Faithful readers of this blog - currently the 10 split personality manifestations of the author, and counting - will doubtless realise that the previous entry hinted at a sequel through the simple plot device of a missing gas connection. With the gas connection having been obtained, me and Poli finally had the opportunity to eat at the guest house.
During our first visit to the guest house, we had been acquainted with the caretaker and the cook - two individuals as similar as chalk and cheese. The caretaker appeared to be one of those eager to please, helpful chaps. The cook, on the other hand, seemed like the kind of person who, for no fault of yours, would conceal a sharp object in one's palm before vigorously shaking hands with you. Well built, with a stomach to match, unshaven and possessing a fierce countenance, he displayed all the friendliness of a bulldog that has seen its favorite bone being passed to the neighborhood mongrel. Having fixed us with a stern eye and seeming to have concluded that he could whup us any time in a handicap death match, he let us know he was the cook.
D-Day morning arrived and we sat eating a satisfactory breakfast of poha and bread toast. I figured this would be the right time to let him know what our culinary preferences were. Having eaten at the other guest house for three days, I knew what I could ask for. However, assessing that discretion was the better part of valor, I decided to let the caretaker know what I liked so that he could, in turn, pass on the message to the cook. "How about omelette once in a while?" I ventured. The caretaker's face assumed solemn proportions. "The cook is a brahmin", he whispered. "So what, egg is no big deal" .. "Let me check with the cook, sir" .. "Err, on second thoughts, maybe you shouldn't" .. Too late.
The cook walked into the dining area with a malevolent look on his face. Pregnant pause. The only sound that could be heard was Poli blissfully munching away on the poha. The cook cleared his throat with a flourish to draw our already well-drawn attention to him. "I am a Rajasthani brahmin", he thundered, " There will be NO eggs in this house as long as I am here. You'll have to eat eggs outside this house". Poli's spoon landed with a bang on the plate. Total silence. The air was crackling with nervous energy. There was potential for war here. There were Kodak moments galore, and the odd Pulitzer moment for the taking. An earnest journalist present at the scene could well head off on vacation for the Bahamas having already mailed his Award acceptance speech to his editor - "Thank you so much, folks .. just reward for having risked my life in the line of duty". A Sergio Leone may well have conceptualized The Good, the Good and the Ugly. An Ekta Kapoor could have gone into paroxysms of orgasmic pleasure with the myriad possibilities. One can imagine her telling her directors and script-writers "Zoom in on cook, then on Spanker, then on Poli .. zoom back, slowly .. zoom in, zoom out .. in, out, in, out .. fast, slow, fast, slow .. gasp". There was potential for one 30 minute episode here. The cook was Megatron and Sauron rolled into one. Me and Poli were two lowly cell-phones without a ring, one way or the other. The cook was Gabbar and we were Thakurs wiping sweat off our brow with our phantom palms .. and I am out of metaphors.
I heard a sharp intake of breath. Poli was gasping. He was no doubt remembering the fact that he had just concluded a project where he had helped a poultry foods company to sell its products - eggs and meat - to all corners of the country. As he carefully planned how he could exit the area without sustaining any lasting damage, I - with all the negotiating skills and assertiveness learnt in college - said "Of course, no eggs. We don't want eggs." Poli pitched in to mention how we were joking all along and were merely testing his brahmin integrity. The cook walked off muttering ominously. Me and Poli exchanged high fives. We were two tough cookies who could handle any situation - as long as there was no brahmin cook involved.
We have finally reached a truce with the cook. We ask him to cook any vegetarian food we want. All requests routed through the caretaker, of course. And he summarily dismisses our requests and cooks whatever he wants.
