My first move to Chennai was as a young bride many moons and geopolitical phenomena ago. On the first weekend break from the new job, we finally had the time to crawl out of moving cartons (using the same pair of socks every day as which carton had the socks was a mystery). I was stacking empty cartons in the back veranda when I noticed a stocky woman from a neighbouring apartment waving her broom and grinning manically, gesturing that she would come across.
That was how Vasantha came to cook for us. Our pecking order was established almost immediately; my ignorance of the language plummeting me to the lower species. On her first morning, she accosted me, ‘ Urulakizhangu?’ These were the pre-online-translator dark ages. I smiled blankly. She grew agitated, advancing as I backed up against the wall… ‘ Urulakizhangu?’ She moved in, curling her fingers into a ball, chopping and slicing at the air, even more frenzied. ‘Urulakizhangu!’ It was now a battle cry. Clueless, I pulled out chopping board, bowls, all sorts of knives as offerings. In scorn, she switched tactics. ‘ Vengayam?’
The very next day, I sat with office mates and compiled a glossary of edibles translated into Tamil. I stuck the V List on the fridge, but Vasantha’s demands grew more complex. It took half an hour of histrionics to produce mortar and pestle; and by star anise, I was in tears. Vasantha glowered on, unimpressed.
