Entertainment
The chef’s special
A culinary maestro struggles to impress his harshest critic—his motherNitya Pandey
Balram had always been a momma’s boy. Ever since he was a toddler, he had never been away from his mother. The fondest memories of his early childhood were of when he used to tag along with her, his chubby little fingers clutching one end of her cotton sari. He remembered her waist length, dark hair, red bangles, shiny bindis and most of all, those large kohl-laden eyes. He also distinctly recalled a particular smell that he always associated with her presence. It was a unique aroma of
cinnamon mixed with honey, roses and lemons.
Brinda was a terrific cook. Cooking, for her, was a religion in itself. Every dish that she cooked was like a sacred prayer that she reverently whispered for her personal deity. She worked for one of the richest families in town. The mistress of the household never stopped praising her culinary skills. Whenever there was a kitty party at the mansion, Brinda became the star of the gathering. The affluent ladies, with more money than they could spend, would beg Brinda to reveal her secret recipes but she would just stand in a corner, smiling shyly, never uttering a
word. Eventually, the hostess would interrupt the inquisition with a polite little laugh and dismiss Brinda with a wave of her hand.
As the door closed behind his
mother, Balram could hear her
mistress chirp, “Now, now, ladies, please be reasonable. Why
would my Brinda go around spilling her secrets?”
nnn
With time, Balram too learnt to cook. He wouldwatch his mother carefully and mimic her methods. He regarded every meal as a fresh challenge and went at it with skill and panache. By the age of thirty, he had found his niche as a
cooking maestro in the world of culinary art.
And yet, Brinda always found faults with his cooking.
“If only you had the patience to let the onions get roasted…”
“How many times do I have to tell you to stir the batter properly?”
“You have sliced the vegetables the wrong way…”
“You should have marinated the fish for exactly an hour…”
The list would go on.
“You will be a good cook only when you learn to cook like my mother’s mother, your great-grandmother,” she would say after tasting his most celebrated dishes.
Brinda’s kinship with her grandmother’s cooking dated back to her childhood. After her mother’s death, her father had remarried and started a new family. Little Brinda was left behind, partly because her stepmother did not want her around but mostly because she was not the son who would carry her father’s legacy forward. Her grandmother, despite being alone and poor, had taken her in and raised her. But she had not lived long enough to see the birth of Balram or the death of his father. The only memories that the old lady had left behind were the flavours that Brinda still clung to.
Minutes turned into months and weeks stretched into years. Time had served a bitter taste on Brinda’s platter. As she aged, she had slowly started to lose her memory. At first, she would only misplace the smallest objects like glasses, keys and utensils. But as the days progressed, she started getting more and more forgetful. Initially, Balram took it
as a natural sign of old age and
suggested that she should keepa to-do list.
Brinda had already left her job but she still cooked at home. And though Balram worked for one of the biggest hotel chains in the world, he was yet to discover a dish that he could cook better than his mother. So, it came as a great shock to him when one evening, Brinda forgot to put salt in her curry.The next day, he took her to the hospital where she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.
nnn
Several years had passed since that fateful afternoon. Brinda’s condition had been deteriorating fast andshe had been reduced to a shadow of her former self. Her frame had shrunk, most of her hair had fallen off, her eyes and ears had almost ceased to function and when she spoke, she was lost for words and oftenstopped in the middle of sentences. Nevertheless, there was a sparkle in her eyes whenever she was in the vicinity of food. Balram always cooked for her and made sure that she took her meals on time. But whenever she tasted the dishes, her brows would crease up.
“Do you like it, momma?” He would inquire as he gently wiped her mouth.
“Is it chicken soup?”
“Yes, momma. Do you like it?”
Sometimes she would grunt and at other times, she would simply doze off. All Balram could do was helplessly watch her wasting away.
nnn
It was the biggest event of the year. The richest couple in the country was celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. If there was anything longer than the VIP guest list, it was the dinner menu.Balram and his team had been working hard to make sure everything was perfect. There were several delicacies, ranging in variety from Chinese to Caribbean. Balram had just finished supervising the dessert table when he heard the first gasp. It was soon followed by many others.
The man who was supposed to be hosting the ceremony had been caught cheating and his wife, heartbroken and humiliated, had decided to leave him. With the couple filing for a divorce the following day, there was a slim chance that the anniversary celebrations would proceed any further.
The hotel, however, would not be suffering any loss as full payment had already been made in advance. The only problem was that thefood would be wasted.The manager,thus,proposed that each staff would take home their favourite dish. Everybody endorsed this offer wholeheartedly and eventually, when it was Balram’s turn to select his dish, he chose the chef’s special, the one that he had cooked himself, the chicken soup.
nnn
“Momma, here is your dinner.”
He helped her lean on the bedpost and arranged the pillow so as to cushion her skinny body. She sighed as she got a whiff of the creamy liquid in the china bowl.
“Is it chicken soup?” she whispered faintly.
Balram nodded with a sad smile.
She daintily took the spoon between her thin lips and managed a sip. The liquid rolled around in her mouth before she swallowed it.
“Momma, are you alright?”
Balram put the bowl down on
the bedside table and held her
fragile hand.
Brinda mumbled something and then stopped.
“Momma…”
Balram suddenly felt cold and scared.
Brinda finally spoke and this time, her voice was crystalclear.
“Grandma, you came back…after all these years…”
Balram stared at her, stunned.
“Momma?”
She did not reply. Balram felt her heart. It had stopped beating.
Brinda was no more.