I rarely cook okra. There is a reason. However, reason at times, evades the mind.
I pick a bunch of ladies’ fingers or lady’s
fingers (not sure which), as it is known in Indian English, from the
grocery store. I wonder why I dread it so much. After all, I no longer gag
while eating it. Ahem… if in a sentence, the word “gag”is strung so close to the
vegetable… Enuff said, you say?
The day I decide to cook it, I must first tear myself away
from my book – a retelling of Greek mythological events from the female
mythical character’s viewpoint. As I cut the vegetable into neat, uniform,
green circles, my thoughts remain immersed in the world of Gods and demons -murderous
Medea, mystical Circe, enchantments and miracles, hexes and curses. I decide
the vegetable name would fit well within Greek mythology - both the Marathi
name, bhendi, and the English name, okra. Would it be a God,
demon, nymph, monster, demi-god…my mind trails… I decide to move away from Greek
allusions, but the spectacle in the pan before me tells me otherwise…
Just as in my book, the nymph Scylla is transformed into a
scary monster, the crisp and clean green rings seem to mutate right before my
eyes. Silky skeins emerge from their sides. Soon the skeins are ropes and they
wickedly entangle the other okra pieces that refuse to emit the slime. Soon the
poor innocents are entangled in their slimy grip and the evil energy of the
slime seems to grow – in power and force and brutality… it takes on a life of
its own…
I imagine it swelling and swaying, growing and moving, outside
of the pan… the spell is cast and there is no return. Its slimy strings grow
into long lengthy arms, snake-like arms, engulfing me, swallowing me up in its
goopy gulp, and then move on to devour the dog, the sofa, members of my family
upstairs, and finally the house.
Agreed, quarantine has been long and the imagination seems
to be on steroids, but again, trauma by okra is very real. And it deserves its
space and ink.
As I stand there, staring at it mindlessly, waiting for it
to swallow me, I muster a little courage, a little determination… and a little lemon
juice. Stop, right there, Okra! I’ll kill your goop with acid, my
valiant inner Greek goddess arises to vanquish the monster. I return from the fridge, armed with lemons, some
dried coconut, and of course, as per my husband’s request, ground roasted
peanuts. I add it all in, stir nervously, attempt to break the goop, and leave
it to cook uncovered. I turn my gaze away, too scared to make eye contact with
the monsters growing in the pan.
Slowly the slime is contained, the monsters lose their long
slimy arms, the spell is destroyed, the hex is broken. The slimy monsters in
the pan, give up, dry up and the green cut rings emerge victorious.
This is not a victory I had imagined would be mine. I had
conceded defeat, yet moved through the motions, not with any particular hope.
Or faith. There really had been no huge determination – mostly some revulsion,
and a slow stench of impending defeat. And even if I continued to move through
the motions, with no particular hope for success, it came. Slowly. Unexpectedly.
I wonder how many times, and how many things I go through
with the same energy. And the same lack of faith. In myself. And in doing so, how
often do I make the monsters bigger and stronger, giving them more powers than
they may truly possess? Slimy, Spiderman-skills,
snake-like arms, multiple ferocious heads, and others, that a robust
imagination conjures.
Yes, okra (and all you other monsters) - you have your
powers, and yet, I have mine. Even when they may seem muted and muffled, in the
wake of your spellbinding histrionics, even if, I am the one who make them out
to be so mesmerizing and massive.
Next time, I hope I can turn and glance at, and have a
little faith, in my own quiet strength and power, rather than the hypnotic
alluring of the monsters before me… in the pan or outside.
And now that my head wears the laurels… it knows it is wise to
keep an eye on the inner strength, and most importantly, it knows now… how to
tame the okra.
