Kishore Singh: Say you like it

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To see her, you wouldn't think my wife was competitive, but ever since her nephew and niece have come to visit, the demons of some long-past rivalry have been unleashed in our home. Recent exportees to the United States of America, the children made a pitstop with my sister-in-law in Jaipur before coming to spend a week with us in Delhi, and said (for they are polite) that their aunt had treated them to a pleasant holiday.

"Ho-ho," hissed my wife at me, "these poor children know nothing about having a good time, and it's up to us ensure they enjoy their holiday." For some reason this seemed to consist of cooking a lot, and then force-feeding the mites till they could eat no more. "Is this nice, or is this nice?" she'd say, heaping a pile of mo-mos on their plate. "I don't like mo-mos," complained her nephew. "I can't eat any more," insisted his sister. "Eat, eat," said my wife magnanimously, "nobody feeds better than I do."

My other sister-in-law, whose children they were, called to say she'd be grateful if we could get them to eat their vegetables, something she'd had poor luck with in all their growing years. A challenge was just what my wife needed "" and the children didn't. "Eat your carrots, and your beans," she commanded them, "no wasting onions," and "you've got to eat your brinjals."

"We don't have to eat all this in America," protested the little boy.

"But you do in India," my wife insisted. "Our other aunt didn't force us to have salads in Jaipur," whined the girl. "Because she doesn't care," gloated my wife, wearing her virtue visibly on her sleeve.

They wanted cereal for breakfast but my wife fed them sausages and frankies instead. "I don't even like sausages," complained her niece "" though you could have fooled me, the way she helped herself to them "" "and we don't eat frankfurters even in America," added the boy. "Eat," ordered my wife, "this aunt will feed you better than your other aunt... than any other aunt!"

But it wasn't just my wife's sister who was the problem, but also the children's mother, every bit as proficient in the kitchen as a professional chef. "Our mother makes nice caramel custard," said my wife's niece. "But I make it better," insisted my wife. "Our aunt in Jaipur made great chocolate mousse," said the little lad. "Not better than mine," said my wife, fleeing into the kitchen to whisk the eggs and prepare the batter.

So the children had fruit they didn't want and kebabs that they did. They were given mango shake to wash down cake and ice-cream and pasta and salad. They ate when they were hungry, but mostly when they weren't. "Say you like it," exulted my wife, who'd morphed into some form of manic monster who couldn't shovel food down any faster into their scrunched up mouths. They had sandwiches and hot dogs which they didn't like, and Indian meals that they did. They ate when she took them out visiting, and again when they came back home. Banana milk shakes ("ugh" protested the boy) and plain jam on toast ("yummy" said the girl), she was eclectic in what she fed them, but feed them she did with a forcefulness that was scary. It was not entirely impossible to believe that if they'd refused, the calories would have been delivered through an intravenous drip. "You feed us too much," said her niece "" and I don't think she meant it as a compliment.

So it was surprising when I came back from office and asked for a bite to eat, my wife retorted: "You're always asking for food "" don't you think you eat too much?"