It was 6AM. I had just woken up. Sabita had been up
since 5AM. She corralled me as I came out of my room. “Uh…bahini [little
sister]” she began. “Sahil [her eleven-year-old] has a fever again. I need to
take him to Gorahi [the district center]. Can you cook food?”
I hoped my face didn’t register shock. Most of the
women in the village were convinced that I didn’t know how to cook, but here
was Sabita up and leaving the morning responsibility to me. Not just to cook
for myself, but for her five-year-old son Anuj, Grandpa, and Kuntul the aunt
with Down syndrome—the remaining members of the household since her husband,
Khopi, had taken Grandma to Nepalgunj for hip surgery.
“You can make the daal [lentils] first.”
I told her I didn’t know how to use a pressure
cooker. “Ok, well then, don’t make daal. What kind of vegetables do you want to
make? Aloo gobi?”
I said that sounded fine.
“Well, we don’t have cauliflower. How about aloo
sinki instead?”
I said that would be fine too.
“And you know how to make rice?”
I answered affirmative.
I answered affirmative.
She took me downstairs and showed me where the
potatoes were kept, grabbed a hasya [sickle] for me to cut the potatoes with,
and brought down the sinki [fermented and dried radish leaves] from its storage
place upstairs. The milk would be coming soon; I could boil it in this—she
handed me a dekchi [a round pot without a handle]—then give it to Anuj and
Kuntul to drink. Unfortunately, there was no sugar, so I couldn’t make tea. She
told me to make the rice on the gobar gas stove [where gas is extracted from
cow dung] and the vegetables on the regular gas stove (since it had rained all
day before and the outside firewood stove was wet…gee, I was so thankful for
the rain at that moment). She hustled out the door with Sahil, leaving with her
younger brother on his motorbike. I sat down to cut the potatoes with the
sickle.
Anuj brought the milk from his mama ghar [mother’s
brothers’ house]. I boiled the milk to sterilize it, and then realized that the
strainer was nowhere to be seen. I described the strainer to Anuj—it looked
like a large spoon with holes it in; it was usually used to separate tealeaves
from brewed tea—and he helped me look for it. Neither of us found it. The milk,
while sanitized, had dirt, straw, and leaves in it, so it needed to be
strained. I went into the room adjoining the kitchen where the household
deities were kept. This room had recently been used more as a storeroom then
worship room, as Tharu deities do not seem to require daily devotions. I saw
the fishing net lying in a basket, and figured that would do. I doubled it
over, put it on top of the dekchi, and strained the milk through the fishing
net into another pot. I then washed out the fishing net by the well and hung it
out to dry. I knew Sabita wouldn’t mind—she had unconventionally used all kinds
of household items, making it fit whatever need she had for the present, no
matter what it was originally intended for.
I gave a glass of milk to Anuj, and another to
Kuntul. Anuj dumped some of the newly cooked—and very mushy—rice into his milk.
After finishing his milk, he served himself some of the leftover rice and vegetables
from the previous night instead of waiting for the meal I was to cook. I wasn’t
offended; I wasn’t sure if I’d trust myself if I was in his position.
I had never made aloo sinki before. I knew that the
recipe had oil, chili peppers, turmeric, and salt in it, along with the
potatoes and sinki. I had seen how much salt and chili peppers Sabita had ladled
into the vegetables before. So first, I fried up the potatoes in the oil,
stirring them in the wok so they wouldn’t stick, then added the turmeric. I
mashed the salt and dried chili peppers together in the mortar and pestle, then
added that to the potatoes. When I figured that had cooked enough, I added
water and the sinki. I kept adding water so that a broth would form—since I
wasn’t making daal, the broth would serve to dampen the rice when eaten. I let
it cook for about forty minutes, keeping the flame low waiting for the sinki to
double in size. When I figured it was cooked enough, I turned the flame off and
covered the dish.
I told Kuntul that the food was ready; she could
eat when she pleased. She commented that I needed to serve Grandpa first. So I
asked him if he wanted to eat now—it was not quite 8AM—and he said no, he was
eating jaar [alcohol]; he would eat bhat [rice] later.
Shortly thereafter, Sabita arrived back home. They
had seen the doctor. Had I made khana [food]? Yes, I said. She hospitably invited
her brother to eat with us. I breathed a sigh of relief when he said he needed
to go home and get to the school, where he worked as a teacher. Sabita packed
Anuj off with her brother—he attended the same school his uncle taught at—and
then asked me if I had eaten. I said no; I would eat a little later. She
promptly went downstairs to eat, declaring she was hungry. No wonder—she had
spent the entire previous day at the hospital with Sahil, leaving the house
without eating in the morning only to return around 5:30PM that night. Having
not eaten all day, she wasn’t hungry at all when she got home, so hadn’t eaten
dinner, though she cooked for the rest of us. Now, she was ladling the rice and
aloo sinki I had made onto a plate, and began eating. “Oh, meeto lagyo [its
really good!]” she said. However, she grabbed the salt, and added a little more
onto her aloo sinki.
Later, when she saw me eating—she was preparing to
take the water buffaloes into the field to graze—she asked me what I thought of
my food. “Its good,” I said. “I thought it was really good!” she exclaimed as
she left.
