Days now, I haven’t been outside my tiny apartment, haven’t written, haven’t spoken to people except, of course, Shymala, the little maid who comes in to do for me.
“Why?” you ask, dear Reader, 21st century drifter through code, browser of tabs via Google, or Bing, or Facebook,mere happener upon, who stumbles through bit-media onscreen. Whatever, dear Reader, these words are no aspersion on yourself; rather, I comment on my own inadequacies in facing down the bright Macbook screen. And yet, when I don’t write, the days are empty, full of gloom that the monsoon skies intensify. I have not walked, have not written, but, but I have been Cooking.
Cooking again after months, nay, years, I handle vegetables and spices, wield the big chef’s knife to chop flora, fauna and fruit to create Food for myself. Not an innocent activity, this! Rife with ambivalence, cultural dissonances of women at the stove, making huge healthy meals for the family, while Man sits with his paper and pipe. And what is cooked, how it is cooked writes class and caste, as well as gender–here, in the ashram, in India, and in different ways all over our little glorious globe. I have the means, so I’ve been trying out cooks, too, while cooking myself. One cook arrives, announcing that she is Brahmin. The pitfalls ahead loom before me–I don’t like Brahmins. Just as a matter of principle, I’m wary of superiority complexes.
Garlic or onions induce the lower animal passions, according to the Brahmanic Hindu tenets. Unfortunately, I adore garlic. Onions follow close in my affections, and I’m susceptible to animal passions–much preferable to Human Virtue, in my humble opinion. On informing her of my culinary preferences, she assures me that she will work willingly with garlic, add as many pungent cloves as I wish. So, the Brahmin cooked for me, and on her departure, Shymala (not Brahmin) and I (mongrel mixbreed) sampled her prowess–swimming in oil, overladen with salt. Thankfully, a medical emergency in the family prompted her exit the very next day, and I was saved from pointing out that if the Brahmin didn’t taste her own cooking, she wouldn’t know what she was cooking, horrid or ambrosial.
Sinner as I am, reveling as I do in my lack of virtue, my food choices are not regulated by moral imperatives. More in sympathy with animals than humans, eating chicken or beef or mutton or lamb is akin to cannibalism for me. In my dark and twisted moods, I often speculate that it makes more sense for humans to kill our own kind. We propagate so easily that our species is in danger of overrunning the earth to the detriment of all other species. [check out Carl Sagan on the human species–http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2013/07/08/carl-sagan-meaning-of-life/] For years, I didn’t eat fish either, but when a fancy for seafood beset my taste buds the last year, I indulged. But, the taste of seafood is losing its savor: a silver fish tumbled out out the sea at my feet, before the waves gathered it in again, while I was walking on Varca beach a few months ago. In that brief moment, the fish bound me to its silver flashing being.
Thankfully on my return to Puttaparthi, I left choice behind as the ashram, naturally, is vegetarian. Contemplating the vegetables that Shymala buys at the weekly village shandy [http://times-voice.blogspot.in/2011/11/village-shopping-mall-or-shandy_08.html], their succulent selves however, I am prey to doubt. Often times, they lie in my fridge in the veggie drawer, quietly turning moldy, rotting without discovery. Unaware of their plight, I plunge days later into the fridge only to find them decomposed. To cook, to eat is a depraved activity, no matter what. I wish I could pluck fruits from the tree, gnaw roots salt with earth in some phantasmal alter world.
Perhaps alcohol is the safest bet, clean and pungent liquid that obscures the plight of the non-human world from my mind and eyes. Coffee is another such: I grind the beans, fill the expresso pot with coffee grains, and aaahhh, sniff the steaming brew. Morning is expresso or should I put it the other way around–expresso, dark and rich, is morning for me, ushering in another day with no guilt.
Today, the hard green lentils sitting in the jar for almost a year call to me,
“We have been ignored too long. You must find something for us. We are tired of sitting here on the shelf, unused, drying up.”
If the dialogue sounds familiar, dear Reader, you must be a woman, or at least a reader of Chick Lit, or Mills and Boon, or Jane Austen… In the lingo of Critical Theory, we see what we have been acculturated to see. Put simply, our eyes see what they have learned to see over time and place (not always consciously or willingly). Oh yes, we can unsee what we do not want to acknowledge. That green lentil needs to be married, have a fiery romance with water, finishing up a soupy garlicky dhal on white rice.
Bitterly green and resistant as they appear, I wonder if I can render them eatable. Anyway, I lay out a whole head of garlic, small sambar onions (shallots) that I had picked up on a recent trip to Bangalore, a big juicy carrot, a crisp green pepper, and red village tomatoes. That array makes me feel more in control, able to tackle those green lentils. I decide to sauté a couple of fiery green chillies with the garlic and shallots, adding in the carrot, tomatoes and green pepper in that order while the lentils meet their fate in the cooker.
Hah, the lentils rebelled. They expand, absorb all the water around them, burn the cooker. Scraping out their charred mess, I consign them to organic waste that we use for manure. Green lentil mess feeds the garden shrubs, not me. Suttee, sati, was it? [http://adaniel.tripod.com/sati.htm; http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2002/aug/23/gender.uk1] I cook in culture, history, gender, race, class, and caste. Caught in time, the historicity of my petty disaster points, if I may see, say, and write it, to other not so petty her/stories. Caught in my cooking, unable to do more, I live my choices as a woman in India, this village Puttaparthi, this ashram, this NOW.
Alone in the ashram room with my tattooed body, my dyke hair that I cut myself, I hear the chanting of the Hindu Vedas resound in the air. Enmeshed, wriggling like a fish in the spiritual romance of sound, I am also part of the his/tory of violence and repression of women: Indira Gandhi, the dictator, Sita, the virtuous wife of god Sri Rama, as well as the unnamed med student raped on the Delhi bus, the four year old raped and thrown like garbage on the road. Our choices mesh, we create willy-nilly her stories of living, violence, resistance, loneliness, and yes, sudden stupid content.
Should cooking be any less fraught, less coded, less dangerous than any other activity? I must return to my walks, wreaking my ire on the unsuspecting, resistant pebbles, tripping over tarmac; I wreak my internal disturbances on my own fat self while glaring at the men to keep away. I am contained by this world, though I may contain multitudes, to misquote Walt Whitman. “Song of Myself” ends this little exegesis on cooking–
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession.I wonder where they get those tokens,
Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?