Dear Bhindi Masala,
Adios!
You might find it strange that instead of greeting you welcome first, I am bidding you with goodbyes first. Adios is however not a simple straight word for me and shortly madam you will know why.
Let me refresh your memory. We met at a party where we had spent an entire lunch sitting on the same luncheon table. I know we barely had spent much time over then. But you have been running on my mind ever since then. Stupid as I am, I should have taken your phone number.
I was brought in by the chef and served hot at 2:20 PM. As I waited to be devoured to what looked like a very hungry crowd in front of me, I had subscribed myself to the worst fate imaginable. I knew soon the pitch forks will be raised, and if I am lucky enough my heart will be pierced by a spoon and piece by piece I will become a piecemeal lunch for the one with the overgrown moustache and the lady with too much of red lipstick. But that then is purpose of everything created by our creator. Perhaps you are thinking that I have developed the bout of philosophy in my dying moments or I have become mad because the too much zeera has been sprinkled over me.
Do you know that our journey had started together long before we met at the lunch table?
You see, I was getting a dressing down on the opposite counter when you were being washed, cleaned and sawed. I had freshly been culled and had just been stripped off my dignity right in front of you. But you were too busy with your own private matters so perhaps you missed to watch a chicken get sloshed and waterboarded. In that room, oddly called 'kitchen' everyone I know has died. I guess it was my time. So we were set on the opposite corners, ready to be bludgeoned by our creators. We crossed each others path once a while. I saw that man who looked at us and glowered with his yellowish black teeth and uttered 'Mast khaanaa banega aaj saheb ke liye'. I do not trust people with yellowish black teeth and so don't condemn me when I say that, that character looked far more sinister and suspicious to me. What were his intentions? Is he going to put us in tandoori or he'll make us drown in excess of taree. We would soon find out. I saw as he started the fire and massacered onions before putting them on the pan to do sauté. I looked at you and if my spine had not been ripped off, it would have sent shivers down all the way through it. You looked so vulnerable, so innocent, doll like. As I was pierced right through my heart and crucified on the grill, I saw that man holding your pan in his hand and saying 'sarkaye diyo mirachwa, tadkaa lagey'. As he prepared to put salt, degi mirch and turmeric powder in that tadka it shook me that soon madam, you will be introduced to all that fiery heat. Little did I realize that my own tadka had just been prepared and I will be immersed in that whirlpool of smouldering, boiling taree. Our fates had been tied together by some divine will it seemed. As it happened with me, I saw it happening to you. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. I cried, desperately howled, but my voices drowned in the background music of 'aeeeeeee huzoooooooor... tera tera tera surooooooooooooooooor". Everything it seemed was simply against us. I saw you become soft and tender under all that heat. I saw you bend and break under it. I saw you becoming silent eventually. Is she dead? Is she alive?
I couldn't find out because I was apparently ready and so taken out by the cold hands and put into this kadhaai. Put on a plate. They even covered me with a cover dish so that all the steam of my torment may not find a way to escape. Perhaps they were afraid of UN. Or of Media. That I am a distant minority undergoing suppression in hands of overlords would have attracted likes of Mayawati. But no. The cold hands of those kitchen makers are far too strong with ties too sinister. Nevertheless I had no choice but to sit on that lunch table alone and wait for my fate. I wondered though what happened of you.
And then you were brought in. In a Golden round bowl! Madam, I had never seen a vegetable dish look more delicious than you. What an amazing transformation! Sitting next to the salad plate, you were covered with green peppermint leaves with sprinklings of tomato and fresh onions. Could you have looked more beautiful?? I could see the dal makhani eyeing your thunder and suffering diarrhea of jealousy. Somewhere lying in all that taree, my heart skipped few beats. And the aroma! For first time instead of cursing the guy with yellowish black teeth, I marveled at his mastery to create such a fine piece. It was pure and simple art. I tried to hide my pouch belly and fatty overcooked piece of hurriedly cut square pieces. Sitting next to that beautiful masterpiece I felt too hideous.
And then it began. The most memorable trip of my life. Dont be coy. We were brought together occassonally by that unstoppable power of spoon, mixed up together, piece by piece, and gobbled up in one slow motion sometimes with chawal and sometimes with roti. Sometimes we fought for more space on that spoon. And ofcourse the times when you and I were completely lost in one another with our salts and pepper intermingling in the taree. I could not have wished to be consumed in a more fashionable way. We knew it could end. But there was a hope that may be they would order a second serving? A third? Who knew of the future? Maybe they will keep on ordering and it would never end. But then also, would they even finish this serving? Who knew?
But as you now are aware of, there was a twist in the fate. It appeared the rest of us would be taken 'to go' and on different destinations. And hence the requirement to write this letter.
Madam, whether others know or not, but I am the lone witness of whatever happened on that lunch that day. And I assure you, that lunch meant more to me then all the taree and condiments put together.
Hope you keep your spices hot and tomatoes fresh.
Adios!
Yours sincerely
Malaai Tikka
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