An (unfortunate) attempt at cooking

 As of late, I have been extremely restless. Even though the exams are all over and the holidays have begun, I find it difficult to keep up my holiday spirit. I have become a pretty dormant person, wasting away on my couch, slowly drifting in and out of sleep and breaking off the routine only to eat and occasionally keep up with my personal hygiene. Unfortunately, my folks have noticed this too. The other day I caught them conspiring against my newfound skepticism towards any form of work. The conspirators mainly consisted of my grandparents, neighbors and next of kin. I cleared my throat loudly to indicate my entrance into the room and to warn them of the fact that they could stop talking behind my back. However, what I had not anticipated was for them to brief me of the issue in hand. The conversation went somewhat awry when the question of my abilities regarding cooking was brought up. My grandmother, ever the critic, highlighted the fact that I do not know how to cook. I started arguing my case- that I knew how to whip up a mean peanut butter and jelly combination. I was cut off by my ever loving neighbor, who found it necessary to instigate that PB and J did not, in fact, count as cooking as it required next to zero talent. I watched helplessly as the neighbor continued to state all the other reasons why I was a bad cook(That backstabbing fiddlestick!). Snorting in amusement, my grandfather stated that I would, one day, make the worst wife to a very unfortunate husband. I was further accused of poisoning my future family's taste buds in the future- A crime I had not yet committed. Adding insult to injury, my uncle mentioned the time I had attempted to prepare instant Maggi noodles. At this note, the whole gathering lowered their heads in reverence to the untimely demise of the cooking pan and two spoons, the former having somehow had ended up with a hole in it upon my contact while the latter bent to a gnarly shape. After a decent amount of time was spent on flinging poorly veiled insults and downright allegations upon my (dis)ability to cook, the folks demanded that I utilize my holidays to dedicate myself to the art of cooking. Thus, with a not so subtle sigh, I found myself approaching the legendary "kitchen", where all the food is apparently made.

 As soon as I entered the room, I gasped in horror and mild fascination as I witnessed a sight that upheld distinct similarities to the Bhopal gas tragedy. The whole room was filled with smoke and mist in addition to the heat, which irritated the skin on my pimpled face to a point where it started peeling off. Gulping in morbid fascination, I proceeded to face the raw chicken which seemed to look at me as if mocking me. I trembled as I realized that I was looking at a dead animal- a carcass if you will. Somehow, I was to make a dead body eatable. Gulping down gallons of saliva, I proceeded to skin the chicken, slicing my finger in the process. I dragged my sorry self to the kitchen sink with the sole intent of washing away the blood, but the blood on my hand had other intentions. It fell into the bitter gourd(pavakka) curry and turned half of the seemingly green dish to red. After managing to somehow wash my hands, I cut the rest of the chicken without any further events. This helped me gain my confidence to move on to slicing the onions. As soon as I cut into one, my eyes started watering uncontrollably. All my blood, sweat and tears together poured onto the onions which I had begun to sauté(which later on led to the whole chicken curry being EXTREMELY salty). Desperation started crawling on to me as I realized that perhaps 2 kgs of chicken might have been a tad too much to experiment my cooking on. Despite this, I decided to push forward. 

I whipped up the chicken masala and tossed half of the packet into the curry. The accident left my grandmother (who was standing nearby) scarred, as she valued chicken masala more than me. I have no doubt that I would readily be bartered for 500 milligrams of chicken masala without a single bat of her eyelid. In order to escape my grandmother's wrath, I ran to the fridge and took out the coconut milk- perhaps my last resort to a less spicy lunch. However, my return left me blind as the kitchen started fogging uncontrollably. I vaguely saw the gas stove spitting out fire sparks and the onions ablaze. Rushing in, I opened the windows and poured water on everything that was on fire and did the most stupid thing possible in my hurry- I picked the vessel with my bare hands. MY BARE HANDS I TELL YOU!

Groaning in pain, I writhed on the floor. My life flashed before my eyes. I saw visions of my kindergarten best friend eating my chapatti and sausage; my teenage self going to a waterpark last week and drinking half of the water in the wave pool that, no doubt, held a painfully extreme level of pee; I saw a vision of me swallowing a nut and bolt that held together my cycle as my parents watched in horror; I saw myself crying when my sister emptied the Horlicks packet into her mouth and finally I saw myself agreeing to cook chicken curry a mere few hours before. As cliché as it sounds, I realized that I was not a person who gave up. I had to continue cooking. I had to finish the chicken curry, even if it turned out to be bad. So I pushed myself up from the ground and hobbled on to the stove and reset everything, proceeding to do everything correctly this time. 

With a huff of satisfaction, I looked at an attempt of a fully made curry that I had presented my family with. I noticed a lot of frowns, numerous whispers and some of my kin visibly gagging at the dish. My youngest cousin broke the almost palpable tension in the room by trying it. All of us held our breaths as my uncle proceeded to keep the ambulance on speed dial, preparing ourselves for the worst outcome. My fears became true as my cousin let out a screech while simultaneously crying "hot, hot, HOT!", tears rolling out of his eyes and eyeballs turning red and cheeks obtaining a deep shade of crimson. The boy's mother scowled at me and my neighbor smacked me on the back of my head. I hung my head in shame. I guess that I expected a somewhat happier outcome, but it was not to be. The only silver lining in the whole fiasco was that I will not be pressured into entering the kitchen anytime soon in the near future.