Life’s a Grind
I like Ms. G. She is sweet and kind — for the most part. But she is also quite impulsive and ambitious, often taking on more than she can handle. I am just one among the numerous victims of her reckless impulses.
This is my story, if you care enough to read on.
One fine morning, in the middle of a perfectly edible breakfast, Ms. G declared that she did not like store-bought idli batter anymore, and that henceforth she would make the batter from scratch. Her husband — ever the voice of sanity in this household — asked a perfectly valid question as to why anybody would spend hours making batter that can be easily bought from the nearby shop. Ms. G pummelled the poor man with a long lecture that covered the five virtues of hardwork, six traits of a highly successful idli, and seven reasons why plastic covers are bad for the planet.
There was no stopping Ms. G now. She had declared war on store-bought batter, and the only thing that stood between her and idli glory was the lack of the perfect wet grinder in her kitchen. Two days of intense Google research and two days of intense negotiations later, Ms. G zeroed in on me. She picked me for my patented stone design and my long-standing reputation for making idlis as soft and light as air. I was brought home with much fanfare.
Two weeks of mutually congratulatory idli making ensued. She would watch with such pride as I churned out the perfect idli batter; fret over my every little movement; clean and wipe every little accessory with such tender love and care. As her husband would later admit, the idlis tasted just the same — what Ms. G tasted differently was the fruits of her labour.
Every love story has a beginning. And an ending. Ours ended the day Ms. G got home late after a meeting and forgot to soak the rice and dal. She let out a sigh. Her husband quietly bought a packet of readymade idli batter. Ms. G looked at me with guilt in her eyes and apologised — “just this one time, precious!”. We both knew that was a lie.
In the battlefield between aspirations and instant gratification, Ms. G succumbed to the latter. Now it’s been three years since she looked my way. My once-sharp grind stones, crafted for the noble task of transforming fresh ingredients into world class idlis, have languished in the shadows of disuse. Oh, how I ache to fulfill my purpose once more.
Today morning, while Ms. G was rummaging through the kitchen looking for her knife, her gaze fell on me. We held the stare for some time, hope leaping in both our hearts. I saw plans dancing in her eyes. She patted me on the back and said, “someday soon, darling!”.
Until that day, dear friends, I shall endure the silence, a witness to the ebb and flow of culinary aspirations in this museum of unfulfilled ambitions.
Yours in quiet longing,
The Under-utilized Wet Grinder
Covered in hope (and dust),
Corner of Ms. G’s Kitchen
