Image credit – pixabay.com

Tripti’s footsteps are frequent and heavy on the kitchen floor. She runs into the dining room, opens a drawer that has not been opened in years, and frantically rummages through its contents. She is looking for the small, yellowing, decade-old recipe book. She is making Ma-Ki-Dal: Gently stewed, viscous, urad dal; speckled with rajma, thickened with heavy cream, served with a dollop of butter. Called so because it requires the nourishing touch of a mother. Her own mother never made it though. This is a recent invention, she thinks. But she isn’t sure. She has made it a hundred times at least, yet she feels the need to take a reassuring glance at the ingredients and their proportions. The occasion calls for precision. Anshu is coming home after two years, this time with his wife, Anna. Dal must be as good as he remembers it to be. “No. Better.” Tripti mumbles.
 
Amit hears the commotion from the bedroom. He mutes the T.V and asks if Tripti needs any help.
 
“No, Jee.” She says irritably.
 
In thirty years of being married if there is one thing that Amit is certain of, it’s the tone. “What are you looking for?” He asks standing by the door in his blue polo-shirt and freshly ironed khakis. Answering Amit would only invite remarks which Tripti does not have the time or the patience for. “You have filled up all the cupboard space with junk” – he would say. “That’s why you can’t find anything.” But he stands by the door and patiently waits.
 
“I am looking for my notebook,” Tripti responds.
 
“What for? Haven’t you prepared fifty dishes already? How hungry do you think Anshu is going to be?” Amit questions. Tripti lets out a heavy sigh.
 
Didi had shared the recipe when Anshu’s eighth birthday became a large affair. Amit was due for a promotion, and he had invited a few people from the office. He told Tripti only a day before the party. She was furious. She wasn’t a bad cook, she was sure of that. But she was no chef either, she knew as much. Her everyday cooking, which even she thought was lacklustre was not going to leave much of an impression.“How about Ma-Ki-Dal?” Didi was quick to suggest over the phone. “I learnt it from his show, what’s his name… Sanjeev Kapoor,” she added. Tripti skilfully tore a piece from the ledger book despite the P.C.O clerk’s protest. She jotted down the entire recipe much to the annoyance of people waiting in the queue. “But I make it with two tomatoes instead of three,” Didi warned, “It turns out much better. Tastes just like the ones served in restaurants.”
 
Tripti finds the tiny, battered notebook. It’s spotted with blotches of grease and spices. The pages are thin and fragile, her handwriting is haphazard and rushed.
 
“What time would they be home, Jee?” Tripti has asked this a few times already.
 
“Not before noon.”
 
That gives her three hours. The longer this Dal is cooked for, the better it turns out. Everything else is ready: Matar Paneer is simmering, kheer is in the fridge already, and the dough for naan is resting. She slides a spoonful of ghee into the hot pan. It melts into a sputtering puddle. She dumps the finely chopped onions and lets them sizzle.
 
“Did you get the masala?” Tripti asks.
 
“Next to oregano,” Amit responds from the bedroom.
 
 “Two hundred rupees? Such wastefulness!” Tripti mumbles looking at the tiny bottle of oregano. All so that Anna could make her famous pasta. Tripti would never spend so much money on such frivolous things. Besides, she does not even eat pasta-poosta, but Amit never listens to her. She does not plan on having Anna cook anything in the kitchen. Anna already runs her own kitchen in America where she cooks all sorts of things – chicken, beef. Tripti doesn’t want any of those things in her kitchen.
 
Tripti has lived in their two-bedroom house in Rajouri Garden since after her marriage. She has woken up every day at four to prepare the morning meals. Back when she was working at the National Bank, she would finish her chores barely in time to catch her seven a.m. bus to Narela. She would sit behind a caged counter and handle cash deposits from nine to three. She would come home in time for evening tea, which she would have to make. With Amit’s income tied up to the repayment of their home loan, Tripti had to take care of all other expenses: groceries, school fees, books, toys, tuitions. She would diligently note down every expense in the little corner of the panchang calendar hanging by the kitchen door and hope that everything added up at the end of the month. It did for the most part except when Amit made impulsive purchases without even speaking to her; Like that one time when he booked the latest Pentium-4 for Anshu.
 
Luckily for Tripti, she discovered that her steady hands and flick of a pen could morph ones to sevens, threes to eights. She did so with such perfection that none of the seniors could tell. So, she started fixing books for more enterprising colleagues at the bank for a small cut.
 
Tripti folds the masala into the par-boiled urad dal and puts it in the cooker. From the kitchen, she can hear Amit bragging about Anshu over the phone. "He is in California. In America. Yes! He is settled there. He will get citizenship. Soon." It’s not clear to her who is he speaking to. She is annoyed at the ease with which Amit could say the words - Settled, Citizenship. That too in that booming, loud voice. She could barely get herself to say them at all.
 
It’s been six years since Anshu got his first job. “Gold-Man-Sachs,” Tripti spelled it out for Didi. “He cleared eight rounds of interviews!” Tripti bragged. “And I am making Ma-Ki-Dal. Remember the recipe that you gave me?” She said with a ladle in one hand. “Of course, he will stay in America only. Kids are ambitious these days.” She spoke into the cordless. If Anshu asks them to move to the U.S this time, Tripti will flat out refuse. She has decided.
 
“That is, if he asks,” Amit said the night before.
 
“He will,” she said. “He had said so when he had left – that once he had a house and a little bit of stability he would start the procedure for their visas.”
 
Tripti was keen to live in America at first. A change of scenery after retirement would have been ideal: The beaches, the rolling hills, and the grassy fields stretching beyond the horizon like Silsila or Lamhe. She would wear jeans there, naturally. She would also have to keep the bathroom spotless and dry because their buildings were mostly made out of wood. But when she first visited Anshu in Sunnyvale, she was underwhelmed by the flatness of the landscape. Where were the skyscrapers? Food was bland. Pavements constantly stank of disinfectant. Everywhere was too far and one had to take the car. Everyday America was grey and dull.
 
“That was before the wedding, Tripti. Don’t bring these things up,” Amit said, pulling the blanket towards him.
 
“Even better if he doesn’t ask,” she pulled the blanket back.
 
“Ask what?” Amit asked.
 
“For us to move there. It could mean that he might come back. Mrs Gupta’s son came back.” Tripti smiled.
 
“Gupta’s son was an idiot.” Amit said. “Listen, Anshu is coming here just for ten days. Don’t talk about these things,” Amit warned before turning to the other side.
 
“Fine.” Tripti said. 
 
“And do not ask them when are they planning to have kids!” He added.
 
Tripti turned to her side.
 
Anna came as a shock to Tripti. The idea of Anshu having a girlfriend was beyond her wildest dreams. Anshu had never been that kind of boy: neither in school nor in his college years. There were no signs. With a smack of a hand, Anshu had turned the camera to show a white girl with brown hair wearing the same black t-shirt that Anshu often wore to bed. Anna waved towards the camera. Anshu casually told them that he was seeing her. Tripti’s face stiffened. What did seeing even mean?
 
Only after a month of introducing them to Anna, Anshu spoke to them about a wedding.
 
“He is being a child,” Tripti complained. She was mortified. It was all because he had watched all those English movies growing up. It was all because of America. She decided that she would stop speaking to Anshu. She would stop speaking of Anshu too. He wasn’t coming back home. What difference was it going to make?
 
“He is getting married. They met each other there only, in America. She is American. “Tripti told Didi a few days later.
 
“I warned you, didn’t I?” Didi said. “At least their kids will be all pink and chubby with golden hair like the sunshine,” Didi chuckled.“Anna has brown hair, Didi,” Tripti said. Like a dormouse – she thought.
 
Amit and Tripti flew over to San Francisco the previous summer for a quick wedding ceremony. Anna had just started her restaurant, and Anshu too was busy at work. Flying to India for an elaborate wedding was, as per Anshu, completely out of the question.
 
“Na-ma-stey,” Anna said at the airport with her hands pressed against each other into an inexperienced greeting.
 
“Good. Good,” Tripti curled her lips into a sliver of a smile. She was sure that it was Anshu who had insisted on Anna wearing a kurti. Impressions hardly mattered then. Things had progressed well beyond that. But Tripti was glad that an effort had been made.
 
Tripti unboxes their good plates. She places the crystal glasses next to the plates upside down. The faint crease of newness on the crisp, linen tablecloth refuses to go away no matter what she tries. The pressure cooker erupts into a shrill whistle. The house is filled with a satisfying, comforting smell of the Dal. Amit waddles towards the kitchen expecting a taste which Tripti refuses at first. “Just two spoonfuls,” she says. “Will Anna be able to eat any of this?" Tripti asks.
 
"I don't know. We should have asked Anshu."
 
"They say that they eat Indian food all the time,"
 
"Who knows how spicy that food is? Or how Indian?" Amit wonders.
 
The doorbell rings. Tripti heads towards the main door. Anna’s oversized sunglasses are pushed over her head. “Namastey Mummy-Ji,” Anna says. Her words are self-assured but her hands are still stiff as that day. Tripti opens her arms and offers a hug. Anshu drops his bag and envelops Tripti into an embrace – her personal heaven.
 
There are gifts of-course. None of that Electric Toothbrush, medicine dispenser junk that Anshu had been getting them for years, but a golden, jewel studded Gucci clutch for Tripti and a Seiko watch with a brown strap for Amit.
 
As Anna and Anshu freshen up for lunch, Tripti readies the food. She estimates the cost of things Anna has brought, and wonders if the earrings she had bought for Anna are still appropriate or sufficient.
 
“Mummy-Jee, Dal is absolutely delicious. Worthy of a Michelin star!” Anna smiles. Her half-eaten bowl of dal sits away from her discarded.
 
“Papa, Anna has won the award for best Pasta in the entire bay area,” Anshu says as he licks Dal sticking at the bottom of the serving pot with his bare fingers.
 
“Yes, I saw your post. I got oregano so that we can eat the Bay area’s best pasta, right here, sitting in Rajouri!” - Amit says.
 
“Of course,” Anna says. “Mummy-Jee, what did you put in this Dal?” She asks. “I make it but it never turns out this good.”
 
“You don’t have to. I will make it for the two of you,” Tripti offers.
 
“And what about when you are here and we are back home?” Anna smiles and asks.
 
The weariness that Tripti has managed to shrug of descends upon her in one sudden blow.
 
“Give Anna the recipe, Mummy,” Anshu demands as he attacks his bowl of kheer.
 
Tripti holds the edge of the table and carefully gets up. She shakes her left leg that is now stiff and walks towards the bedroom. Anshu is so insistent. She must write down the recipe.
 
“Arey, it’s simple. It’s this special garam masala that I get,” Tripti can hear Amit saying. The recipe book is kept on her dresser. She begins to copy the recipe over half-heartedly. Her handwriting is illegible. She tears the page and starts afresh. She diligently copies over every word of the recipe, overly cautious of her spellings.
 
- 2 Tomatoes
 
She writes.
 
She can hear Anshu calling Amit out for not having the first clue about cooking, and they all break into laughter. Anshu is right, he does not have the faintest idea – she thinks. “He cannot even make Maggi,” She adds, speaking loudly from the bedroom, stressing over each syllable slowly so that Anna could understand. This din, this chatter, this life – she misses. The rooms come alive when Anshu is home. Their two-bedroom flat used to feel small and crowded. No more. There are cupboards and drawers where things used to be:  Anshu’s clothes, his books, his P.C. They are all packed with her sweaters and sarees now. Whenever she opens them, they let out a whiff of naphthalene balls and stir up memories that are all too reminiscent of a time when Anshu had not known any other home. The future, as she imagines, seems flat and green – like those Yash Chopra fields, trees far and few in between, much like Anshu’s visits. There will be Diwali next year, which Anshu has already promised. There will probably be a trip to India when they have a child. Another after their second. She will spoil their children silly with Ma-Ki-Dal. Her Ma-Ki-Dal. She would have to call it Dadi-Ma-Ki-Dal then. She looks at the piece of paper in her hand. She adds an arc below 2 turning it into a 3. She blows over the ink and waits for it to dry. She brings the paper close to her eyes to examine the stroke. Once satisfied, she joins everyone at the table.
 
Anna puts her glasses on and studies the recipe. She neatly tucks it in a small diary that she keeps in her purse.
 
“So, have you thought about having little ones?” Tripti asks.