Peechhey Ki Roti?
Volume 4 | Issue 3 [July 2024]

—Babli Yadav

Volume 4 | Issue 3 [July 2024]

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My mother was born in a family of eight children in a small village close to Shikohabad, a few kilometres away from the town of Firozabad, famous for glass work especially bangles. Out of the five daughters and three sons, she stood at number six. The first ever time she travelled by train was after marrying my father at the age of 19. Her first, my father’s second.

When I became a mother at the age of 30, my mother came to live with me briefly. Very briefly. Unlike her own house where everything from cleaning to cooking to catering was her responsibility, here, the work for her was near to none. During meal times, I’d often ask her to help herself to      whatever she liked. To which she’d say, ‘You serve me a little bit. What if we run out of food and there isn’t enough for everyone?’

By everyone, she meant the man of the house.

My mum was always a hearty cook. Seldom a hearty eater.

***

The 19-year-old Madhuri’s culinary journey in the 80s began largely after her marriage. Still in her teenage years, she became a part-nurturer of a big joint family, a husband and three daughters. Cooking food, for her, like most women back in those days, was survival skill.

Was she in love with it? No.

Was she in love, in general? Perhaps not.

But for years, day after day, meal after meal, she cleaned, chopped, cooked, and served. It became a habit, and soon, her life.

Family, relatives, neighbours, people from our social circle relished her recipes; very basic, simple,      food. Most parties at our fauji home smelled of poori, bhindi, kaali dal and basmati chawal.

She was often the last one to eat.

Not in the fancy China plates laid out for guests with a set of spoon, fork, and napkin underneath—      stacked one above the other. A large oval salad plate of cucumber, tomato, onion, lime staring at passersby in anticipation of touch.

Occasionally, she made Chandia for the parties. A unique dahi vada recipe passed down to her by her mother. Chana dal and urad dal soaked, coarsely ground with greens and masala. Deep fried into vadas or chandias and soaked not in a bowl of curd but thin, runny raita with hing, jeera tadka. The sourer the raita, the tastier the Chandias. Leave the curd out for more than a day in winters, my mum would say.

It was this peculiar habit of hers that intrigued me about her. She ate her dinner directly from the cooking vessel. Sweeping every inch of dal from the kadhai along with her portion of no-longer hot rice. Not just after house parties but she was always the last to eat dinner. Perched on the dining chair, one leg over the other, resting place for her kadhai, roti on the side and some rice, if she felt like it with eyes glaring at the television.

Mornings, while we ate hot aloo parathas straight from the tawa, she fuelled herself in the end with a big aloo ki roti or paratha that secretly made up for two. If we asked her, she said, ‘I like it this way.’ At home, she mostly ate Peechhey ki roti (the last one, thick and hurriedly made) and none of her children were to eat it that way. I somehow cannot recall that she ever ate lunch with us, sitting by our side at the table. Maybe she ate while we were on our way home from school or afterwards. My father joked that she ate her share while cooking in the kitchen itself. Thank God for the social gatherings and parties where she did not cook but ate to her heart. Often packed a few goodies for us in napkins and got them back home.

My mother never taught me how to cook, nor did she want me to be a helpful hand. ‘Go study or go out, I will do this, ’ were her favourite lines. She never completed her education, never learnt any language apart from her mother tongue, never dressed up for college. Not  kitchen-bound like her elder sisters, in her own mother’s house, she helped my nana ji in the fields. She harvested vegetables and wheat when it was ripe, carried sacks on her shoulders and chopped cattle fodder in the traditional way. This might have been the reason that my mum always tried to grow something wherever we stayed during my father’s postings. Grace, finesse, and tools weren’t really her thing. Tough hands. A knife, always half-buried in the potted soil for time-to-time loosening.

In Secunderabad, during my father’s last posting before retirement, she once grew a mini crop of maize in our second-storeyed Army quarter. Quite unbelievable but true.

***

With the kitchen clearly marked as her territory, while growing up, I only tried cooking in her absence, for my little brothers. They detested my skills and I was spared. A lot like my mother, I picked formal cooking after marriage. From a UP gharana, I moved down South into a traditional Kannadiga family. Everything was new, everything.

Morning cup of chai was replaced by filter coffee. Aloo parathas with a plate of idli, dosa or uppittu,      dinners were strictly rice. I truly enjoyed all the new recipes, flavours and traditional dishes that came my way; mostly prepared by my partner’s mother. When it was time for practical learning, I tried to be like the women I had witnessed, most heartedly. Givers, nurturers, doers of things.

There, at that very phase of my life, I was passed down a lesson, in all its subtlety. “We don’t cook for ourselves; we cook for others.” It left a tough mark on my soul.

Pouring more for my partner than myself, reserving the better looking chapati for him; I’d think twice before helping myself to a second serve. What if there isn’t enough for him? After becoming a mother, I began eating for two. During pregnancy, it was a given. I was always very hungry and craving. But soon, without realising, I became the finisher in the family. Leftover dal, on my plate. Leftover rice, where else! If my then toddler left something on his plate after completing his meal, I felt it was a grave duty to not let food go to waste. So, I put that in my stomach as well. Well-cut, peeled apple slices for him, leftovers for me. Top half of the banana, his, and bottom leftover for me. Egg yolk, his and white for me.

No more, though. No more!

While writing this, my memory runs back to this night from the early 2000s. We were at our ancestral village during the summer vacation. My father’s family of three brothers and three sisters; their spouses and children had all gathered at home for a family function. The women in the family cooked all meals on the traditional chulha in the no-roof rasoi. There was chicken curry cooked by the men. While they helped themselves to pieces of flavoured flesh, I remember dipping my rotis in tari and eating. Chicken flesh meant more heat for a girl’s body, I was told.

Called tari or ras, meaning juice, rasili sabji was a hit in our households. Now that I think of it, what if the concept of tari or rasili sabji was invented by a bunch of craving, desiring mothers who went to bed hungry and unsatiated having offered all the skin and flesh to others . There was always      chutney, raita, and achaar on the side;  served cautiously. Hierarchy was hard to miss – men, senior women, favourite kids, kitchen keepers.

My grandmother was not just the head of the female clan, the caretaker of the house but also watchkeeper in the kitchen and store. Only she dealt with dairy. Milk was boiled in the barosi, an earthen pot simmered on top of a round-shaped chulha with cow dung cakes used for fire. Buttermilk was churned and loni, white butter, was extracted by hand. Ghee was mostly locked up in the aala, the small, in-built cabinets in the walls of the courtyard with provision for locks. But if there was one thing that everybody shared and ate without a second thought, it was the summer fruits.  Watermelons, musk melons, mangoes, jamun, guava. While the melons and mangoes came from the market in big bags, soaked in heavy steel buckets filled with water, jamuns and guavas were plucked as per need from nearby trees. During peak summer afternoons, group sit-outs in the daalaan, the corridor between the main door and the courtyard , relishing juicy, sweet, ‘organic’ fruits were quite a thing. My grandmother always preferred this spot for her naps for it was the most ventilated in the summer heat.

Those times were different. Families were big, resources limited and women in the family carried the burden of ensuring there is food for all. Years into my adulthood, I realised why the women, mothers I grew up around did the things they did.

***

A few years into my marriage and motherhood, I once called a friend and cried. I told him that for once I wanted to make sure that I poured myself a little more coffee or chai than others. Not be concerned about if there’d be enough left. Or maybe, ruthlessly, put all that leftover food in the kitchen waste bin instead of my body.

After my father passed away, I lived alone for over a  week . I wanted to cry, mourn, and be my worst self. I didn’t want to do any of it in front of my son, so I asked them to be away. Not a single day during that time did I light the gas burner. While I howled and shrieked, late nights and early mornings, my neighbour made sure I ate. He’d parcel food for me; morning, while going to work and evening, while back from work. I barely ate lunch.

Nearly three years after my father’s very sudden demise, things seem different for my mother and me . We both have learnt to grow into beings capable of feeding our bodies and souls. My mother lives independently now. She goes out for long drives with my brother and bhabhi. Luncheons and dinners are a thing. She comes back and tells me sometimes, ‘Babli, kitna khana khaya!’

I am no longer in-charge of preparing all meals in the kitchen. A very helpful woman, who at times feels like an avatar of Ma Annapurana herself, does it for us. Vijaya, we call her. When home alone, I prefer eating my meals at my favourite tiffin centre.

However, last summer vacation, while my son and his father went away to his grandmother’s, I prepared an entire meal for myself. I have learnt to fix myself a bowl of neatly cut fruits. Sometimes, when I make coffee, I make sure I top my steel tumbler a bit more than his.

My mother and I are not the best of friends. Sometimes, we can barely keep a conversation alive for a few minutes. Both sides can sense the pretence. But almost every day, one of the topics of our conversation revolves around food we ate. And if we ate well . That reminds me that I have never ever cooked a meal for her. Only for her. Maybe this year, I will. When I visit her in her new home and kitchen, one that smells of no one but only her.

*All photos were provided by the author