An Odyssey With Friday

By Sarada Harish

  After my betrothal, my luscious, charming, would-be wife declared that she will not serve as my cook.  How true!  Indian men nurture the idea that a wife is an unpaid cook, house cleaner and laundress, right from their childhood. Shameless fools!! I pity them. As I was not one among them, I started looking for a paid cook. You must be wondering how I managed to eat until then. Very simple: I used to live with my parents, and since my father was one among those shameless Indian men, my mother did all the cooking unpaid. She was the one who nurtured the foodie in me. She is an exceptional cook who can turn any “yuck, don’t you dare make me eat it” stuff into a yummy, finger-licking dish. Her spontaneous improvisations with available resources and leftovers always created sensations when unexpected guests turned up. But this uninvited stardom used to leave us vulnerable, as the number of guests out to give us a surprise by appearing at our doorstep every now and then, went up alarmingly. However, she always kept her cool and welcomed everyone with a warm smile and tasty food. I used to serve as mother’s assistant in the kitchen, even though she had a female helper, who used to feel extremely uncomfortable about my presence in the kitchen and always feared that I would be a competitor. Her firm belief in men being the breadwinners of the family, and not the bread makers, was a nagging pain for me. On my part, I never tried to reason or argued with her. I used to smile at her politely and nonchalantly brush off the look of disapproval on her face. More important for me were the lessons that I learnt from my mother. I mastered all her secret ingredients that made each dish exotic. 

I love waking up to the aroma of delicious food. Sitting on the bed with closed eyes, I inhale deeply and visualize the steam escaping from the cooking pots. Trying to guess the day’s menu from the scent, I spend five minutes in meditation, relaxing my mind and body. The very thought of food soothes my soul. A hot, scrumptious breakfast keeps me mindful for the entire day. My job in the finance field demands the maximum of my time and energy. But, I enjoy my work if I have the company of food. The mere image of food or the expectation of having food lifts my spirits. My weekends are spent in pursuit of new eateries, getting acquainted with people who cook for a living, but serve it with respect and love. 

  I respect women by all means and that is why I decided to hire a male cook. I didn't want a chef but a comrade who can apprehend my pangs for good food as well as appreciate the fact that I don't live to eat but simply 'love' to eat. That comrade was waiting for me at a local street eatery, which I used to frequent during my college days and continued to visit every now and then. There he was serving as a cook for meagre wages.  A handsome, decent, well educated, ambitious and progressive young man of 28 years, with no strings attached. Exactly what I had dreamt of.  However why was such a promising lad doing this menial job?  If you were expecting a clichéd,  'father dead,  mother sick, siblings young, sister to be married off' sob story,  I am really sorry to disappoint you.  As I mentioned earlier, he was a complete 'no-strings-attached' orphan with the sky as the limit, and was in the pursuit of a variety of cuisines. Whether those were in royal kitchens or road-side joints; was not a botheration for him. He could be called a self-made man who grew up in the streets relishing the aromas of native food. His nose kept him away from the roguery and hooliganism of street life. It was a freelancer's journey through the labyrinth of flavours. He took an immediate liking to me, thanks to my culinary knowledge.  We had long chats on nothing but food. Whenever I visited, he had a new dish waiting for me. For several days, I toyed with the idea of appealing to him to come and have a look at my kitchen, cast an expert's eye on the ambiance and the culinary experiments that I undertook in there, suggest alterations and on the whole, feel at home. But I hesitated as I did not want him to be my paid helper, as I felt it would affect the warm relationship being built between us. And then, suddenly, it happened one day: he invited himself to my house, my kitchen.  I am sure you are curious to know why I always refer to the kitchen as ‘mine’.  The kitchen was, in fact, entirely my domain.  My wife, who is a fitness freak, neither believed in food nor indulged in its taste. She was among those who counted each and every calorie that they consumed, without exempting even water. She rolled her eyes in disbelief each time I described the menu for the day. As a good wife supposedly ought to, she tried to keep a check on my inclination towards food, especially unhealthy food. However, what she considered to be my weakness was my strength. Food was always my strength, my fortitude. She tried to appease me by pointing out the benefits of a light dinner for wonderful sex. On the contrary, I never enjoyed doing anything, let alone sex, with a starving belly. I often roamed around the house like a ghost at nights in search of food, pushing her to her wits’ end that she was forced to abandon the idea of putting me onto a diet. And it was into this tangle that my Man Friday walked in as a blessing in disguise. I thanked all the Gods known and unknown as he willingly took the reins of my hunger pangs in his hands.

My Man Friday, as I lovingly called him, was a man of skill, enthusiasm and finesse. Each day’s menu was made with utmost precision and care and was presented to me the day before. I started inviting my bachelor friends for dinner or breakfast as I wanted him to earn popularity and appreciation on a large scale. In fact, I felt guilty of keeping his talent hidden from the wide world of cuisines out there. 

Breakfast, in a way, became my morning prayer. The menu varied as follows:  hot puris fried in coconut oil, mashed potatoes cooked in spicy masala, ghee-spread dosas served with mint chutney, crispy pancakes filled with cheese, Spanish omelette lavishly stuffed with fresh vegetables, poached eggs with buttered toast, sliced bananas cooked in jaggery, kozhukkattas speckled with cumin seeds and coconut, lacy appams with egg masala, steaming puttu with Bengal gram curry, oats porridge with dry fruits and honey, wheat pancakes with onion and red chilli chutney, potato parathas with fresh curd and pickle, garlic bread with vegetable steak, bread rolls with homemade butter and fruit jam, baked beans and sausages with fried eggs, a variety of sandwiches and seasonal fresh fruit juices or smoothies. All these everyday dishes were somehow made enchanting with his magical concoctions that he never revealed.

I never bring a newspaper, laptop or phone to my breakfast table. Food was regarded with utmost reverence; it was welcomed with gratitude and never wasted. No small talk was encouraged during a meal. That habit was highly appreciated by my Man Friday, but neither by my wife nor by my guests. However, I insisted that this protocol was to be followed by all those who wish to have a taste of Man Friday’s masterpieces. This provoked my wife to prepare and have her own simple, healthy breakfast while browsing her phone for the day’s presentations and leave for work while I was still at my bath. I was troubled by her attitude, or rather aloofness, towards Man Friday. She remained cold and detached despite several attempts by me to make amends, and regarded him as a brutal enemy out to jeopardize the life of health and fitness that she had envisioned for our partnership. I tried for a truce between them by cajoling him to make her favourite dishes in healthy, fat-free versions. Nothing worked. His perspective of healthy eating was widely different from hers and he countered her aloofness with the disdain reserved for an unworthy member of the household. 

Every night, when our chores were finished, we sat silently in the balcony and mulled over the very essence of human existence. We were like two saints that detached ourselves from mundane affairs and contemplated the higher planes of gastronomic philosophy that might bloom in the future. We seldom spoke during those times; yet, when a conversation emerged, it gave us immense pleasure to share our new perspectives. We researched the benefits and sources of each ingredient that we used, studied the anatomy of plants and animals to ascertain the exact amount of nutrition they provided, and went on to cultivate a vegetable garden in our tiny strip of a backyard. 

I was always rather curious about my Man Friday’s romantic capabilities. As far as I know, he never went on a date or any social outings. When questioned, he remained nonchalant and claimed himself to be a true and loyal devotee of the culinary arts, a gourmet in incessant search of the aesthetic and mystic pleasures of food. I found no reasons to distrust him on that count, as the results were in front of me every single day. My wife, though she despised him, accepted my love for good food and grudgingly gave me the space that I cherished. We were a happy couple, or so I believed as we never fought or argued; in fact we avoided contradictory topics. We went out together for family gatherings and social events, conversed easily on general topics, had awesome sex thrice a week, congratulated each other on professional achievements, bought gifts for each other for no particular reason, selfie-d ourselves for Facebook and Instagram and dutifully held hands while going out. Our parents too, were happy and looked forward to being elevated to the status of grandparents.

Today morning, for the first time in the ten months of camaraderie between my Man Friday and I, my kitchen remained closed in front of me. That morning I was not blessed with the aroma of food and was forced to get up despite its absence. I was afraid of him falling sick or becoming overstressed. I even doubted that he was going through a plateau. A small note was pinned up on the kitchen wall where he used to display the menu, the one place which would never go unnoticed by me, and it said “My dear Crusoe, this journey was never easy; a journey seeking the spirit of truth and self. Our paths crossed by fate and I thank my stars for that fortune. I had an enchanting journey with you all these past months, but as the saying goes, ‘all good things need to end’ I am forced to change direction in search of a new path, a new vision, a new experience. I am undertaking an odyssey with the most beautiful soul I have ever met, your wife. Together, we free you, buddy. Have a good time ahead”.

Before I conclude, let me place my dilemma in front of you, for your consideration. Would it be appropriate to place an ad in the newspaper or any social media, which may start with:

Wanted Urgently: Experienced Cook

 “My cook eloped with my wife, thereby creating a vacuum in my kitchen. Those who are interested, please contact in person”.

By Sarada Harish