Once upon a Phulka

Non FB users must be irked beyond belief that a person (a full fledged adult in her thirties) can churn out two consecutive posts inspired by something as unseemly as a social networking site. Ok this one’s not so much to do with the site itself, but for the response I got to a particular photo that I had published- yes the same one u can now see. When I woke up last morning to see a huge barrage of responses to the picture – ‘My Phulka Phooloed’ (not sure how I’d translate this- my flat bread fluffed?), my head immediately reached out to the memoir zone for a story that was aching to surface.

 

It was just before I got married. I was an exceptional cook, even back then (sorry, can’t help suppress the humility in me). I could dish out just about any cuisine and feed a packed party full of bong Kakus and Kaki Mas, who btw, eat a helluva lot. And it was in one of those bong parties that, I was asked the most imperative question of my new- life-to be : “tui ruti banate paarish?’ (Can you make Phulkas?). I wish I was asked if i could sing instead. Because saying no to that was easier than denying the latter. Ma who was standing behind me suppressed a giggle. I was further informed- do you know you will be marrying into a house hold who has two diabetics, and have ‘ruti’ as part of their everyday menu?  Thankfully she asked me this in her mock masi-sasuri (aunt-in-law) voice, because I was itching to retort back. So to that I said- the house I will be marrying into has a cook of 15 years, she makes them ruti, didn’t you know?

The answer led into something else, which I better not discuss now, should the post run into a tattletale instead. So lets leave it there. But the stigma of not being able to ‘belo’ a phulka remained with me. And in those days I was the crusader of every unjustified cause. I was this rebel who was waiting to be roused. So I gave this whole phulka incident a feminist twist. I rattled away on how women are being judged and that women are still inspected and interviewed goods, all this much to my mother’s amusement and chagrin. She clearly understood the dissonance in my head and knew, all I wanted to actually do was learn how to roll out a fluffy phulka. However, I repressed this desire to the darkest corner of my head and forgot all about phulkas. To make things better, Raj is a rice lover. Imagine my delight. Also, post marriage, I always had cooks, first at my in law’s and then later when we moved out. And all my cooks, ‘beloed’ beautiful round fluffy phulkas.

But who knew what fate had in store 6 years down the line? Who knew that it was cheaper to eat out everyday, than have a cook in Down Under?  After living on rice for months I was beginning to look like a perfect guinea pig for Atkins diet researchers. Last weekend when I finally stood on the weighing scale after successfully pushing it out of my sight for 8 long months, I thought of that evening. So can you make ruti?

So I tried (of course, I had tried several times earlier in India and I’d end up having burnt, hard phulkas, that resembled different country maps every day. I had finally given up). With Raj by my side to gimme that added support- ‘yes u can make those perfect round rutis like Tarla Dalal’, I set to make the elusive phulka.

 

And the rest I’ll leave to the picture, they apparently say a thousand words?