Sign in to share
Dhruv Saxena
I was making chutney at my parents' house last month, which is a sentence that already contains the problem.
Nobody asked me to make chutney. Nobody needed me to make chutney. I had seen coriander, mint, one green chilli, and a lime on the counter and decided, with the confidence of a man who owns one pan in Bangalore and washes it only when the next meal requires it, that I could handle this.
My mother was in the bedroom folding clothes.
I put everything into the mixie jar. I added salt. I added water. I put the lid on. I held it down with one hand because I have seen enough kitchen incidents to respect the machine. Then I switched it on.
The sound lasted less than two seconds.
From the bedroom, my mother shouted, "Stop."
Not "what happened?" Not "is everything okay?" Stop.
I stopped.
She came into the kitchen with the expression of someone who had heard a crime being planned. The Mom's Magic biscuits were on the kitchen table with the chai she had made for us fifteen minutes earlier, and somehow, in the time it took me to damage her peace, the entire room had changed from afternoon snack to formal inquiry.
She opened the lid, looked inside, and said, "You have put too much water."
I had put too much water.
**The Ear Is Not Normal**
My mother can hear domestic mistakes before they become visible.
The mixie has one sound when it is grinding properly, one sound when there is too much water, one sound when there is not enough water, one sound when the blade is struggling, and one sound when somebody has inserted something that should not have been inserted with that level of optimism.
I hear one sound.
Mixie.
She hears evidence.
The same applies to the pressure cooker, the washing machine, the ceiling fan, the gas flame, the tap in the bathroom, and my father opening the fridge with no plan. Each has a sound category. Each sound category has a meaning. Each meaning requires, from my mother, either intervention, commentary, or both.
I asked her how she knew about the water.
She said, "The sound was loose."
The sound was loose.
I have been thinking about this phrase since. I do not know if sound can be loose in any technical sense. I only know that she was right.
My friend Nikhil told me his mother can hear from the living room whether the dal has enough water in the cooker. He once tried to make dal while she was watching television. Three whistles in, she said, without turning around, "This will stick."
It stuck.
He asked how she knew.
She said the whistle was angry.
There is a whole vocabulary here that has not been written down because the people who know it are busy saving our kitchens from us.
**The Machine Has to Be Respected**
My mother has never trusted the mixie as a casual appliance.
To her, it is a machine with moods. It must be loaded correctly. The lid must be held with the right pressure. The pulse button must be used with judgment. The jar should not be filled like you are settling a personal score with coriander.
I have watched her use it for years. She does not turn it on and walk away. She stands there. One hand on the lid. One hand near the switch. Head tilted slightly, listening.
The listening is the main thing.
She listens the way a mechanic listens to an engine. She knows when the chutney needs one more round. She knows when the coconut is refusing to cooperate. She knows when the jar is too full and the lid is about to become a ceiling problem.
Priya's mother once stopped her father from grinding dosa batter because she heard, from the balcony, that he had not locked the jar into place. He insisted it was fine. She came in, checked it, and it was not locked.
Priya said her father looked personally betrayed by physics.
Her mother said nothing. She only locked the jar properly and went back to the balcony.
That silence, Priya said, was worse than being scolded.
**We Use Appliances Like They Are Neutral**
This is where our generation differs.
We think appliances are either working or not working. They are plugged in. They run. They stop. The end.
Our mothers know there is a large middle zone where the appliance is technically working but behaving badly. The fan is running, but the bearing sounds tired. The fridge is cooling, but not with full sincerity. The washing machine is spinning, but the load is imbalanced and will soon walk three inches toward the wall.
They hear this.
We do not.
My friend Karan ignored a washing machine sound for three weeks because, as he put it, the machine was still washing clothes. His mother visited, heard one cycle, and said the drum was not happy.
He laughed.
Two days later, the machine stopped mid-cycle with all his office shirts trapped inside soapy water.
His mother did not say I told you so. She sent him the number of the repair person and one message that said, "Ask him to check the drum."
The drum was the problem.
Karan has become more respectful since then. Not better. More respectful.
**The Chutney Was Saved**
My chutney, despite my efforts, was rescued.
My mother added more coriander, half a handful of roasted peanuts, one piece of ginger I had not known was required, and a look that suggested she was disappointed in my water judgment but not surprised by it.
Then she pulsed the mixie three times.
Not four. Three.
She opened the lid, looked inside, nodded once, and said, "Now."
The chutney was excellent.
I told her this.
She said, "Of course."
Not proudly. Factually.
We ate it with the pakoras she had made because rain had started and rain in my parents' house causes pakoras the way switching on a light causes the room to become bright. There was chai. There were Mom's Magic biscuits. There was my father saying the chutney was very good and my mother saying I had made it.
I objected.
She said, "You started it."
This is generous, legally questionable, and typical.
**I Am Trying to Listen**
I have started listening to my own kitchen now.
This has not made me competent, but it has made me less arrogant.
The other day, my mixer in Bangalore made a sound I did not like. Earlier I would have ignored it. This time I stopped, opened the jar, and realised the spoon was still inside.
I would like to say this was a rare incident. It was not.
I called my mother to tell her. She laughed for a full ten seconds. Then she asked why the spoon was inside the jar in the first place.
I had no good answer.
She said, "At least you heard it."
That is where we are now. My standards have been lowered to noticing the spoon before destroying the machine.
When I was leaving that evening, she packed some chutney for me. In a small container. Not too much because, as she said, it would not last beyond two days and I should not pretend that I would remember to freeze it.
She was right.
At the door, she handed me the container and said, "Do not put this in the mixie again."
I said I would not.
She looked at me for one extra second, deciding whether my promise had structural strength.
Then she said, "Call me if it makes a sound."
