A culinary emergency

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"I know," she said, "and she's none too pleased about it." "I wouldn't be either," I agreed, commiserating with the cook whose fare we'd all grown to appreciate. "It's not that I don't value her," said my wife, "it's just her autocratic ways I'm opposed to."

I know what she meant, for the cook was temperamental and set in her ways. If you wanted chicken for dinner, and she had decided on mutton, it was mutton we would have.

If you asked her to spice down the fish curry, she would consider it an aspersion on her skills and ask my wife: "Have you employed me to cook, or are you the cook?" Tell her to make the dosas lighter, or crisper, and she would stalk off in a huff. "Now," said my wife, "she tells me not to speak to her in a sharp tone, or she will be offended and file a complaint."

"What do you mean?" I asked, for good or not, a cook must be kept in her place. "It's all that Jayalalithaa thing on the news," my wife explained, "she's extremely sympathetic to her, and feels the press has no right criticising Puratchi Thalaivi."

"I must confess," I giggled, "I've always thought she looks a bit like Jayalalithaa herself." "She's a large woman," my wife agreed, "but it would require a lot more than the fairness cream she's partial to, before she can look like the Tamil Nadu chief minister. Although," she added, "she would look quite as impressive in a cape."

"Actually," I pointed out, "she may look like Jayalalithaa, but dresses more like President Chandrika Kumaratunga of Sri Lanka." "You know, you could be right," said my wife, "because she also behaves like her."

"Come, come," I chided her, "she's a mere cook, and I think you're taking things too seriously, comparing a cook with such senior politicians." "I don't think so," said my wife, "because last evening when I told her she couldn't take her weekly off in my absence, the cook threatened to declare Emergency and cease all cooking in the kitchen. These women from South India," she added, "are tough babes."

"You mustn't generalise," I admonished her, "nor call politicians babes, it isn't a respectable thing to do. Besides, if Jayalalithaa finds out, she could issue an arrest warrant in your name." "It's not her I'm worried about," said my wife, "she's already been cut down to size. As has Chandrika Kumaratunga. It's the cook who's tougher than them both, and more likely to cause us grief."

Just then, the subject of our discussion came into the room. "No whispering in the house," she said to us, "no plotting against me, or I will go." "Far from plotting against you," I hastened to assure her, "we were just planning to give you a raise." "That is alright," said the cook, "but if the children say they don't like my cooking, I go."

"The children love your cooking," my wife said, "it's the best in the world." "Alright," said the cook, "but if Master want more coffee, or you want too much tea, I go." "No extra tea or coffee," I agreed. "And new saree every month, and one full day off every week, no complaint, or I go," continued the cook.

Having made her working situation quite clear, the cook withdrew. "I agree with you," I said to my wife, "these women from South India, they're tough babes."