Pens of Fate

Onward and upward

Inaya and Jasir have exams. I am exam-free (for once). This creates a tremendous rift in the Moin household.

"It's not fair!" Jasir says.

"We have to study and she's free," Inaya adds.

"Make her work!" Both of them say at the same time.

Mama, to whom this appeal is directed, doesn't look up from what she's doing.

"Leave her alone," she says. "A year off is a year off. Leena, have you written today's recipe in your diary?"

"Yes." I smile at my siblings to annoy them further. "And I've made a list of the grocery shopping we have to do so I can make that dish."

"Good, good," Mama says. "I texted the list to Papa. He'll get it on his way back."

This is unexpected. I thought I had a day or two until I had to cook that.

"And there's no way you're getting out of kitchen duty this time. You're becoming more and more like Inaya," Mama says.

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?" Inaya says.

"Catfight, catfight, catfight," Jasir starts to chant in the background.

"Are you calling me irresponsible?" Inaya says.

"Mama." I throw my hands in the air. "You had to say that!"

"Yes, I did," Mama replies. "You've got to set a good example for Inaya, instead of the other way round."

I sigh internally.

"OK, Mama," I say and head into the kitchen. Sure enough, the cooking supplies arrive on time. The recipe in the recipe diary on the kitchen worktop looks up at me innocently. I roll up my sleeves, tie back my hair, wash my hands and take a second look at the recipe.

"You touched the diary. Now your hands are germy," Inaya says, coming into the kitchen to get water from the fridge.

"They are not," I reply, but I wash my hands again after Inaya has left.

It is amazing how much tomatoes you can chop while your mind is somewhere else. The fact remains that had you paid attention more closely, the chopped tomato would be nicer and neater, but it's going to be cooked into pulp anyway, so who cares.

Surprise, surprise. Mama does.

"Look at the mess you're making," she says during inspection round number two, when she catches me using the food processor to cut the onions down to size.

"All the mess is inside the food factory," I say, opening the food processor before it has completely stopped. Sliced onion pings on the walls and rains down faster than rose petals being thrown on a desi wedding reception.

Speaking of weddings...

"You are going to ruin me," Mama says, collapsing into the kitchen chair and fanning herself with a flyer for Shaheer Shewarma Stop. "Your in-laws will say how badly I've brought you up, can't even slice onions with the hands God gave you."

(Note: I am not married. Or engaged. Or even spoken for. The references to nonexistent in-laws are part and parcel of raising desi girls in desi land.)

"Show me that." I grab the flyer from Mama's agitated hand and quickly scan the prices.

"Guess what we're having for dinner tonight." I burst into the living room, where the family is lying about in various stages of end-of-the-day exhaustion and hunger.

"Limp noodles with burned onions," Jasir says.

"No." I shake my head.

"Burned noodles with limp onions," Inaya says.

"Not exactly." I raise the shewarma flyer, but Papa wants to have his turn.

"I can't decide," he says with the utmost seriousness, "between noodles and onions...I'd say, onions would burn faster..."

"You are not ordering shewarma," Mama says. She has finally recovered enough to emerge from the kitchen and launch a pre-emptive strike. However, she is not prepared for the counter strike.

"Shewarma?" For the first time in the day, Papa looks hopeful.

"Shewarma!" Inaya is reaching Jasir-levels of enthusiasm.

"SHEWARMA!" Jasir is ready to break the sound barrier.

"Shewarma." I give a reassuring nod and slip into my room, towards the online ordering website I have bookmarked in my laptop browser. Inaya and Jasir delay Mama in her chase after me by leaping in front of the bedroom door. Papa cools down the situation by cleaning up the kitchen and promising to personally supervise future diary recipe-making by me. Finally, it arrives. We kids run around setting the table while our parents sit and smile at each other. (Despite her outward resistance, Mama is also a shewarma fan, deep down inside.) The shewarma vanishes off the plates in minutes. We sit back, looking at each other contentedly, in that rare space and time where nobody thinks of who has to do the dishes, and who has which exam tomorrow. Then the illusion crumbles.

"Leena does the dishes because it's her turn to cook," Inaya says.
"I have to study for my paper anyway," Jasir says.

"Since when do you even have dish-washing duty?" I raise my eyebrows at him.

"You know what I mean," Jasir says, going out of sight as quickly as possible.

"No Facebook until you've finished studying," Mama calls after him. "And you, Inaya. No laptop until you're done preparing for your exam." I am smiling widely at nothing in particular until it's my turn to come under Mama's microscope. "Leena, prepare your recipe for tomorrow. This time we're going to get it right."