BackGiving a son-in-law his due
In a family where women get special indulgence, a man must retreat to his in-laws for pampering
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In 1969, on the windblown edges of Bangalore, down a mud road bounded by coconut plantations and rose gardens, my father built a house that we would call home for the next 39 years. He called the house of his dreams Maneesha. When I grew older and asked him about the name, he said it was the name reserved for his daughter. Unfortunately, he had to settle for two sons, and so Maneesha would only be carved into a black, granite stone on a gatepost.
The fondness for daughters—and indeed a special indulgence of women—is a family characteristic. Female cousins are coddled, as are daughters-in-law. My father even “adopted" one of my cousins; her consent was immaterial. After retiring as commander of more than 100,000 men of a Central paramilitary organization, where he lived a life with orderlies, armed escorts and assistants, my father learned independence and how to make morning tea for his wife (as do I for my wife). When daughters, daughters-in-law and aunts visit, their culinary likes are paramount.
You get the picture. In the Halarnkar house, women rule.
I wasn’t conscious of womanly supremacy at home until I married into a Sindhi household, where I suddenly discovered the world was dramatically different.
In Sindhi households, you see, men rule.
Much to my wife’s amusement—and not a little chagrin—my mother-in-law and her anxious aunts always want to know what I like and ensure I get it. My mother-in-law knows I like to drink water in a steel glass, so she went out and bought one. She gets anxious if I eat “only" four chapatis. One of the wife’s aunts knows I like kheema (mince) and makes me a particularly good version. I am, invariably, called to the table first. For the first three years, I felt a trifle uncomfortable, like an imposter undeserving of such honour.
Over the next decade, I learned to relax and enjoy the ride.
I was reminded of my special status last month at Matheran, Maharashtra’s colonial-era hill station and the only habitation where the internal combustion engine is banned. Three hours south of Mumbai, on a plateau in the Western Ghats, at the end of a road of red earth, bounded on all sides by old-growth forest, through which you can only ride horses, be carried on man-drawn carriages or use your feet, there is a bungalow, silent amid the trees since it was built in 1856 (imagine, a year before the great Indian mutiny—or first war of independence, depending on how you call it).
The bungalow belongs to my wife’s uncle and aunt, whose five sons she grew up with, spending many summers in Matheran. The family is now scattered around the world, but every winter they return, drawn to this great family legacy. Every new son or daughter makes the arduous transcontinental journey until they are ensconced in the old bungalow. For the better part of a month, they play, laugh, eat and bond, the way families did before television and the Internet (there is no television there, but a spotty Net connection began this year, courtesy an intermittent cellphone signal converted into a small wireless hub).
We are always invited, and this year, after a break of three years, we found ourselves back in Matheran, making sure our three-year-old followed family tradition by walking from Dastoori, where the cars park, to the bungalow, a 40-minute walk for adults (she made it within the hour). We reached in time for lunch, and my special status quickly kicked in.
My wife’s aunt, an ever-smiling, sturdy woman who brought up five boys, whom she personally cooked for through their childhood, ensured that the plan for a vegetarian meal was shelved. She served up a light, fragrant Sindhi fish dish (see recipe). Her sons ribbed me. Their common response: “This is made only because Samar is coming dude."
This was partly true.
Although I can eat anything and do not object to vegetarian food, my proclivity for dead things is well known to the Sindhi side of the family. We spent only two nights at Matheran, but my aunt-in-law, so to say, made sure there were no vegetarian meals. I had mutton curry, kheema, chicken curry, fat masala omelette with kokis (a kind of Sindhi paratha) and the fish I described.
I must tell you here that Sindhi non-vegetarian food tends to be—at least the way my aunt-in-law and her tribal cook make it—light, easy to make and bursting with flavour. She uses minimal oil and obviously love is an important ingredient. Sindhis like their food fresh, so there is no refrigeration.
The days were long and languid. Children and parents played badminton, cricket and football together. We went on long walks along the forest paths, taking care to wear beat-up shoes because once Matheran’s red mud adheres, it imprints them with a reddish hue for life. We found horses for the children to ride on, and one evening at a cliff edge called Sunset Point, we watched a scrum of tourists feed monkeys, eat spicy vada-pav dished out by a couple who has apparently been there forever, and joined the general tomfoolery. On the last night, under the five bats roosting on the high rafters of the dining room, we reconvened for our final dinner before departing for home. Soon, my exalted status would be a pleasant memory.
Fish Basar (fish with onion)
Serves 4
Ingredients
¾kg fish, salted
4 large onions, chopped roughly
2 green chillies
1-inch piece ginger, finely chopped
1 small cup of coriander, chopped
2 tsp coriander powder
1 tsp chilli powder
1 tsp turmeric powder
Method
Fry the fish in a little oil (2 tsp) in a non-stick pan with 1 tsp coriander powder on high flame. When it is nearly cooked, take it out. In the same oil, stir-fry the onion on high flame, so that it quickly caramelizes. Add the ginger and sauté for half a minute. Add the remaining coriander, chilli and turmeric powders and the green chillies. Fry for 5 minutes. If the spices start to stick, add a little water (or oil). Put in the fish, cover the pan and finish on high flame, so that the onion remains crunchy. Garnish with fresh coriander.
You can make paneer (cottage cheese) or aloo (potato) basar in the same way, although you must first fry the potato in the oil so that it cooks. For the paneer and aloo, add 3-4 tsp of pounded anardana (pomegranate seeds) at the end. You can also squeeze some lime instead of pomegranate seeds.
This is a column on easy, inventive cooking from a male perspective. Samar Halarnkar also writes the fortnightly science column Frontier Mail for Mint and is the author of the book The Married Man’s Guide to Creative Cooking—And Other Dubious Adventures.
Also Read | Samar’s previous Lounge columns
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