Carrots and Kababs

You say Carrot, I say Kabab

The human animal makes bewildering food choices indeed.

In matters of food, you thought that humanity was divided into veggies and non-veggies. It's not as simple as that. Not by a long stalk of celery. There is a baffling range of species and sub-species and mutants.

There are the "pure veggies"; there are depends-on-the-day-of-the-week veggies, there are occasional non-veggies - or "maukatarians" as a friend calls them (mauka dekh key khatay hai): if the non-veg spread looks good, then they'll hit on the chicken. If the paneer's more fetching, they'll make moves on it. There are born-again veggies, who have had a brief affair with meat, and now refuse to look a pomfret in the eye. There are those who say they'll "eat anything that moves" (One is tempted to invite them to dinner pre-monsoon…when anything that moves is doing a kamikaze at my light bulb); there are the vegans, the fishitarians, the river fish onlys, the closet kabab addicts - who'll grab a few rounds at Bade Miyan before reaching home to a chaste meal. You name it.

And to complicate life, these various species meet, mate and set up house. That's when things get really intricate. Take Bhaskar for instance. Grew up in a home where his mother would not even use the word 'egg' - the only time she had to use the word, when he was about to leave his Matrubhoomi, she said: "I suppose you will end up having to eat that round white thing - in that country of barbarians. But try not to eat the mother of the round white thing…"

Bhaskar ultimately became a committed fan of Kentucky mother of the round white thing. But he met and married a girl who 'never touched' (our very own Indian term for 'totally vegetarian' or for a 'complete teetotaler'). So how did they sort that out? Love and fresh air. No to meat in the house… but yes to barbecues out in the backyard, as long as the meat comes in from the back and leaves from there too. After a party they simply give away what's left. If he craves a sizzler, they'll go to an open-air restaurant, where Mita doesn't end up having, as she describes it, "her clothes and hair smelling of that stuff". Seems kind of do-able.

Then there's Ninad and Ketki. When they pass the Mumbai suburban fish market, his Malwani genes jump about, pulling and tugging at the leash and whining piteously…but if it's Bengali week, he's out of luck. They're headed to Ketki's favourite river-fish market at Vikhroli - and she's not going to sully the trip with sea fish - she's seeing hilsa and tangda dancing in front of her eyes. Sunday lunch is all mustard and hilsa, while Ninad has to wait his turn for next Sunday, when surmai will swim in coconut gravy. And his biggest grouse: "She buys those guys, and stores them whole in the freezer. You reach for some ice cubes….and these gaping mouths and staring eyes leap out at you….yukk. I prefer my fish all cut and sliced and marinated and put away in the freezer. Not this Sea World look, man. Well they're still sorting things out….kind of. Their daughter, when she's old enough, they hope will simply love it all. What they dread is her turning veggie on them. That they really wouldn’t know how to handle.

Veronica has a slightly different problem. Brought up in a meat eating home, she is married to a person from the same background. But she can't stand the stuff. Her ma-in-law makes the best sorpatel and vindaloo this side of anywhere, and she believes that vegetables are for old and ailing people who god is severely punishing for past sins. She greets most of the veggies which Veronica buys from the station, on her way home, with a curious and suspicious glare, muttering "never seen that before". Veronica claims that the old lady recognizes only potatoes, peas and tomatoes, and that too because they are willing to be friends with meat. Anything else is fodder really. Veronica and Big Mama aren’t doing too well. Other members of the family indulge in dinner diplomacy - "Hmm superb roast, Ma. Yes, Ver, I would like more of that palak"….etc - and keep carefully out of the debate.

This is how Rajani-kaki and Ved-Kaka have it figured: She's 70. Her husband's 75. Vegetarians all their lives. In the last couple of years, however, he's discovered sausages and eggs. Ate them with a friend at a restaurant. Came home and declared he must have them at least once a week….and to hell with cholesterol-pholesterol. She comes from a generation that will not say…."then fix them yerself, pal". Her weekly ritual is indeed a lesson in physics, acrobatics, sociology, theology….This is how it goes: At 7 am on every Saturday, she first turns the little idols in her devghar to face away - to turn a blind eye for a while. She climbs up on a chair, and pulls down from a shelf high up, kept well away from defiling other kitchenware, a little frying pan, a spatula, a plate and a fork. She's got a blacksmith to attach an extra-long handle - a good 18 inches long, to the frying pan. The spatula too is a really long one. The local shop then delivers six sausages and two eggs. She then lights the stove, proceeds to wear two milk bags over her hands, a plastic apron over her nine-yard saree, and stands way, way out of the range of the spluttering oil, and deftly tosses in the eggs and the sausages. Once they're done, she places them on the plate, mops up the extra grease with a couple of pieces of bread, and calls out to Kaka. She refuses to watch when he begins eating; "Chall…you also try some," he says. She makes a face. That's part of the ritual too.

And so it goes on. The human animal doing what it knows best to do: muddling along and trying to figure how to deal with the medley of bewildering choices that its Maker has heaped on its plate.