The mobile chef

A Sunday morning, for that matter any morning, ought not to begin with the vibration and noise of a borewell drilling machine a few metres away from one's sleep filled head.

Can neighbours ever be choosers? Never, and so the family resigned itself to various self-sustaining alternatives in far flung localities. That took care of a few hours, after which home beckoned. The drilling was still on and so each one devised novel ways of combating the annoyance.

Being able to hear the din and not see what was causing it, seemed a little inconvenient.
Reading or sewing was impossible. So, doing the laundry in the terrace room seemed to be the only sensible thing to do. The view of the neighbouring plot with those monstrous diesel guzzling machines, surprisingly, offered entertainment for the evening.

A senior man, bent and greyed came to the site with a laden shopping bag. He was completely ignored by the crew while he set up a functional kitchen. He pulled out draws that were cleverly incorporated in the structure of the massive lorries. He called out to a youth for help in lifting a heavy trunk and a large water barrel down. The same lad tugged a pipe from somewhere, filled it up with water, smoked a bidi and went back to work.
It was difficult to watch the gnarled hands at work. Ethical, confounding questions about the elderly having to slog evaded realistic answers. Nonetheless, his fluid, unhurried movements compelled observation. Artistry was so evident. Call it mere routine or habit, he was good at his assigned job.

Large cooking pots, cookers, rice, coriander, green chillies, garlic and ginger were cleaned. Meat was washed thoroughly and marinated with spices and curds. Onions were cut into fine strands and a few slices were put away. The green of the coriander and pale yellow of ginger gleamed in the light of the setting sun. A pressure cooker was used as a wok, wherein thirty eggs were fried after seasoning. Marinated meat went into a vessel of boiling water, followed by rice.

The cut and diced fresh vegetables were thrown in.

Eventually, an array of spices, that came out of coloured plastic containers, went in. This rice dish was monitored and tasted at regular intervals, till he decided to set it down. A huge kettle was then put on the stove. To the boiling water he added milk, sugar and tea leaves. Switching off the stove he hollered to his crew. He brought out shining plates and passed them around. He set up tall stainless steel tumblers and poured out the tea to all.
The last glass was his; slanting the spout gently and thus preventing the tea leaves from escaping he picked it up, moved a few inches away and began sipping it. The others helped themselves to the rice, raw onion slices, egg curry and ate ravenously.

The chef watched with complete satisfaction. The youth who had helped him previously stopped eating abruptly. Washing his hands, he heaped a plate with food and handed it over to the chef. The slightest of nods was all that he received as acknowledgement. Feast over, the kitchen was cleaned in five minutes! Boxes packed, utensils rinsed, knives wrapped and the wet waste dumped right there, two feet from my front door. Fair enough. I had to pay for the recipe's exclusive demonstration!