IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 111 - Mooli Ke Paranthe Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

 

'Dirty look' I got from wife as I suggested having mooli ke pranthe on my sixtieth birthday. The maid was not coming. I in my wisdom decided to help and sneaked into the kitchen. Started grating the mooli. Three strokes and I grated my finger. Not much as no bleeding, so continued. Another three strokes and another finger grated with some blood oozing. Surreptitiously I placed a band aid. I didn't want her to know because she would have shouted "Get out of my Kitchen".

Didn't want to give up. So thought of better way of grating mooli. Why not use mixie. Chopped it and put it in jar. After a prolonged grind I opened the jar. Half the mooli was perfectly shredded; the other half was mocking me in big chunks. Certainly not fit for the paranthas. Shifted the mixture in smallest jar. A few minutes later I found a fine smoothie. Could make  a dosa but certainly not a parantha. So, quietly poured the *batter* into a polythene bag and dumped it into the dustbin.

My fauji sikhlai has taught me never to give up. As I was picking up the hand grater again, I saw the kitchen had that manual grater in which the blades move when you pull a string. Maybe I pulled too hard after four or five pulls the string broke. A panic struck me.

But then I remembered that there is a food processor also. Next five minutes that processor did everything. I was squeezing the last of the water out when she walked in. She smiled. She actually smiled! Looking at the perfectly grated mooli, I felt the warmth of a successful mission.

But then, the classic logistics error. My eyes flicked to the sink. It was a complete battlefield. Multiple mixie jars, the broken manual grater with its dangling string, and a general tabahi (destruction). The fear—the absolute, gut-wrenching dread of her scorn—was nothing less than what one experiences while standing in the FUP right before the attack. FUP (Forming Up Place) is about a thousand yards from the enemy. Once you move out, it is either victory or death.

Suddenly, our maid, appeared for the utensil cleaning duty.

"Darling," I said smoothly, grabbing my wife's hand and steering her towards the door. "Let's move out while the lady cleans the utensils." And, incredibly, my wife agreed. A tactical victory, secured by the timely arrival of the cleaning crew.

But the next day, the inevitable post-mortem arrived. "Yesterday was your birthday, so I didn't say anything," she said, calm but infinitely lethal. "But you made a mess out of my kitchen.”

I decided to remain quiet. A strategic retreat. Just then, my father-in-law’s words echoed in my head. Whenever I'd refuse a third peg in his presence, he’d 

shake his head and declare, with booming finality: “Ajj kal bande jananiyan de thale lage nen अज्ज कल बंदे जनानियां दे थल्ले लगे ने।.” (Men nowadays are henpecked).

Are they?