On pruning a wild flower

While I was starting to be responsible when it came to domestic participation, my sister had to learn the ‘fundamentals of working in the kitchen’ the hard way; crossing off all the stages of grief off the list.

Stage 1 Denial. Initially she refuses to cook or help around the kitchen. But I will have to add that she is never subtle at rejections. She would make sure she state her reasons and complain how physically impossible it is for her -at the moment- to even stir curry.

Stage 2 Anger. At this point she would march about, racing her voice, waving her hands in the air, with stern brows and fiery eyes, demand her rights to be free. Here, she’s most likely to either walk away or stay with no intention of being commanded to.

Stage 3 Bargain. My sister on realising she’s about to lose, would then push me into the frame and insist my Amma to have me help her for the time being instead of her, or even promise Amma that she would come back after a short while.

Stage 4 Depression. She twists her face and let’s down her guard when Amma flashes the “9 months” card. The battle is lost. With a disappointed and disgusted face she storms past the threshold and would begin with the dishes, showing her enervation all through the process.

Stage 5 Acceptance. The lump behind her throat, though hard to swallow, would finally be digested. She now comes in terms with reality and dissects every bit of it- while scrubbing the casserole-only to contemplate the truth, that she would have to spend the quarter of her future throwing out leftovers and cleaning every inch of a flawed edge. And at that point it wouldn’t be an option anymore.

The kitchen is a stage for social and customary revolutions. The gentle nudge from our ancestors have caged women- daughter, mother and sister, within four walls that script half of our lives to serve instead of being served to. The foot of tradition floats overhead, hovering, to stamp us onto the floor if we defy it. I find myself mortified and criticised by others -when cooking not being an occupation but a duty of women- the very talent I am deprived of but forced to learn is unbeknownst to me.

And if you were to dare and ask someone why women? They would tell you it’s because it’s been that way for ages and we ought not alter tradition. Neglected chores in the kitchen would mean a difficult woman (or so society puts it that way).

The kitchen isn’t merely a room but a space which emanates social remarks. The walls of a kitchen would know a million stories. It may be crumbled, baked, burnt or dusty and the aromas plastered on it’s body could name a hundred dishes, but the time spent within would surprise you later on.

Many a doors of realizations may open yet a few may close to never open again.

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