Grandmother's Secret Recipe

The red light lit outside the glaring green curtains contrasting the antiseptic, once-white, walls. The family was informed. It was a girl. The Chatterjees were happy, soon to be marred because the daughter had a slight nerve problem which led to a limp, later to be operated upon, and rectified completely. In three years time, the blue light glowed. The Chatterjees were immensely delighted. They had a son this time. The family felt 'complete', whatever that meant. They shifted from a small town to a big city. They were growing, monetarily, with clever and ruthless ambitions rather well-executed. The siblings grew too, and apart. From each other, as much with their parents. Nobody complained. Mrs Maitri Chatterjee always wanted to be a singer, a vocal artist of repute. Chaitali, her daughter, did not benefit from the gene or habit. She managed a manageable corporate job, while her husband was biggie in his electronic field. Mr Ramkinkar Chatterjee was a fitness freak, whose son did benefit. From both of them. He was an athletic artist, who was earning home the big bucks, Samrat. 

Mrs Maitri Chatterjee was very happy this morning. Chaitali gave birth to her first born, a son. She was happier though, when he was sent to the Emergency for some complications that developed, but were under control. As she left the glittering nursing-home, spic and span and smelling nice, she entered home straight into the kitchen. Breakfast needed to be prepared for every happy face, who expected her to deliver. But none of who remembered that she had a local program this evening. In spite of being happy for Chaitali, she could not but feel compelled to regret the moment when Chaitali went into labour. Did it have to be today? It would be another of those evenings, she thought, as she put the pan on fire and circled the oil on it with the back of a spoon. She was elsewhere -- neither on the phone calls, nor at the eggs, nor under the weather. She could not stop herself from thinking how nice the evening could have been, as she flipped one omelet onto a plate. One day it could certainly be possible that she would be recorded by a drone, her voice sounding huskier with the applaud of the audience. The second omelet was flipped onto the second plate. 

The evening visiting hours collided exactly with her program. She didn't feel a thing for the new-born. As she beat the third egg into its fluffiness, she thought about how much she had to go through with her first-born, Chaitali. They wore her happiness till they found it with the birth of Samrat. The fourth beaten egg found its way to the now burning pan. She pulled out her best smile, a platter of toasts and the omelets for Chaitali's in-laws. Hospitality could not be compromised upon, come what may. Maitri, your daughter just had a son, look happy. As they exchanged sighs of relief when the call from Samrat confirmed the safety of the child, out of Emergency, Maitri wondered if it would really look bad if she made it to the program. Anyway, there would be many visitors and the golden son would be in his corner. 

"Wow! What did you put in the eggs, Maitri? They taste out of the world" complimented Shyamali, Chaitali's mother-in-law.

"Secret, Shyamali di" said Maitri and laughed aloud. "Just joking. Perhaps happiness you know. Shyamali di, would you come in the evening with me to the nursing home? Or would you like to rest? I would be going anyway." Maitri hoped against hope for the sentence would boomerang. In our times I did not even get to see Ram. Chaitali has Sudeep by her side all the while. What is the point of me going? Everyone is pleased with her giving birth to a son, at a first go, anyway.

"Yes. That would be nice. I will need to rest my knees. You go ahead and send Sudeep. I will make him tea and snacks before he has to return to the nursing home." These days, husbands are like goats. Led by a shepherd of a wife. Does Sudeep even realize how much he shelled out of his wallet in the name of a son? Stupid.

Let down by the reply, Maitri feigned her continuity of hospitality. She cleared the plates and went in for a bath. As she released the shower, she cried -- unbearably, irrationally, and understandably, perhaps. She would soon near sixty. She did not have the time and space that Samrat enjoyed. I had to make the breakfast, Ram. Not you. I hate you. She cried harder. I feel trapped in this prison called family. With her fingers she watered on the tiles the words, 'Complete Family'. Now she was laughing. Little Chaitali will have a tall son, like I do. She is a mother now. We are equal. Oh no wait, I am grand. 

Mrs Maitri Chatterjee emerged out of the shower, leaving behind a trail of jasmine and a roomful of her unsung words. In the evening, she hugged each visitor outside Chaitali's room, and shone in her brightest smile. All this while battling that Chaitali beat her to bearing a son, first. She looked appreciatively grand-motherly as she tenderly touched the chin of the infant. Everyone was happy. Everyone forgot about her program. As she took the child in her arms, she blessed him aloud. "May God keep you healthy and prosperous." You stole my show. All of you. 

And my grand-voice will now be used for lullabies.