Tags:
Journalism of Courage
So Lata massi has sent me another jar of mayonnaise. Didn’t take much prodding either. Just told her that I was out of mayo and, two days later there was a jar waiting for me. A nondescript jar, unlike your Hellmen or Kraft jars, but you can bet your sweet life it was gonna be better than either. It always was.
So in the evening I tell my wife to cut me a few carrots and I take a small plastic tub and help myself to some mayonnaise. As I take a spoonful and put it in my little tub it is immediately evident that the consistency is just right. I take my mayo and my plate of carrots and depart into my study. I put on some jazz—it goes best with carrots and mayo—switch on the A/C and settle down. I pick up a carrot stick, dip it in the mayo and bite. It’s astonishing. The crunchiness of the carrot enhances the smoothness of the mayo. The slightly sweet taste of the carrot is offset by the deliciously creamy-eggy taste of the mayo. I finish one and start on another.
My enthusiasm, initially, is so great that the carrots disappear at an alarming pace. I soon realise that the faster you eat the carrots the less time you have to enjoy them. I slow down so as to enjoy the carrots more. The saxophonist has just hit a purple patch. The A/C is cooling just right. Soon the balance changes. The plate which was, at the start, more red than white is now more white than red. Now I have run out of carrots. I still have mayo left in the tub. I go into the kitchen and get myself some more carrots. I start all over again, being more generous with the mayonnaise this time. The initial desperation is gone and I am slightly satiated. I tell myself to become more aware of the taste. Feel the smoothness. Dissolve into it. Zen Mayo. Zen Carrot. Soon the mayo is over—but there are some carrots left.
I reluctantly leave the chair. Go to the fridge and refill my tub, all the while thanking Lata massi for her generosity. She never hesitates when I ask. She never questions my need for mayo. I suspect she has some secret way of whipping the mayo into shape. She has given my wife the recipe but despite my wife following it to the ‘T’, it never seems to come out just right.
I make myself comfortable and begin the old regimen again. Soon I am out of carrots. And there’s still some mayo left. It would be criminal to waste it. I go back to the kitchen and ask for more carrots. My wife throws up her hands in exasperation, “We are out of carrots, enough is enough. Do you want some cucumbers instead, or a radish?” I am shocked. No more carrots? Now what will I do with the remaining mayo? Like a good jugalbandhi the carrots and mayo have blended perfectly. It would be a sacrilege to finish off the mayo with a stick of cucumber or radish.
I retreat to the table, stare at my little mayo tub and slowly lick the remains of the mayo with my finger. The spell has finally been broken.
