Of Food, Love, and Love for Food

I silently ate my Garden Pulav. It wouldn’t be polite to complain. It wouldn’t be polite to say that I felt like puking. It wouldn’t be polite to puke, either, but I guess one must draw the line somewhere. There’s a limit to how polite you can be. When the body says regurgitate, you regurgitate. Sometimes it makes you wonder who the boss is.

And so the contents of my stomach took a U-turn. I kept my lips shut as tight as possible, and my mouth filled with my own vomit. It made me want to vomit even more. And so I did. Then there was a point when my mouth became too full and my semi-digested dinner had to find another way out. It went up my nose and sprang forth into the great outdoors as two tiny fountains from my nostrils. With my nostrils blocked, I couldn’t breathe. I opened my mouth for air, and everything I had stored and held in there, I dropped onto my plate and all over the front of my shirt.

You could say it was a mess, and Mrs. Khana didn’t think it was too polite. Her daughter, however, was in splits. At first I thought that was rather rude, to be laughing at someone in my predicament, but then I realised that this entire mess started because of my fear of being rude or perhaps offending someone. I also realised that I wasn’t really in much misery, I was just covered in vomit. The others in the room were probably in more discomfort than I was, most of all Mrs. Khana, but what the hell. Her cooking was so bad that someone ought to punish her for it. I had given her quite a cleaning job.

Despite all my efforts to contain my semi-digested food, I noticed that the incident had been quite an… explosion. Although I had managed not to dirty the people sitting around me, the mess had spread quite far out across the table, and I had certainly ruined the Garden Pulav. As I was the first one to try it, I had actually done the others quite a favour. Now none of them would have to eat it.
Sneha was on the floor laughing. Her mother’s reprimands didn’t seem to quieten her much.

I cleaned myself up and returned to the dining room. By then Sneha’s uproarious laughter had reduced to a giggle, and I could see that she was making no efforts to conceal even that.

I wasn’t the least bit offended. It was funny. I should have found it especially funny, and when I thought about it that way, I did. All the crazy things I did just to keep Mrs. Khana from knowing that her Garden Pulav was inedible didn’t help one bit. I ended up puking anyway, and in the process I managed to greatly displease Mrs. Khana and the other pretentious snobs at the table.

“Don’t worry about it, Vikram,” Mrs. Khana said, “I understand. You’ve looked rather ill all morning. Perhaps you should see a doctor.”
Oh, to hell with it. I’d done the puking, there was no point in being polite now. In any case, I didn’t want to be invited back to this woman’s house for another meal.
“I’m not unwell, Mrs. Khana; it’s just that your Garden Pulav was rather terrible. I don’t mean to be rude, but that’s what made me throw up.”

Sneha burst into laughter again. More uneasiness from the others.
“My god, this guy is terrific!” Sneha managed to say, between bursts of laughter, “First he throws up all over the place, then he says it’s the pulav that did it! It’s just classic!”
Now Mrs. Khana’s threw her a look which shut Sneha up in an instant.

Rules of politeness and etiquette are actually not so useful, I’ve noticed. It disables people, makes them unable to react to situations where protocol isn’t followed. For example, right now, Mrs. Khana had no idea how to respond to any of this. I had very openly insulted her cooking skills, and right in front of her friends, too. Normally, this would never happen. Normally, someone in my position would have apologised profusely, made up some cock-and-bull story about having caught a bug from one of his colleagues, and have mentioned what a shame it was that no one else could taste the pulav because it was so full of vomit.

I didn’t do any of these things, and Mrs. Khana was so shocked she didn’t even know if she was supposed to be angry.

I wanted to tell her that the pulav was so bad that my vomit could only have improved the flavour, but I decided not to. After all, all this woman had done was cook some really terrible pulav. Even this she had done with effort and sincerity, and maybe insulting her in front of her friends was too much of a punishment for bad pulav.
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Khana. I think something was wrong with the pulav. It was only the pulav, though, you know. The dal was really delicious.”
This didn’t seem to cheer Mrs. Khana up one bit.
“The dal,” she said, “was Sneha’s.”
I didn’t really know what to say.
“Um… I’m really sorry. For everything. I think I should just leave.”
I walked out, and Sneha followed me. I didn’t realise she was behind me until I heard Mrs. Khana ask her where the bloody hell she was going.

Sneha stopped me once I was out the door.
“Vikram, that was priceless!”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. I had just made an enemy of her mother.
“Um… ok,” I said.
“My god, I couldn’t stand it in there! All the men there could talk about was business and cricket, and the women, my god… I’d have retched if I overheard too much of their conversation on sarees and shoes.”
“Yes, well, er…” I didn’t want to say anything I shouldn’t. I didn’t want to be impolite with her.
“Of course, you choked on my mother’s cooking. My god, her food is terrible. Garden Pulav, haha. I guess these days you can just throw all your ingredients in a bowl and call it “garden”. I don’t blame you one bit. I mean, with a last name like Khana, you’ve either got to eat well or cook well. And she does neither. At least I don’t have to live with that. My cooking isn’t too bad.”

My interest was heightened. Food was the one thing I loved more than anything else, and I was always ready for a good meal, any time of the day. In fact, I loved food so much that I rarely complained about bad food. Mrs. Khana’s food was one of those rarities. I couldn’t get it down even if I tried.

“Just don’t tell my mother I said all this.”
“You cook?”
“Yes, didn’t you know? I work as a chef at Messy Tandoor, Tandoori Mess.”
“Messy Tandoor, Tandoori Mess!? I absolutely love the food there!”
“Glad you like it. You know, you ought to come over to my place someday and try out my non-tandoori cooking.”
“I’d love to, but I don’t think I can ever set foot in this house again.”
“Oh, I don’t live with my parents. I live at the end of the street. You’ll see the place if you’ll walk me there.”
“Sure, I’d love to.”

We started walking to Sneha’s house. I was really excited that I’d met her. Messy Tandoor, Tandoori Mess was definitely my favourite restaurant in town, and the fact that the mastermind behind the food there was actually inviting me to taste more of her cooking was just too good to believe.

“Are you sure you want to stick to your offer, though? I mean, you work as a chef, cooking in your free time must be the last thing you want to do.”
“Hmm. You’re right, actually. Forget what I said, I don’t think I want to cook any more than I already do. Perhaps when I retire I’ll call you over for a meal.”
I opened and closed my mouth a few times. I couldn’t take it back, now that I was being polite.
Sneha laughed and slapped my arm.
“My god, I’m joking! I love cooking, especially when I get to cook in my own kitchen and take my own time. And I’m sure I’d love to have you over. You’re a riot.”
I grinned.
“How’s Saturday, for lunch?” she asked.
“Great,” I said, “I look forward to it.”
I didn’t just look forward to it, I couldn’t wait.

We arrived outside her building and she told me which house she lived in and gave me her phone number. We said goodbye and I proceeded home.

There were three days to Saturday, and each day felt like a year. I didn’t ruin the anticipation by visiting Messy Tandoor, Tandoori Mess during that time.

Saturday finally came and I skipped breakfast. I was not going to be polite over lunch as far as helping myself was concerned. I was expecting Sneha to have cooked a lot. My capacity to eat was my most famous trait, and men like me, men of… jolly proportions, that is, tend to eat more than the average individual.

I was not to be disappointed. Sneha had made enough to feed an army. No, in fact, she had even made enough to feed me.

And it was heaven. Her food was so delicious I almost wept out of joy.
“Sneha,” I said, “I can’t tell you how… how fantastic this is. I’ve never tasted anything like it in my entire life. Will you marry me?”
Sneha laughed, and I was joking, of course, but I wouldn’t be a few months later. But I’ll come to that when I come to that.
We finished eating, and then we talked for a while, about this and that, and I told her that hers was the only meal that ever truly satisfied me. She said she was honoured. Then she got up to go get dessert from her freezer. I had eaten a lot, of course, and my digestive processes were making me terribly drowsy.

By the time she returned from her kitchen, I was out like a light.

We made it a habit; I’d visit her every Saturday, and she’d feed me, and we’d talk. I wasn’t normally a very talkative chap, but with Sneha I talked until I ran out of words. We talked about all sorts of things, from Walruses to Carpenters.

Then one Saturday morning, a few months after our first Saturday meeting, Sneha called.
“I’m really sorry Vikram, but I don’t think we can meet today for lunch. I’m busy today.”
“Oh, really?” I made no effort to conceal my disappointment.
“Yes. We’ll meet next Saturday, or even sooner. I’ll make up for the missed lunch.”
I laughed. “You don’t owe me anything, Sneha. In fact I was beginning to wonder why you take the pains to feed me every Saturday.”
“Oh. I thought you should have begun to wonder a while ago.”
I grinned, but she couldn’t see it on the other end of the line.
“So, why do you feed me every week? I mean, even if you enjoy cooking, why do you cook for me every Saturday? Don’t you get enough of it at work?”
“Well, actually, I just enjoy laughing. And, my god, you make me laugh. So it’s a fair trade. Food for humour.”
“Hmm. Glad to hear there are no bills in the mail. So, what are you busy with today?”
“Well, actually I have to go shopping… with my mother. No, wait my mother’s in Jakarta. Um, I need to go shopping today.”
“For what?”
“Uh, you know, sarees, shoes, all that stuff.”
“I see,” I said, not in a very ‘seeing’ tone.
“Okay, alright, I’m not going shopping anywhere. I just don’t feel like cooking today, I’m sorry. But I won’t do this again, I promise.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?

So I said I understood, and that I wouldn’t bother her on that day.

I was finding it very difficult. I had gotten used to the weekly routine of lunch at Sneha’s. I found myself hopelessly squirming about on my couch wondering what I could do to console myself over the loss of this meal. Of course, I could go to Messy Tandoor, Tandoori Mess, but it wasn’t as good for lunch. I realised that even before I learnt that Sneha only worked there in the evenings.

I decided to head there anyway, it was my favourite restaurant even without Sneha’s cooking. I stepped out and I caught an auto. I got in.
“Where to?”

And that’s when it hit me.

I didn’t want to go to Messy Tandoor, Tandoori Mess. I didn’t even feel like eating anymore. My stomach still rumbled, but I didn’t seem to be taking notice. Suddenly, food was the last thing on my mind. I told the auto driver where to go.

Sneha was surprised to see me. She probably didn’t think I’d come anywhere I didn’t expect to be fed.

“Vikram? My god, what are you doing here?” she said, “I mean, um… I’m sorry, come inside.” She giggled.
I stepped inside. I wasn’t exactly sure how to explain myself. I had told her that I wouldn’t be coming.
“I’ll… um… You’ll have to wait a bit. I haven’t made lunch yet. I’ll just get started,” she said, and hurriedly entered the kitchen.
“Sneha!”
She turned around.
“I don’t have amnesia or anything, and neither do you. You said you didn’t feel like cooking today, so don’t. I didn’t come to eat, in any case.”
“You didn’t?” she said, now returning from the kitchen, hesitantly. “Are you sure? Because if you’re hungry, it’s no problem, really.”
“No, I didn’t come to eat. I already ate lunch.”
“Really? What’d you eat?”
“Uh, I went out.”
“Where?”
“Tandoori Mess,” I lied.
“Ah, right. Of course,” she said, and I could see her trying to hide her smirk. “So, what are you here for, then?”
“Nothing. Just thought I’d come and see you.”
“Scho Schweet.”

I began visiting her more often, even when there was no promise of food. Of course, I’d regularly raid her fridge on every visit; she’d always have some tasty leftovers stowed away. Once, I happened to try a pulav from her fridge. It wasn’t Sneha’s. After I had choked on the pulav, Sneha explained to me that her mother had made her notorious Garden Pulav again, and had been gracious enough to send her some.

It took me about a month after my first ‘random’ visit to muster the courage to tell Sneha that I loved her. And I did. It was on a Saturday, after lunch.
“Sneha?”
When I told her, she looked slightly surprised at first, then she nodded and looked away. I waited a little while for her to say something, but she didn’t. It was as if I’d just informed her of the score of the ongoing cricket match. Mildly interesting, but nothing to really discuss.
“Sneha?” I tried again.
“Yes?” she said, looking in my direction again.
“Um… er… did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, I did. You said you loved me.”
“…and?” I prompted.
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you say something else, too? I didn’t hear you fully, then.”
“No, that’s all I said… but… what do you have to say?”
“What’s to say? You think you love me.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Sneha, I don’t think I love, you, I do love you. I’m pretty sure.”
“I wish you did love me. But you don’t. And I’m pretty sure of that.”
“What are you trying to say? How can you say that I don’t love you?”
“You’re in love with my cooking, Vikram. You wouldn’t be interested in me if cooked like my mother.”
This offended me.
“That’s… That’s not true, Sneha. I really love you.”
“I’m sorry, Vikram, but I don’t believe you.”
That was her final word on the matter. She didn’t believe me, and I couldn’t make her believe me. I stormed out of her apartment, quite offended that she could actually tell me that I wasn’t feeling what I was feeling. Once I cooled down a little bit, I began to wonder, though. Was there perhaps some truth in what she said? If it wasn’t for her cooking, I probably wouldn’t have met her as often as I did, and maybe I wouldn’t have fallen in love with her. But now she could stop cooking altogether and I wouldn’t love her any less. I was sure… well, almost. In some dark corner of my mind, a nagging doubt refused to shut up. There was only one way to find the truth.

The next time Sneha saw me was only a fortnight later. I had been hospitalised. While I was glad to see her, she didn’t look too happy.
“What the hell are you trying to do, Vikram? You think trying to commit suicide would make me believe you? My god, I thought you were smarter than that.”
I smiled weakly. I had wasted down to almost half the weight I used to be. I had taken the extreme diet. I had gone on a hunger strike.
“It wasn’t suicide, Sneha,” I said, “I just needed to prove that I loved you more than your cooking; more than food itself, in fact.”
“That…”. She gulped. “That’s just stupid, Vikram,” she said, but she wasn’t as confident this time.
“Well, it wasn’t just you I needed to prove it to. I needed to prove it to myself, too. At least I’m no longer overweight,” I chuckled.
She smiled a small, brief smile. She was still visibly upset, though.
“Would you still love me if I say I’ll never cook you another meal? Ever?”
“Of course I would.”
“Never. Not ever. No more Sneha’s cooking, no more Tandoori Mess, either. You’d still love me the same?”
“I wouldn’t love you an iota less.”
“In that case, I’m going to do just that. I’m never cooking for you again.”
I smiled.
“Fine,” I said, “as long as you’ll love me back.”
“I’ve loved you for quite a while now, Vikram.”

She did cook for me again. But it was only after we were married. I was glad to taste her food again, terribly glad, but the joy her cooking brought me didn’t even compare to the joy she had.