After Ravi and I got married, we set up our first home in Malleswaram, Bangalore. It was a lovely two-bedroom apartment in a rather traditional neighbourhood. We had trouble finding a cook because most families in the locality preferred to cook at home.
Ravi could prepare a few dishes, but I had absolutely no expertise—and even less interest—in learning to cook. As a result, invitations for lunch and dinner were highly prized and eagerly looked forward to.
I distinctly remember one such dinner invitation that began on a particularly hopeful note.
We had been told that our hostess was an outstanding cook, so we were eagerly looking forward to a delicious home-cooked South Indian meal. In fact, we decided to go easy on lunch that day!
We arrived on time after work and settled down, waiting for our hosts to announce those magical words: “Dinner is served.”
Our happy anticipation, however, was interrupted by their son, who was about eight or nine years old and was keen to showcase his musical talent. He had recently started learning the violin and, unfortunately, was still at a very early stage of his musical journey.
Out of politeness, we applauded his first performance. That turned out to be a mistake.
Encouraged by our appreciation, he promptly fetched a book of compositions and launched into one piece after another.
About fifteen minutes into this endurance test, his elder sister decided that it was her turn to shine. She switched on the stereo and presented her version of a Bharatanatyam performance. Let us just say that her enthusiasm comfortably exceeded her expertise.
By now, despite the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel—the wonderful dinner we had been promised—I could feel the beginnings of a migraine.
Finally, we heard the words we had been longing for: “Dinner is served.”
What followed was the evening’s biggest surprise.
Our hostess was indeed an excellent South Indian cook. But on that particular evening—of all evenings—she had decided to prepare North Indian food. This was 1991, long before YouTube recipes or cooking channels. I suspect her version of North Indian cuisine relied entirely on imagination.
To this day, I don’t think I have eaten a worse meal.
On our way home, Ravi and I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry at the comedy of errors we had just experienced.
That evening, I remember telling Ravi that I had finally understood what Papa meant when he used to say that there are no free lunches in life—there is almost always a price to be paid, whether obvious or hidden.
Looking back now, however, I realise that Papa’s lesson was only half the story.
The dinner itself faded from memory long ago. What stayed with us was the laughter.
Over the years, whenever a much-anticipated plan failed to live up to expectations, we would remember this evening, burst into laughter, and instantly feel better. Somehow, every new disappointment felt a little lighter because we already had a benchmark for how wonderfully wrong an evening could go.
