"Would you like some more biryani, bhabi ?" Razia crooned suddenly in my ear. I nearly jumped out of my seat while my husband shot me a dirty look. I was at a family dinner at my in-law's house and that usually means a thirty-guest dinner -- something I have been trying to avoid harder than a house fire. My husband, of course, has been considerate enough to remind me of the fact from time to time during all the four years of our marriage.
My mother-in-law came around and scoffed at me for having become too thin. Before I had a chance to assure her otherwise, Razia appeared out of thin air carrying another hefty dish of the cursed biryani. Within moments, I had a heaped plate before me with my husband rolling in silent laughter next to me. However, since he had the advantage of the home crowd, I decided to let him get away with his behavior this time. Besides, I was too busy fantasizing about tying Razia to a chair and feeding her the entire daig of biryani.
If you are wondering by now, Razia is my devrani or my brother-in-law's dearly beloved. Although I hate to make snap judgments and pigeonhole people on the very first meeting, (putting aside the fact that I usually turn out to be wrong most of the time) my first impression of the woman managed to hit the arrow right on target.
Razia is the perfect daughter-in-law that every saas dreams of, the most divine and exquisite creature that every man wants -- simply because of her staunch belief that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Actually in Raiza's case, the way to every one's heart seems to be through their stomach, thereby turning her into a symbol of loathing for most women while their husbands and mother-in-law sing her praises.
Now before I launch into a detailed account of what exactly is wrong with the particular feminine virtue that operates on the belief that feeding a man good food will cause him to love you, let me emphases that I love to cook. That may come as a surprise to many, but even my hubby has been known to admit on an occasion or two that I cook pretty well.
So you see, it's not cooking that I hate, it's actually the entire misconception behind the process of cooking, which makes my hair rise and teeth bare. Even though cooking is no longer an act that is exclusively restricted to women, we now have men who characteristically boast of being better cooks. Despite that, there is still an unnecessary burden on women in our society to prove their mettle by churning out gourmet dishes, one after the other, at the snap of their family's fingers.
I am not one of those women's lib advocates who demand the burning of aprons and equality of rights. I am just frustrated at the mindset that cages women into the myth that the only way to win the affections of a man, whether he be their father, brother or spouse, is to stuff them day and night with food. No wonder that a large percentage of the local male population goes around sporting a nice round belly. Looking back, it was the American adage, "the way to a man's heart is through his stomach," that laid down the first stone of this road to mealtime hell. As soon as a person hears this delightful maxim, they can instantly picture a woman standing in the kitchen, sweltering in the heat to prepare a delicious meal for the man in her life; never mind that in most cases the man in question simply gulps down the meal while grumbling that it is not as good as his mother's. I am sure that by now I must have wounded a few female egos, not to mention the fragile egos of countless males, but that is exactly my point. Why should the way to a man's heart be through is stomach?
The first man in my life had been, for obvious reasons, my father. Since I
had been an only child for five years, I had been the apple of my father's eye.
He used to spoil me to no end and to date still does. The same cannot be said
about my mother, but then the most devious plans a woman has up her sleeve seem
to work best on men only.
In this case, however, I didn't have to work too hard, for my father is the most
gentle and kind person I have ever known. Most of the time, my father would be
twisting my arm and saying, "You've got to have this doll house", or
"an extra ice-cream is just what you need", or simply making me laugh
to ward off my bad temper. My husband still marvels at his ability to do much
the same thing.
However, even my father had his moments when he would turn into a giant wall of impenetrable stone, refusing to fall prey to my natural charms. I had to use several tactics at my disposal to penetrate his hard exterior. There was complaining, whining, throwing a fit, pleading, skipping dinner (this usually didn't work as I had no will power), and crying. Sometimes my father would weaken and give in while other times I had to surrender to his resolution. The game went on for years with both the participants improvising upon their techniques to play hardball. For the record, I just want to point out that none of the above persuasions involved cooking.
Moreover, I could never picture myself with an apron tied around my neck and a delectable offering in my hands proving to be the ticket to my father's heart. For one thing, the apron wouldn't fit as I was barely over three feet and secondly, my father was a much better cook than I was at that time!
Then came my brother. As you must have guessed, he was the second man to occupy a prominent position in my life. His is a complicated case because until he was twelve, all I had to do was pin him down on the ground and painfully twist his arm around his back until he conceded to all my demands.
However, much to my dismay, soon after the age of twelve my little brother started to grow, both horizontally as well as vertically. Alas, I could no longer use my height or weight as an advantage against him as he vastly excelled me in both categories. I had to use a more subtle strategy to make him obey my will. If he took me shopping, I would clean his room. He would try and behave as normal as possible for a brother when my friends came over and I would wash all his clothes for a week … and so went on the bargaining. I must admit, food did come to be involved at a point or two during the bartering, but let me assure you that none of it paved the way to his heart for me.
Then came my better half. My husband was the man who had publicly declared that he had no qualms about food right after we got engaged, and again to reconfirm, just before we were married. Unfortunately, I discovered only too late that he was as fussy an eater as they came! In fact, my husband turned out to be just like my brother. The revelation had left me dumbfounded as I slowly counted the similarities.
Both my brother and my husband want fresh, right from the pot, cooked meals. They prefer mostly meat, while I am a vegetarian. Each has his own choice list of favorite dishes, which as luck would have it is very short but none of it involves daal and chaawal. And God forbid, if you ever tried to place the same dish before either one of them that had the misfortune of being served at lunch there would be no end to the snide remarks, pouting and whining that surely followed.
The only difference between my brother and my husband is that most of the time, a sharp, dirty look is enough to tone down my grouchy husband. Then again, my brother has been living with me for the past twenty-two years. My husband, I must admit, also resembles my father (heaven forbid not to be taken in the truly literal meaning). With him, I do not have to resort to all the devilish tricks up my sleeve since he indulges me a lot and is not the nit-picking type like most men.
Sadly enough, my husband also harbours the same age-old fantasy that the first and the foremost virtue of an ideal woman are her culinary skills whereas I would beg to differ. If that is going to be held as the sole criterion of winning a man's heart, then surely women are better off left by themselves. It wasn't just because of the fact that I was a spoiled brat in my father's case, or a thorn in the Garden of Eden from my brother's point of view, or in my husband's case, the person who bosses him around that made them cater to my varying whims and fancies. It is nice to know that food never came in between the relationship that I share with my father.
The truth is, I don't need to pave the way to their respective hearts through a shashlik or a roast. They love me already and if I cannot cook a good biryani then they may groan, heave and sigh but that won't make them go out and search for another daughter, sister or wife. On the other hand, the popular opinion being entertained by the major part of our society seems to be in the favor of the contrary. There is an over-the-top obsession with food, the seeds of which have been sown in a very early period in history.
As far as my association with my often-annoying sibling is concerned, disagreements and fighting are our birthrights and no one can deny us that. Our parents may exasperatedly tell us off time and again that we are the only siblings in the world who still fight like two-year olds, but nothing is farther from the truth than that. I came to know of this in college where in a group discussion, most of us came to realize that all men are alike, whether they are brothers or otherwise. It is just like kindergarten where the boy who teases you the most is the one who likes you the most. Infantile as it is, the amount of teasing and bickering with your brother is directly related to how much you care for each other. Believe me, if I had it my way, I would seriously put a stop to my brother's daily intake of food.
As for my hubby dearest, he would vehemently disagree with the notion that food had played any part in paving my way to his heart. In fact, he even jokes that if food was the only way to win a man's heart then my cooking was the living proof of that being incorrect.
However, there are a lot of women I know who are constantly plowing through cookbooks and catching every single cooking show in order to master the art. What many fail to understand is that our loved ones are going to stand by us despite our numerous flaws, culinary or otherwise. Thus, cooking for me is just one of the many ways of expressing my love and pampering all those who are important to me. That sentiment can be portrayed as effectively with a new shirt or cologne as with a plate of bohri chicken. So to me, it's a very long way from the stomach to the heart. There are many more shortcuts to reach the desired destination and the results are just as rewarding. The thing is to find just the right shortcut, so drop those aprons and start looking!