There were only ten minutes for the train to leave. Most of the people had settled into their seats. Take care of your health, give us a ring once you reach, don’t worry, everything will be alright. Farewell words, some laced with tears and spoken with choked voices, and some with joyous hugs. Some spoke in a matter-of-fact way, checking their watches often, and hoping the train would leave on time, so they could get home soon. 

The porter we had engaged ushered us in, quickly getting past the surge of people at the door. Ravi, my husband, put the suitcases under the seat, easing his way with a friendly smile and solicitous enquiries to those who had already put their luggage in the prime corner spots. A middle-aged woman, sitting comfortably with legs stretched across the opposite seat, asked her husband to shuffle their belongings and make space for us. Then she smiled at me “We have to make adjustments, shouldn’t we? After all, just for a day. But see, not everybody will think like us,” she said, giving a sideway glance at others. 

Before we could even settle comfortably in our seats, the woman introduced herself to me. Her name was Ratna; she had come to Bangalore to attend the marriage of her brother-in-law along with her husband Krishnan and two sons, and was now going back home to Guntakkal. She wanted to know why I was going to Hyderabad, how long I would stay there, how my son would take care of himself in my absence, and so on.  

I would reply in monosyllables and then shift my attention to the scenery outside. I am not an introvert; nevertheless, I certainly value my privacy and hate unwarranted intrusions into it.

I had been looking forward to this journey ever since Ravi was nominated to attend a week-long training at Hyderabad by the private telecom company he was working for. I had joyously agreed to apply for leave and accompany him. Different hours of work may have helped us to take care of home and our respective professions; but over time, it had taken the spark out of our lives. 

I loved travelling by train. I could slip into my own world incognito. No responsibilities…no pressures… I didn’t need to feel answerable to anyone, and the time would stretch elastically. I could close my eyes and float in a world of music with a pair of earphones tucked in, or just relax with my favourite novel and some crunchy snacks. When my eyes ached, I could close my eyes and listen to the sound of the wheels grinding over the rails and singing the most melodious rhythmic lullabies. I could sit for hours at the window, watching with glee the houses in the foreground run in a direction opposite to the train and the far-away trees march along in the same direction and trying to figure out at what distance they made this transition. 

My heart nearly skipped a beat as I watched the high-rise buildings and busy roads giving way to vast expanses of land dotted with a smattering of small houses and huts, and thought of the week-after-weeks of schedules and appointments and business meetings that I was leaving behind.  Unconsciously my mouth broadened into a cheerful grin. 

 “You work somewhere?”  

Before I could reply, Ravi chipped in. Senior business manager in a multinational company, hopping from city to city, developing business contacts. Ratna gasped. I could see in her eyes unabashed awe tinged with envy.  

Ravi had always been proud of my achievements. After all, he was the architect who had shaped it all. 

I was only twenty at the time of my marriage. I had lost my father early on. I had two younger sisters; so uncomplainingly I accepted the offer of a junior job in my father’s office. The gold medal I had received for being the topper in Preuniversity shared space with broken furniture and other discarded stuff in the attic.  

Neither did my protests nor the prospect of losing the salary I brought home change my mother’s determination to get me married.  I could understand her concern about discharging the duties single-handedly. 

 “Don’t you want to study further,” Ravi asked me on our first night. I told him why I had trashed the medal and my dream of a university degree. 

Ravi did not say anything then. I learnt later that only rarely did Ravi express his concern through words.  His actions spoke louder. 

In the next couple of weeks, Ravi brought home brochures and application forms from various colleges. I hesitated joining a regular college, but Ravi wouldn’t listen to anything about taking up correspondence courses. He argued that I needed interaction with other students for gaining confidence. He wouldn’t let me be complacent after the B.Com. exam either. He made me enrol for ICWA and encouraged me to attend  computer training classes. My first job was a business analyst’s in a reputed company. It was only after I received an award for outstanding performance that he said ok to having a kid.  

My reverie was broken by a medley of smells engulfing the compartment. Ratna had spread out an elaborate breakfast for her family: Idli and sambar, pongal and chutney. Her husband kept clacking his tongue, as he thrust dosa after dosa down his throat.  

“Why don’t you have some,” Ratna pushed a plate into my husband’s hands, not withstanding his protests that he wasn’t yet hungry. I felt irritated that Ravi didn’t know how to say ‘no’. I offered to open the khana that we had brought. 

“What, you have bought eatables from the railway station restaurant?” Ratna said eyeing the cartons that I was unwrapping, with a look that cried pity. “We have more stuff than we need, so please you can have…”  

The poori-sabji that I offered Ravi did not stand much chance against the delicious-smelling idlis. Ratna was obviously delighted. “You must buy whole urad dal with the black outer skin intact and wash it well to remove the skin just before grinding. And pour fridge water little by little and grind till bubbles start appearing on the batter,” she volunteered to offer me tips on making the softest idlis.  Ravi shamelessly endorsed their softness and let Ratna heap some more on his plate. 

I was witnessing an aspect of Ravi I never knew existed. And it pained. 

Shall I make some idlis for breakfast? 

Stop thinking about me. Or about food. Anyway I can fix up things for myself. 

Eat to live and don’t live to eat, he would often philosophize. So it was always the same monotonous bread, butter or jam, or occasionally, the commercial cereals.  

Shall I make stuffed parathas for lunch? 

I get good food in our canteen. Don’t you have a presentation with your client today? 

Ravi let out a satisfied burp. Krishnan looked at his wife proudly. 

I was furious, and tried to show it by looking away. I resolutely refused to taste the idlis Ratna offered. 

“Bisi halu….bisi haloo...”  It was a vendor selling hot milk at the Gauribidanur station. Ratna quickly bought some milk and made coffee with the decoction she had brought in a Horlicks bottle. “You must put decoction into hot milk, and not the other way round. Taste this coffee and then you will know why.” Ravi pronounced the coffee good. “This is so much better than the instant coffee we make at home. I am drinking a good coffee after a long time. It tastes like the coffee my mother used to make.” 

I sat there transfixed, dumbly looking at him. Even if I had cooked a superb meal, Ravi would never praise me. Nor would he criticize me if I added excessive salt. He’d merely dismiss all discussions on taste with a sweep of his hand, make a khichdi by mixing up stuffs on the plate and eat it somehow. 

They continued their conversation on food to the accompaniment of symphonic sounds from the rails outside. Krishnan said the women these didn’t give as much importance to cooking as “good old times”. Ravi said even the vegetables these days didn’t taste the same. “My mother would mash agathi keerai (a type of saag) in a special earthen vessel and it would taste fantastic. And we would come from school and eat laddoos made out of green gram…” 

I cannot describe the kind of disappointment I felt. Was Ravi missing something in life? Is he disappointed with me? I felt upset and wanted to get away from it all. I cast a disapproving look at Ravi, climbed up the steps to the upper berth and tried to close my moist eyes. Ratna looked at Krishnan meaningfully. 

“So who cooks in your house….You?” Krishnan let out a guffaw.  

Ravi countered heatedly. “Of course, I do. And that’s not a funny thing. Of course, I do the prime cooking and Usha gives me a helping hand. She has a responsible job, and there is a hell of a lot of things to do in the morning. And for all the funny caricatures of men they show in the movies, doing household job is hardly demeaning.” 

My temper rose. I was angry Ravi did not defend me before Ratna who was so full of pride in her culinary skills. I got down the berth and flared up. 

“May be I don’t cook as well as certain people, but still I cook very well. And I don’t need anybody’s assistance to do my work.” 

A sudden silence descended into the compartment. Nobody spoke after that. At Guntakkal, Ratna and family got off the train without taking leave of me. 

I was upset that the much anticipated vacation began on such an awful note. I said nothing till we reached the hotel at Hyderabad. 

I was lying on the bed with a suppressed sob.  

“Have some coffee. You will feel better.” Ravi handed me a cup of coffee, as he sipped another cup. 

Quickly I sat on the bed. “Is that filter coffee? You don’t like instant coffee, do you?” 

Ravi smiled. “Relax. Let’s talk after you drink.” 

I felt a little silly that we were wasting our vacation over some stranger, a co-passenger in a train. Yet I said stiffly, “During the time I was studying, you used to cook lunch. I don’t deny that. But I too was not sitting there sucking my thumb. And these days, I do most of the cooking. How can you speak such untruth, and belittle me before strangers?” 

Ravi slowly sipped the last draught, his head bent in contemplation. “Ratna is not as well educated as you. Her whole world is centred on the kitchen. There is nothing wrong in that. And you don’t need to take as much interest in cooking as her. For you, that’s only a part-time job, but for her, it’s her entire life. So I just humoured her. I knew you were irritated, but I thought you would get over such petty thoughts.” 

“Oh, petty indeed,” I interrupted angrily. “I would have cooked happily whatever you wanted, if only you ever told me. But you didn’t. On the other hand, even if I made some special stuff, you won’t taste it and say that you didn’t want me to waste time!” 

“Exactly. I didn’t want you to waste time, because I believe truly that you can and want to do other things in life. That’s a choice we made when we decided you should pursue your studies and have a career. There will be repercussions for every choice and we should accept them. It is not that I don’t like or appreciate the delicacies our mothers or grandmothers made. But I can’t expect you to make them. We should have realistic expectations of each other. If a woman wants to go out and earn, folks at home have to make adjustments, and it’s not as though they are making sacrifices. In fact, you should demand that I cook or wash or baby-sit or whatever as a matter of right. Kitchen is not just your territory. You’re still conditioned to believe it’s so. Combining home and career — you believe only a woman has to do it. Or that’s what an ideal woman should do. But then, men should do it too. Since you haven’t yet accepted that fully, you feel others will make fun of you and think of you as a lesser woman. Even if they did, you should think so what? Let them think whatever. You should have full conviction in your belief system. Others will come around. Slowly.”  

I was still thinking of ways to retaliate….it’s somehow hard to accept one’s mistakes. Before I could say anything, Ravi said softly, “It has been a long and hard journey for you to achieve whatever you wanted to. We can relax now. Probably make some of those delicacies I crave for sometimes. Rice Sevai, for example. But we will make them together.” 

I jumped out of the bed and hugged him. “Yes, we will,” I said blushingly.