The computer ? The micro ? The i pad, i phone, ipod ? Sure. Sure! Absolutely. Todays Bharatiya Naari, can do without everything except her gizmos. I mean, the male comes much much later in her life, its only all about the mail. The e kind . But there was a time. Admittedly, great grandma's time, but there was a time, when she had none of these, not even a pressure cooker.
My mom's aunt was a small, absent minded old lady. Mild and timid. Except when thwarted. The 'Thing ' called a pressure cooker was guilty of just that crime. There it lay, in all its shiny new glory, on the marble floor, brazenly. Now aunts' house was not your small city flat. No way. The ceiling was so high, one couldn't be blamed for thinking one had stepped into the Buckingham Palace, where of course, resides her alter ego. It happened like this. Aunt lived in the country with her sundry kids and minions, while uncle, as was the wont in those days, lived in Mumbai. Mumbai of the early sixties. Occasionally he loved to rattle her beatific existence with small challenges. Thus had arrived one fine morning, this 'latest' tapela, (gujarati for utensil.) the covering letter said it could be put to use for tenderising beef, trotters, etc. in a matter of minutes. The delighted aunt decided to test its mettle with goat trotters. And so it had been put ceremoniously to the test and the stove. When first it let out a whistle, aunt was frazzled, for there she had sat beside it, watching it getting hotter and hotter and letting out little puffs of steam a la her husband when provoked. She hurriedly called the neighbour who had helped her close it. Together they held counsel, and decided the food was cooked. Gingerly, the stoutest maid took hold of it and hurriedly smacked it down on the floor. Adjudged the ablest of them all and bribed with the promise of a few annas, she then attempted to open it, as the aunt and sundry fascinated neighbours circled it in, well... fascination, "Unghhhhhh. Erghhhhh, even Yaaaaaaaaa Allah" emanated from the maid, but it was of no use. The cover wouldn't budge.
Now the maid was truly annoyed. Here was a rare moment of glory for her, the attention of all the ladies was fixed on her like a bedecked bride, and the thing wouldn't open. "Hang on," she declared, and vanished kitchen wards. Out came the heavy pestle and lifting the offending cooker she plonked it in the hall, so that more people could watch her. Next she raised the pestle, and with a final "Ya Allah!" she banged it down on the lid.
Just then my mum happened to arrive on the scene. A scream escaped her lips, as she beheld a room full of women either in a faint or having hysterics. Aunt was standing, mouth open in shock, too stunned to move. Seeing my mum, she stuttered something like, " Pusar na para ! Na, na ! Para na super ! Arrey, Sara na uper, "(on top of Sara) and collapsed gratefully in my mums arms. Open mouthed with awe, my mum looked around to see the faithful Sara, lying spreadeagled on the ground, pestle still in hand, with something dripping on her from the ceiling on high. The erstwhile trotters, it seemed had sought refuge on the ceiling, where they had landed with a whoosh, when the cooker had been blasted open by poor Sara.
Suffice it to say that grand uncle never ever attempted to challenge aunt again. Never, ever.
My mom's aunt was a small, absent minded old lady. Mild and timid. Except when thwarted. The 'Thing ' called a pressure cooker was guilty of just that crime. There it lay, in all its shiny new glory, on the marble floor, brazenly. Now aunts' house was not your small city flat. No way. The ceiling was so high, one couldn't be blamed for thinking one had stepped into the Buckingham Palace, where of course, resides her alter ego. It happened like this. Aunt lived in the country with her sundry kids and minions, while uncle, as was the wont in those days, lived in Mumbai. Mumbai of the early sixties. Occasionally he loved to rattle her beatific existence with small challenges. Thus had arrived one fine morning, this 'latest' tapela, (gujarati for utensil.) the covering letter said it could be put to use for tenderising beef, trotters, etc. in a matter of minutes. The delighted aunt decided to test its mettle with goat trotters. And so it had been put ceremoniously to the test and the stove. When first it let out a whistle, aunt was frazzled, for there she had sat beside it, watching it getting hotter and hotter and letting out little puffs of steam a la her husband when provoked. She hurriedly called the neighbour who had helped her close it. Together they held counsel, and decided the food was cooked. Gingerly, the stoutest maid took hold of it and hurriedly smacked it down on the floor. Adjudged the ablest of them all and bribed with the promise of a few annas, she then attempted to open it, as the aunt and sundry fascinated neighbours circled it in, well... fascination, "Unghhhhhh. Erghhhhh, even Yaaaaaaaaa Allah" emanated from the maid, but it was of no use. The cover wouldn't budge.
Now the maid was truly annoyed. Here was a rare moment of glory for her, the attention of all the ladies was fixed on her like a bedecked bride, and the thing wouldn't open. "Hang on," she declared, and vanished kitchen wards. Out came the heavy pestle and lifting the offending cooker she plonked it in the hall, so that more people could watch her. Next she raised the pestle, and with a final "Ya Allah!" she banged it down on the lid.
Just then my mum happened to arrive on the scene. A scream escaped her lips, as she beheld a room full of women either in a faint or having hysterics. Aunt was standing, mouth open in shock, too stunned to move. Seeing my mum, she stuttered something like, " Pusar na para ! Na, na ! Para na super ! Arrey, Sara na uper, "(on top of Sara) and collapsed gratefully in my mums arms. Open mouthed with awe, my mum looked around to see the faithful Sara, lying spreadeagled on the ground, pestle still in hand, with something dripping on her from the ceiling on high. The erstwhile trotters, it seemed had sought refuge on the ceiling, where they had landed with a whoosh, when the cooker had been blasted open by poor Sara.
Suffice it to say that grand uncle never ever attempted to challenge aunt again. Never, ever.
truly lol! what a hilarious incident!
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