Politics of cooking. Oct 2016
How does this work? How secure is this?
I cook a lot. I started cooking more 10 years back when I needed a reason to stay alive, by that I did not mean that I was not suicidal, no. I had just saw a dark side of me which saw no light, life or laughter but the days were unfolding. My brother no longer shared the planet with me. I felt a deep sorrow. But I still felt hunger. Like clock work. Subconsciously, I latched on to taking care of that primal need. Hunger. I took some time to chop vegetables, first to kill time and later I realized that it allowed me to stay in the moment. I was present. Slowly, I weaved memories into the layers or the bread, the roties. I allowed myself to condense time when a sound of the cracking of mustard seeds and the angry spluttering of curry leaves meet the hot oil. It was as if it was protesting this meeting with the hot oil but in spite of itself, it gave out a great aroma that smell and that sound took me back to the time when i was left in charge of my siblings when my parents went out to attend, Mushaira, another session of urdu poetry reading. It was during that quiet evenings that we gathered around the kitchen, some chopped the vegetables, some rinsed the rice, my brother was a helper too but he also talked a lot. We were to some extent each other's confidants - that is if we managed to get our turn to speak.
Today as on many other days, I have the radio on when I cook, it helps move the task forward faster. I am chopping kale, rinsing rice and lentils. The lentils will cook fast in the pressure cookers I decide, maybe I will add some potatoes to the Kale, the kids will like that. The oil is ready for the mustard, cumin seeds and curry leaves. There is no protest today there is a happy dance I decide and smile, I allow such conversations to occur in my head. Someday, I tell myself, I will write this into a script, someday I will not be so lazy to allow the conversation to disappear like a temporary cloud. I smile. but that smile is shattered when I allow the background news to enter the realm of consciousness, they were talking about the rise of white supremacists. Again the world has to deal with the consequence of which will arise from the fears of the white. Is it fear or irrational believe that one color is superior to other? As I roll out the dough into those perfect rounds, they swirl round and round under my rolling pin getting thinner and thinner, I pick it up and flip them on a hot girdle. I wish I can flip that debate of race and let it burn on the griddle, they dough puffs up, with a light touch from the tips of my fingers the stem gets released, no not the steam building up inside me, the steam of fear, of unease, of disappointment in people, that stays, it's the roti on the griddle which is ready to come off and I lay it down, gently. I have to make a few more for dinner. I move on with the task. We sit down for dinner. Hoping that the movement of race superiority will die down.
How does this work? How secure is this?
I cook a lot. I started cooking more 10 years back when I needed a reason to stay alive, by that I did not mean that I was not suicidal, no. I had just saw a dark side of me which saw no light, life or laughter but the days were unfolding. My brother no longer shared the planet with me. I felt a deep sorrow. But I still felt hunger. Like clock work. Subconsciously, I latched on to taking care of that primal need. Hunger. I took some time to chop vegetables, first to kill time and later I realized that it allowed me to stay in the moment. I was present. Slowly, I weaved memories into the layers or the bread, the roties. I allowed myself to condense time when a sound of the cracking of mustard seeds and the angry spluttering of curry leaves meet the hot oil. It was as if it was protesting this meeting with the hot oil but in spite of itself, it gave out a great aroma that smell and that sound took me back to the time when i was left in charge of my siblings when my parents went out to attend, Mushaira, another session of urdu poetry reading. It was during that quiet evenings that we gathered around the kitchen, some chopped the vegetables, some rinsed the rice, my brother was a helper too but he also talked a lot. We were to some extent each other's confidants - that is if we managed to get our turn to speak.
Today as on many other days, I have the radio on when I cook, it helps move the task forward faster. I am chopping kale, rinsing rice and lentils. The lentils will cook fast in the pressure cookers I decide, maybe I will add some potatoes to the Kale, the kids will like that. The oil is ready for the mustard, cumin seeds and curry leaves. There is no protest today there is a happy dance I decide and smile, I allow such conversations to occur in my head. Someday, I tell myself, I will write this into a script, someday I will not be so lazy to allow the conversation to disappear like a temporary cloud. I smile. but that smile is shattered when I allow the background news to enter the realm of consciousness, they were talking about the rise of white supremacists. Again the world has to deal with the consequence of which will arise from the fears of the white. Is it fear or irrational believe that one color is superior to other? As I roll out the dough into those perfect rounds, they swirl round and round under my rolling pin getting thinner and thinner, I pick it up and flip them on a hot girdle. I wish I can flip that debate of race and let it burn on the griddle, they dough puffs up, with a light touch from the tips of my fingers the stem gets released, no not the steam building up inside me, the steam of fear, of unease, of disappointment in people, that stays, it's the roti on the griddle which is ready to come off and I lay it down, gently. I have to make a few more for dinner. I move on with the task. We sit down for dinner. Hoping that the movement of race superiority will die down.
