching on salty cucumber that he would cut up, for his Raipuri friend, while getting luscious tomatoes and ripe brinjals at half the price. Or, locating authentic anardaana in a small shop in a by-lane, run by an enthusiastic Gujarati family who would offer him khakra and chili pickle each time he went shopping.

Bhabhi-ji was expecting their first child and often had strange cravings. Like one day, she instructed him to make mattar ki kachori- he was slightly surprised because Bhabhi- ji was always very health conscious and never allowed more then two small dollops of ghee on her rotis. Then, when he brought the fragrant kachoris lying on a bed of absorbent tissue to her,she refused to touch them for a good twenty minutes. It was only when Bhaiya ji coaxed her that she took a small bite. She said the smell made her retch.

Saroj had adapted himself to Mumbai fairly well. He knew no one in the city save Zari Ram, Bhabhi ji's driver with whom his exchanges were related to a perfunctory nod when he took the car keys in the morning, besides his vegetable vendor friend and the Gujarati Uncle who used to keep a fresh batch of khus khus seeds for him each week. In a way, Saroj loved the anonymity the city offered- the ability to blend into ignominy- one of the hordes of migrants who had made Mumbai their home. In Raipur, he was identified through the Malhotras- and he sometimes wished people would have less expectations of him than a perfectly roasted chicken keema or melt-in-the-mouth Galouti kababs.

His best pastime was either playing games on his cellphone (a recent acquisition to keep track of his whereabouts after he had stopped to have pani puri on the way and got late while buying vegetables while Bhabhi-ji wondered if he had been kidnapped, or looted, or both) or taking long walks in the park adjoining the residence. He often spotted small tv celebrities and reported them with equal enthusiasm back home to his mother (who was still employed in Bhaiya ji's house)

Minimal cleaning, reduced cooking- and the small thrills of daily gossip- such was the bliss of a metro life for Saroj till Bhabhi ji took up a microwave cooking class. Now Bhabhiji was employed in some private sector firm and he used to admire the way she carried herself to work. Why, he himself used to pack her tiffin everyday- two stuffed parathas, mango pickle and a sipper full of lassi with two besan laddoos for dessert. Sometimes he would make Chinese rice or noodles- and Bhabhi ji would relish her food and give him compliments.

Since she was pregnant Bhabhi ji was staying at home. Rather than waste her time, she signed up for microwave cooking classes, and Saroj's life turned into a nightmare. For she would insist on trying each recipe that she learned in her class- and Saroj missed the freedom he had earlier. Their kitchen could comfortably accomodate only one, and he felt stifled with the amount of chopping and cleaning he had to do- especially after trails of maida and the smell of eggs permanently hung about his kitchen. Not that Bhabhi ji meant any wrong, he was quick to chastise himself, but in his heart of hearts he also secretly missed the attention and praise that Bhaiya ji lavished on him after a particularly tender plate of reshmi kababs or a cup of well made elaichi tea. In fact, he even wondered if he would be rendered jobless because now there was a electric cook in the house!

Slowly he attuned himself to the silver monster that was the microwave- often feeling wasted because Bhabhi ji and Bhaiya ji would invariably eat off the microwave and he would either taste a bit or make fat rotis for himself. His real joy lay in cooking- in watching curls of onions turn golden  brown like swirling whisky in his kadhai or the puff of well fried puris or even the smooth spiciness of punjabi chole. Roasting and watching spices melt into the meat or vegetable attributed to the 'real' taste of food- not the artificial flavour he tasted when he ate the microwaved food.

Microwaves were meant only for English cooking and he hated both.

One day, Bhaiya-ji had invited some people from office and Bhabhi-ji tried making a cake besides several other 'dips' and 'casseroles'. She accidentally set the timer of the microwave to three minutes more than the prescribed and out came a biscuit- severely baked on top and spongy on the bottom. Bhabhi-ji had refused to eat any dinner that night. How the rest of the people managed on 'garlic bread' and chicken casserole was beyond him. How could a party be complete without keema, butter chicken, kabab? Not to mention roomali rotis?

Saroj began to spend more time away from the kitchen, even though Bhabhi-ji endevaoured to teach him some recipes. But he steadfastly refused to budge beyond papad making and rice cooking. He loved the taste of the gas cooking better. Then, one day, in the middle of cooking kadhai paneer (though how the microwave could roast the spices together was out of his understanding)  the microwave blew a fuse. Along with the microwave, Bhabhi-ji also blew a similar fuse. She knew better than to get it repaired locally, hence had to resort to Saroj for dinner. Saroj was delighted and his in his enthusiasm, made an exceptionally delicious Kadhai Paneer. Bhaiya ji licked his fingers till the very end.

From that day onwards, Bhaiya-ji's inclination towards gas cooking returned, and Bhabhi-ji's fervour dampened a bit, when the microwave dealer told her that she would have to wait for a week to get the spare from overseas. Saroj had already decided to make the most wonderful meals of his life- as if it were an examination and only one week was left for the preparations- so he churned the most fragrant daal makhani, soft-as-silk dahi bade, succulent lamb chops and buttery prawns. And when, a week later, the microwave was repaired, he was overjoyed to see Bhabhi-ji's lost enthusiasm as she once again discussed the menu with him for normal cooking. He laid a lace cover over the microwave, bidding it adieu for a long time.

(June 28, 2009)