I have reached that stage in my life, when I can, without any hesitation, state, “Mere baal dhoop mein safed nahin huye hai,” and mean it too! I can proudly state that I have raised a child, survived tantrums and parent-teacher meetings, juggled a job and home successfully, and while doing so challenged myself, setting goals at regular routines and ensuring that I leave no stone unturned to achieve them. At an age when people undergo knee replacement surgery, I learnt to dive into a pool and aced the freestyle stroke. Ridiculed at times, I try not to let anything or anyone faze me. But recently my courage and patience were tested - by my son -in-law (SIL). Swords, or should I say, knives were crossed at the kitchen counter. You see, they shifted into a bigger apartment. The previous owner, an American gentleman, in his late sixties, probably gave more importance to the aesthetics, rather than functionality and practicability of a home.

 

The house was as if it has emerged straight from the pages of an interior décor magazine. Beige walls, white upholstery, white cabinets, white furniture, white everything. It was dazzling! When I reached their home, after a twenty hour long flight, I too was excited about their new home. But it was the kitchen that caught my eye - for that is my domain, and like all Indian mothers, I wanted to pour all my love for my daughter and her beloved, via my cooking. I was awed. The kitchen top marble was so pristine, so untouched that it made me suspect that angels descended every night to scrub and polish, leaving it spick and span. The oven looked as if it had never been used. The stove tops gleamed. It made me wonder, did the old gentleman ever cook? Or did he, like smokers of Americans, survive entirely on takeaway boxes, salads and microwave meals? “This is not a kitchen,” I mumbled, “It’s a museum, where you can only see, but not touch.”

 

As I was getting a bit comfortable and acquainting myself with the numerous gadgets on the counter top, I heard an urgent whisper, and then the bombshell was dropped. The only consolation was that my daughter delivered it with the delicacy of a diplomat conveying a declaration of war. “Mom,” she stated, albeit with trepidation in her choice,“Please be careful with turmeric.” Not “We are so happy that you will cook for us.” Not “Make yourself at home.” Not even “How was your flight?” Just turmeric. As I raised my brows, SIL added, “Auntie ( he hasn’t changed the way he addresses me even after taking the saat pheras with my daughter twelve years ago and I don’t mind it), when you cook, please ensure that you do not stain the kitchen top.” Apparently, turmeric in this household enjoys the same reputation as a biological weapon. Now imagine my situation. I belong to a generation of cooks who don’t measure spices. We throw them. A pinch here.

 

A spoon there. Some coriander because why not. A little chilli because it looks lonely. Turmeric enters dishes with the confidence of a Bollywood hero making a slow-motion entry. Indian cooking is not a laboratory experiment. It is controlled chaos. Or, in my case, mostly uncontrolled chaos. And at the end of the day, care is taken that the kitchen is left spick and span for the next day. But here, in her house, every morning as I enter the kitchen, a feeling of dread envelopes me. I feel more like a bomb disposal expert and less of a culinary expert. I spread paper towels everywhere. I wipe surfaces before I begin. I wipe them while cooking. I wipe them after cooking. Sometimes I wipe them simply because I am nervous. The turmeric container is handled with the caution usually reserved for radioactive substances. If one grain escapes, I am after it immediately.

 

Brushing and scrubbing and polishing. Due diligence, in the kitchen, has become an everyday norm. My daughter doesn’t cook, and so she doesn’t have to deal with the Haldi files. Meanwhile, my son-in-law cooks on weekends. But his spice collection resembles a botanical garden.

 

Rosemary.

Thyme.

Parsley.

Basil.

A gentle twist of black pepper.

Everything smells lovely but looks suspiciously healthy.

His chicken is grilled.

His fish is baked.

His vegetables are air-fried.

The food emerges looking exactly as it entered.

Nothing changes colour.

Nothing splutters.

Nothing stains.

 

Nothing threatens the pristine marble. Then I arrive with cumin seeds, mustard seeds and turmeric. My cooking announces itself three houses away. “It’s heavenly,” he says, and my eyes light up. It is quickly followed by “ I can smell the sambhar in the corridor. Too Indian.” And the bubble of fairness fizzles immediately, for in this country, affection and intimacy is okay to be on Lublin display, but cooking odours outside the doors of one’s home is considered a blasphemy. But what stresses me out the most is that every evening, after returning from work, he performs what can only be described as a forensic examination of the kitchen.

 

He stands silently near the counter.

 

I freeze.

His eyes narrow.

I follow his gaze.

There it is. A microscopic yellow speck.

Not a stain.

Not even a spot.

A faint yellow whisper.

The kind of thing visible only to eagles and concerned homeowners.

“Auntie,” he said gently, “Can we not cook with haldi?”

 

CAN WE NOT COOK WITH HALDI? For a moment I wondered if Italians are being asked to avoid tomatoes. Or if the French are being requested to stop using butter. Haldi is not an ingredient. Haldi, in cuisine, is a way of life. Without turmeric, half my recipes would require counselling. Still, I nod obediently. “People pleaser,” my daughter snickers. And this everyday inspection has turned every cooking session into a military operation. The turmeric container remains under constant surveillance. The masala box is handled with kids gloves. And now I have learned to cook while simultaneously monitoring countertops, floors, cabinet handles and my own clothing. The greatest satisfaction, despite the fears that haunt me every time the mustard splutters in the hot oil, is that at the end of every meal, everyone is happy.

 

The curries are polished off. The dal disappears. The sabzi receives compliments. But before I relax, I do not fail to conduct my own inspection. Very thoroughly. No yellow spots. No orange smears. No evidence. The kitchen must look exactly as it did before I entered. I have realised that modern luxury is not owning a house with an expensive kitchen marble top. Modern luxury is having an Indian mother cook for you while ensuring there is absolutely no proof that she was ever there. And every night, after successfully producing a full Indian meal without staining a single white surface (the rug under the feet in the kitchen compliments the white top), I feel a sense of achievement greater than completing twenty laps in an Olympic size swimming pool everyday. Because honestly, swimming a kilometer is far easier than trying to cook an Indian meal, in an American kitchen, without using turmeric. n