When an HRD manager turns food critic

After a relaxing hot-and-cold shower from an aqua-mix, Keemu sits for his lunch at the marble top dining table alone, as his wife Sumi prefers to take it later that day. He takes a sweeping glance at the spread of bone china dishes on the table, with an array of spoons, salt and pepper dispensers, sauce, pickles--the works, all ready to rally round for partaking of his lunch.

Sumi serves the roti first, a dry one that looks anemic, with dark spots of first degree burns. Keemu raises his baleful eyes heavenwards. 'Over stayed on the tawa', he comments, shaking his head, ruefully.

Wordlessly, his wife serves, fried dal, in a stainless steel katori, in which bits of baby potatoes peep out, like icebergs. Keemu gingerly dips a piece of the dry roti and conveys it into his mouth with trepidation. His face contorts as if he had bitten a pillar of salt.

He stiffens, chomps it nevertheless. After yet another roti, vegetable fried rice Is served. One thing for which it cannot be faulted is, it is not cold. It is piping hot. But the dish does not stick together and remains aloof like coalition partners with different ideologies, during an electoral alliance. He tastes the kurma.

'Though a side dish,' observes Keemu, 'it is better to keep it aside. But fortunately the raita is available, made from creamy and inviting curd, from a modern farm, punctuated with mooing Jersey cows on green meadows. The sliced pieces of onion, tomato and carrots had marred it, as they have been cut in differential sizes by impatient hands.

Sumi is tight lipped, not venturing to any comment. 'The papad could have saved the day. But they have not been shallow fried, but tortured like sinners in a burning cauldron of oil in Yama's torture chamber,' Keemu says with a snigger. He steps up his criticism. 'H'm! It is ridiculous this grand repast should call for a dessert. The kesari is soggy and gooey, like paste made from flour used to stick posters. Don't you give it to our Jimmy. We may be arrested by the SPCA.'

Keemu stands up. 'I am done Sumi, remember! I am a HRD head, habituated to summing up in bullet points; here we go, the roti tasted like corrugated board and sabji like an Ayurvedic potion, meant for external use only, vegetable fried rice sticky like Rafale deal and kurma, to put in a nutshell a karmic punishment.'

Sumi looks at him with pride. 'You are great, Keemu. Not only you wore the apron today to prepare lunch, giving me a break, but you ran down your own preparations without any prejudice. Keemu, dear! You're great. You deserve a treat from me. Just hear what I plan to prepare for dinner. Your favourite Rumali roti, kadai panneer, bhaingan bharta and hold your breath, your favourite aam ras!'

-J S Raghavan