Mishti Doi
Rachna
Kiri
‘She is
thirty. It’s time she got married.’
Quiet
mumbles.
‘Love?
She can fall in love after she's married. With her husband.’
More
quiet mumbles.
‘I know
she's been focusing on her career. Look at you. You've continued working.
You're a department's director. If you can do it, why can't she?’
More
mumbling. A sigh.
'I'd
never force a marriage on her. She's my daughter, too, Babita. All this time,
we've let her do whatever she wanted, thinking eventually she would choose to
settle down. She hasn't. Perhaps it's time we chose.'
These
words were part of a whispered conversation that took place between my parents
two and a half months ago. I'm currently sitting on a settee near a large
window of my hotel suite as wedding chaos reigns around me, eating
homemade mishti doi out of a small pot, and you're probably
confused. Let me back up for a second.
Roger
and Babita Patil, my parents, moved from Bengal, India to California, USA in
their early twenties. Several years later, I, Rosie Patil, was born. Being a
first-generation born in America means my parents raised me, their only child,
with an odd mixture of eastern and western thought. This means growing up
vegetarian, except for eggs – those are something in the middle of vegetarian
and meat, apparently – trying ballet classes and kathak lessons,
growing up on Shahrukh Khan films and Meryl Streep movies, and celebrating
Christmas with as much gusto as Diwali.
This
also means that my parents understood the concept of dating but only allowed it
once I was in my final year of university. Now, here's the problem with that:
when you grow up observing the dating world, it's like reading a sociology book
– you have the theoretical knowledge of human courting and mating behavioural patterns
without practical application. That does not mean, however, that you agree
with said observed behaviours. In fact, time spent listening to
friends' stories of their love lives usually had me mentally shaking my head at
people's stupidity. And there were many such stories and a lot of mental head
shaking.
So,
there I was at twenty-two with no dating experience whatsoever and already
jaded by the dating world. I thought the boys around my age were idiots, every
last one of them. They took dating as a game of winning and losing, chasing and
being chased. I was over it before it even started.
This
brings us to my parents' issue with my life – I am thirty and unattached.
Correction: was. My parents found a solution to this grave
predicament just a couple weeks after I had overheard their whispers.
Deciding they had had enough of my nonchalant attitude toward marriage, Roger
sent Babita to emotionally blackmail me into considering 'meeting' the son of a
friend of his. I was sitting at the kitchen table when the verbal attack on my
conscience occurred, and the conversation went something like this:
Babita:
Hi, beta. Are you hungry? You want some mishti doi?
Me: I'm
always hungry for mishti doi.
Babita:
*Sigh* I remember feeding you this when you were little. Your face would
scrunch up to take a bite and then you'd bounce up and down at the sweetness.
If only I had a grandchild as cute and little to feed now.
Me: And
someday you will, mom. But it's not going to be anytime too soon, I assure you.
Babita:
I won't be around forever, you know. I'm getting older now. Who knows how much
more time I have? You know Anand Uncle just got out of the hospital after a
heart attack. My co-worker, Julie, already has arthritis in her knees. How will
I play with my grandchildren if I have arthritis in my knees and your father is
in the hospital recovering from a heart attack?
And
that was how I got suckered into meeting Arvin.
She
even used mishti doi. Clever, Babita.
What I
didn't know at the time, was that our 'meeting' would not just be us meeting.
It was both of our families going out to dinner together. It was Arvin and I
sitting at our own table-for-two some twenty feet away as they observed
us to make sure nothing 'untoward' occurred. Needless to say, I was mentally
preparing myself for the most awkward dinner date of my life. Of course, that
did not mean I was not prepared for Arvin.
Arvin
is cute in way where you can’t quite pinpoint why. With the appetiser, I found
out he’s good at his job – a contract civil engineer – but talks a lot when
he’s nervous and says too much. Which was how I found out that while he doesn’t
watch Hindi movies often, he’s a huge fan of Nargis Fakhri because, well, she’s
Nargis Fakhri. He also thinks Shahrukh Khan cries too much. He’s a baseball fan
who never figured out cricket. Eventually, dinner arrived and conversation
moved to our past dating lives and what the future may hold. He thought it'd be
a good idea to get everything out on the table and I thought it was smart and
agreed. Dessert went back to small talk, and we covered things like favourite
authors, how he hates the gym while I adore that post-workout burn, and
how he goes on a camping trip at least once a month while I can’t understand
why anyone would leave a perfectly nice house to live in a plastic bag.
In
short, he’s all right. I don’t find him amazing. In the short two months we
spent getting to know each other, however, he made me laugh a lot, and
somewhere along the way, pushed between the arthritis looming over my
mother's knees and father's impending cardiac arrest, I decided that was
potential enough.
Of
course, that was two months ago, and all of that brings us back to today. The
BIG day. Mine and Arvin’s wedding day.
I know
they say some grooms get cold feet, but what about brides? Because here I am,
sitting on a settee by a large window of my hotel suite, eating my
homemade mishti doi, wondering what the hell I'm doing. Bridesmaids are
running around looking for bobby pins and tossing and catching cans of hairspray
and mousse around like professional football players. My mother is on the phone
with my father who is talking to the priest to make sure everything is set up
correctly for the ceremony. Since yesterday's prayer and haldi, it's
like my mother has gone schizo. One second, she's relaxed and going with the
flow and the next she's stressing over whether we have enough flowers for the
ceremony.
I turn
away from the chaos and stare out the window and take another bite of
sweetness. Guests are mingling in the hotel's courtyard under the tents that
have been erected for the occasion. The caterers have just arrived and are
carrying equipment and trays of food into the hotel through a side door. My
father and Arvin's mother are talking to the priest. The groom's side
arrived not too long ago with music and dancing and flowers galore. I wonder if
someone on my side remembered to steal Arvin’s shoes. My attention goes back to
the caterers as I see them carrying trays full of small earthen bowls with little white
covers, somewhat similar to the one in my hands. I
smile as I remember my conversation with my mother.
‘Beta,
don't you think mishti doi is too simple for a wedding dessert?’
‘You
can have other desserts if you want, but I want mishti doi. It's my wedding
day, mother.’ She'd acquiesced.
I take
another bite. I love mishti doi, and not just for its sweet taste. I love it
for what it is – easy, but requiring effort. If you just want to eat sweet
yogurt, it's not so hard to spoon some into a bowl and stir in some sugar
or honey. But if you want mishti doi, you're going to have to put aside the
readymade yogurt and start from milk. You’ll have to have some patience, put in
a little more effort, pay a little more attention to preparation and time and
heat. For a recipe with so many possible shortcuts, mishti doi is a
dish that requires dedication to the culinary tradition, the art, the
taste, and the heart. It demands that you choose – do you just want instant,
fleeting gratification or do you want blissful fulfilment?
I look
up to see an overcast sky and let another dollop of sweet hit my tongue. ‘Rosie?’
My mother calls me out of my thoughts. ‘Beta, it's time to go.’ She
smiles. I take my last bite, gather my skirts, and make my way down.
The
bridesmaids, aunts, and my mother huddle around me and I feel like a
celebrity as I exit the lift and begin to walk to the double doors that lead to
the courtyard. Just as they open the doors, it begins to sprinkle. At the threshold,
it's raining. I take a step outside into the courtyard, cousins and friends
scrambling to get some kind of covering over me. I ignore them, and my mother's
protests, as I smile and walk purposefully towards the altar.
I feel
drops fall on my face, one by one, increasing in tempo. I look up as I walk
toward Arvin with my eyes closed, raindrops rolling my features – over my
cheekbones, across my eyelashes, down the length of my nose, resting where my lips
met each other. I grin widely. My hair is drenched, and my dress ruined,
but I realise I could not give a damn if I tried. I look at the altar as I slow
my steps but continue towards it.
I can't
do this.
It's a
lie, a blasphemy that's been committed one too many times over the years by
way too many a people who were too scared to let themselves recognise the
truth for what it was. But I recognise this moment for what it
is. Readymade yogurt.
Marrying Arvin would
be like choosing to stir sugar or honey into yogurt. It’s easy and fine and you
can learn to be content with it if you really try, but it's not enough. It’s
not impatiently waiting at the restaurant when he’s late again. It’s not your
heart fluttering when an arm settles around your shoulders as the two of you tuck
in for movie night. It's not cracking half a smile when he surprises you with
your favourite dessert as an apology after a nasty fight. That is what you get
when you wait for the milk to boil, for the sugar to caramelise, for the hours
to pass and the sweet to set. That is finding someone who is worthwhile to you.
That is waking up every day, starting from scratch, and choosing to love the
same person over and over again. That is patience, dedication, and work. That
is blissful fulfilment. That is mishti doi.
I come
to stand before him, and I know he knows. I expect him to be upset, angry even,
but when I meet his milk-chocolate eyes, he just gives me a sad sort of smile
and shrugs before playfully leering at one of the bridesmaids behind me. I
giggle and shake my head, thankful to have become his friend. Then, he looks at
me more seriously, brings his hands up to cup my face, and gently pulls me
closer to him. Somewhere in the background noise, I hear the priest sputter
something about young couples these days having no respect for tradition,
confused chatter from our guests, and drops of water hitting the surface of
what is supposed to be our wedding. But we pay no mind to the priest, tune out
our guests, and drown out the rain, as he pulls me closer still. He gently
brushes the apples of my cheeks with his thumbs, leans forward, kisses my
forehead, and lets go.
Rachna
Kiri
was born and raised in San Jose, California. She graduated from the University
of California, Davis with a BA in Political Science. She fell in love with
words at a young age and remains an avid bookworm. She discovered her love for
writing just before entering high school. As she grew, she found many causes
she was passionate about and sought to understand government and went on to study
Political Science at university. She is incredibly thankful to her family for
always supporting her dreams and encouraging her ambitions, while keeping her
grounded and practical, and she is ever grateful to God for such blessings.
Aside from playing with words, she enjoys cooking when she feels like it,
singing to inanimate objects and anyone who will listen, pretending to be a
dancer, binge-watching television shows, working out, and trying to play sports
despite her athletically challenged status. You can follow her on twitter
@rachna1019.
Wow!!! Loved it, enjoyed it, looking forward for another one soon….
ReplyDeleteWow!!! Loved it, enjoyed it, looking forward for another one soon….
ReplyDeleteI love this beautful story and how well its twined with misti doe and with a very serious topic that each and every young girl needs to be aware.
ReplyDeleteThis is a beautiful story which young girls should pause and ponder since you don't want to realize 15 years later that it was nothing but yogurt mixed with sugar syrup. Love it Rachana!!!
this is a clever and warm story with its simile of mishti doi and sweet yoghurt.
ReplyDeleteSO GOOD! LOVED EVERY BIT OF IT! :)
ReplyDelete