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.
Vasantha set high standards. I couldn’t get my thaengai-thaen right? Very well then, I’d get coconut scraped into my tea instead of honey. Armed with the V List, I hollered at the neighbourhood grocer, ‘ Mottai!’ The scanty-haired grocer gave me no eggs but a month’s ban instead.
My new friends pitched in, scribbling helpful words onto the V List. ‘This is what you say when you’re angry,’ they’d giggle, often replacing fruit names with inappropriate versions that landed me in hotter soup. My earnest attempts met with a dour reception. After I stuttered through a recipe in my best Tamil, she’d snort and make it exactly as she deemed fit.
Vasantha upped her level and I scuttled to keep track, till I was muttering ‘Pavakkai, Kovakkai, Millakkai’ in my nightmares.
As the V List did its job, Vasantha grew fidgety. My new fluency left her with no challenge. A few months later, I found proof of infidelity. Vasantha was waving her broom in our back veranda. A young girl had recently moved into the adjoining apartment. V had smelt blood. Soon enough, I spotted the attack in the new kitchen. That hapless innocent didn’t stand a chance as Vasantha pounced at her, chopping and slicing. The Urulakizhangu Opening, as it would be called in chess.
*To save your hide in case you meet Vasantha, here are the translations. Urulakizhangu – potato, Vengayam– onion, Thaengai– coconut, Thaen– honey, Mottai – egg-head/ bald, Pavvaki – bitter gourd, Kovakkai – ivy gourd, Millakkai– chilli.
Where Jane De Suza, the author of Happily Never After, talks about the week’s quirks, quacks and hacks
