So when a conversation between such two females of bohemian leanings, and what they like to think of as a jointly wild and rampant spirit, took the following turn, at least one of them found it unsettling:
B: I need to get home. I haven't cooked yet.
A (triumphantly): I already cooked and came.
B: Cool. (Proudly states further) Dya know I made idli-sambar one day?
A: Ooh. You can make idli-sambar? Wow. How did you make it?
(At this point, it strikes A that with the way this little chat is going, they might as well be talking about neck jewellery from the latest serial K. She makes a brave attempt to check this disturbing stream of conv.)
A: You know what...DON'T tell me. I'm really not ready for idli-sambar yet.
B (still in the momentum of things): And badi aaloo!
A: I know how to make badi aaloo.
B: No, you don't.
A: I'm telling you I just learnt from Z's mother. It's the exact same recipe. With dhaniya powder!
Despair. The conversation, once dealing with Dustin Hoffman, had slipped to dhaniya powder and there was nothing either could do about it. So they dealt with the stress in the best way they knew how. They burst into hysterical fits of laughter. In a less public place, they'd be cackling obscenely in a matter of seconds.
It just so happens that this seemingly deviant dialogue had brought with it a refreshing aroma which rekindled an old warmth between A and B, who had actually been treating each other like cold, three-day old chicken of late. But that's another story.
By the end of the evening, B had smacked A with a heart-warming expletive and was returned in kind. They hugged and A found that she was quite silly-happy after a long time indeed.
Disclaimer: The author means not to belittle the fine art of cooking for which she has recently acquired love and respect of the highest degree. It's just that she associates culinary conversations with marriage-obsessing aunts and dragons that shriek.
