I T’S BECOME a habit - as soon as I enter the kitchen, I open the fridge door - after all the grahini of the house has to start preparations for the day. And this starts by checking what’s in the refrigerator. As I trudged, half awake, and opened the fridge door, I thoughtIheardavoice.“Rememberme, IamPaneerMakhani - trapped in this box four days ago.” Jolted awake,Ishook my head and peered inside. I heard more voices - was it real or just my imagination? The bowl of Rajma hummed mourninfully, trying to draw my attention. “When had I prepared this?” I wondered, and then my eyes fell on that half katori of daal which looked fossilised to me, and if it could speak, I am sure it would have said, “Please somebody, finish me. I have been living in this cold box for the last ten days.” I have known this all along - one fateful day I will have a face off with my fridge. No polite smiles. Just cold reality - quite literally. For how long can one keep on stuffing leftovers, in containers big and small - and forget about them. That day, my fridge had reached critical mass, and was protesting.

 

I was reluctant to acknowledge the fact that the time had come for Mission: Clean Kitchen. I also knew that this was not something for the faint-hearted. Well, I do not shy away from any kind of work, but even I shuddered at the very thought of it. You see, my fridge is like a gated community for food - some residents fresh and chirpy, some overstaying their welcome, anda few that should’vebeen evictedweeks ago. These are the boxes that have been shifted towards the back as I kept adding new boxes in the shelves.Ifear opening them, for they have probably developed their own ecosystem by now. For once, my better half, whose middle name is ‘cleanliness’ doesn’t agree with my mutterings. “There is still space,” he says casually.

 

I couldn’t fathom if he was being sarcastic or for once, just being nice. “Will you help?” my voice dripped sugar - for I hate anything that requires me to clean up. As I donned gloves, a mask, I was optimistic that he couldn’t refuse - for that is something right up his alley. So, jointly the Great Cleanup mission got underway. I opened the first container, cautiously - the suspense could rival any thriller. “Smell this,” I pushed the container towards him, Recoiling in sheer horror, he responded, “No, way.” Thus began our domestic version of a crime scene investigation. Dabba after dabba was opened, and each had a story to tell. “Why did I keep this sabzi?” I muttered tomyself.“You had said you will use it tomakemixparanthas,” he replied. Looking at the soggy mass in the container, my opinion thatIammostly talkand no action, was cemented again. As we kept advancing towards the rear end of each shelf, things kept getting murkier - literally.Ifound three bottles of sauce - same brand, same size-but their colours and labels spilled the secret. They were residents of my fridge for the longest possible time.Coriander leaves that once had dreams of becoming chutneywerelying there, shriveled and defeated. And somewhere, at the bottom, lay whatI think was once a cucumber - now an unidentified green relic, oozing some gooey stuff.”

 

Ugh! “You should not be wasting food,” said my husband, peering mournfully at what used to be Bhindi. “We can still eat this.” “Eat this?” I said, eyes wide. “Do you not see the green fungus?” He had thought that was just a part of the green sabzi. He retreated. I tossed it. And with every container emptied, I felt oddly lighter - as if decluttering the fridge was cleansing the soul. I am aware that wasting food is a sin - but if we had eaten all that we had unearthed, we would surely have left the Earth. Pondering about the Mission Clean Up, it suddenly struck me - the fridge is a metaphor for life.We hoard too many leftovers - plans, grudges, and each act or thought that points to , “I’ll do it later” which becomes “I forgot about this” faster than you can say ‘expiry date’. Every single time, of course, these are few and far between, when I do any clean up - I promise myself - this is it. From now on, no leftovers. The fridge will sparkle. It will breathe.

 

It will be a model of order. I will prepare sabzi only for two, but then every time I peer in the wok I feel - will this be enough for two? As I increase the quantity, later it becomes evident that I was wrong in my assumption. And so the dabbas are filled with leftovers to be placed in the fridge - with a silent promise that‘I will heat it up and consume it the next day’. But this is forgotten as soon as the door slams shut. Let’s face it - leftovers are not about waste. They’re about less work for me in the kitchen preparing food. My inner voice, when I place the leftovers in the fridge, whispers, “I will reheat this. I’ll make it work”. Except the next day, I start craving something else. And the box with leftovers becomes invisible. By the time I finally notice it, nature has taken over. And there’s a quiet, guilt-ridden farewell ceremony as I tip it into the bin.

 

The box is scrubbed, sanitised, and promptly reused - to imprison another leftover. The cycle of life continues. So yes, Mission: Clean Kitchen was a success. The fridge gleamed, the shelves sparkled, and I vowed never to repeat my mistakes. Then the next morning, I made poha, a kadhai full that we were not able to finish. It’s fine, I told myself, packing it neatly into a dabba. “We will eat it tomorrow.” Do we? What do you think?