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If you stumble, make it a part of your dance.
A week before Diwali.
Shachi.
“The hot oil welcomes the uncooked chakli in its unctuous folds. It is satisfied when the chakli goes belly-up. The skimmer spoon swoops in to rescue the chakli, not bothering about its own safety. The mission is successful. The boiling oil hisses, desolate as the chakli departs, further and further away from it. Its sadness is soon dispelled by the arrival of a new uncooked chakli. And the story continues.”
My 10-year old precocious daughter, Varahi perches on the kitchen platform. At a safe distance from the stove, she provides a running commentary about my actions. It is Diwali time, and like every year, I dedicate it to frying festival delicacies. It is her favourite time of the year.
The aroma of the cooked chaklis bulldozes its way into every corner of the house. They tickle the nose of my indolent husband, who makes his annual visit to the kitchen. The invisible strings of the aromatic chakli-pied-piper have reeled him in!
“Are the chaklis done? I have been waiting for them for ages,” he exclaimed.“Papa, there is still some time left. Mama has only finished half of the dough,” said Varahi, putting down her pretend mike.
“Aha! That means I can target the output of the first half!”
Varahi rolls her eyes as her father gobbles up four in quick succession. Another victim of the chakli-greed.
“Papa! At this rate, you will finish it all. Please leave some for us!” she cries.
“Arrey! your awesome mother will make some more.”
“Stop fighting. There is plenty more. And there are other sweets on the table, Vishal,” I say.
“Ooh! Joys of Diwali!”
“Mama, let me finish off this commentary, and then I need to protect the food from papa and his insatiable tummy.”
Putting on a formal voice, she speaks into her ‘mike’.
“And this is how the oil sacrifices itself by offering fried snacks for humans. It is an example of a situation where human selfishness comes at the cost of a life. That is all from me, Varahi. See you next time.”
I watch her with affection as she flurries across the kitchen to prevent the food drought.
Our house is gleaming and full of festive fervour. Each year as I labour over the eatables, I am reminded of my childhood. I have always believed that Diwali holds more appeal for a child than an adult. The promise of no-school days, delicious snacks, and the endless opportunities to run with friends and cousins complete the circle, only drawback is to avoid the toppling of the clay diyas. The firecrackers and Diwali are intertwined, though my childhood house never experienced bursting of many crackers as I was not very fond of them. But I did like the occasional firecracker, and the apple does not fall far from the tree. Varahi is not very fond of them, either. Though the sparklers bring out the giggles, the bombs propel her into my arms.
Work-life imbalance, coupled with my concerts, delays my entry into the kitchen this year. So I have loads to do before the big day catches up with me.
I take a short break, wiping my forehead. Frying is such a sweaty job.
Diwali Day.
Shachi.
The bell tinkles, its voice is sweet. It intends to cleanse the house of the evil spirits and help the mind to concentrate on the deity. Away from all the distractions, and it succeeds. We close our eyes and pray to the goddess to...
Shachi.
“The hot oil welcomes the uncooked chakli in its unctuous folds. It is satisfied when the chakli goes belly-up. The skimmer spoon swoops in to rescue the chakli, not bothering about its own safety. The mission is successful. The boiling oil hisses, desolate as the chakli departs, further and further away from it. Its sadness is soon dispelled by the arrival of a new uncooked chakli. And the story continues.”
My 10-year old precocious daughter, Varahi perches on the kitchen platform. At a safe distance from the stove, she provides a running commentary about my actions. It is Diwali time, and like every year, I dedicate it to frying festival delicacies. It is her favourite time of the year.
The aroma of the cooked chaklis bulldozes its way into every corner of the house. They tickle the nose of my indolent husband, who makes his annual visit to the kitchen. The invisible strings of the aromatic chakli-pied-piper have reeled him in!
“Are the chaklis done? I have been waiting for them for ages,” he exclaimed.“Papa, there is still some time left. Mama has only finished half of the dough,” said Varahi, putting down her pretend mike.
“Aha! That means I can target the output of the first half!”
Varahi rolls her eyes as her father gobbles up four in quick succession. Another victim of the chakli-greed.
“Papa! At this rate, you will finish it all. Please leave some for us!” she cries.
“Arrey! your awesome mother will make some more.”
“Stop fighting. There is plenty more. And there are other sweets on the table, Vishal,” I say.
“Ooh! Joys of Diwali!”
“Mama, let me finish off this commentary, and then I need to protect the food from papa and his insatiable tummy.”
Putting on a formal voice, she speaks into her ‘mike’.
“And this is how the oil sacrifices itself by offering fried snacks for humans. It is an example of a situation where human selfishness comes at the cost of a life. That is all from me, Varahi. See you next time.”
I watch her with affection as she flurries across the kitchen to prevent the food drought.
Our house is gleaming and full of festive fervour. Each year as I labour over the eatables, I am reminded of my childhood. I have always believed that Diwali holds more appeal for a child than an adult. The promise of no-school days, delicious snacks, and the endless opportunities to run with friends and cousins complete the circle, only drawback is to avoid the toppling of the clay diyas. The firecrackers and Diwali are intertwined, though my childhood house never experienced bursting of many crackers as I was not very fond of them. But I did like the occasional firecracker, and the apple does not fall far from the tree. Varahi is not very fond of them, either. Though the sparklers bring out the giggles, the bombs propel her into my arms.
Work-life imbalance, coupled with my concerts, delays my entry into the kitchen this year. So I have loads to do before the big day catches up with me.
I take a short break, wiping my forehead. Frying is such a sweaty job.
Diwali Day.
Shachi.
The bell tinkles, its voice is sweet. It intends to cleanse the house of the evil spirits and help the mind to concentrate on the deity. Away from all the distractions, and it succeeds. We close our eyes and pray to the goddess to...
