Kishore Singh: Cooking up a political storm

My wife has arranged a mohalla sabha today, even though political activity in the capital is banned as it queues up to cast its vote. With her friend Sarla's help, she has also put together a "jail wardrobe" on the exciting chance that she might be arrested. "It's only a ladies lunch," I assured her, "nobody is going to care," much to her disappointment. "It's a protest," she insisted, "I'm standing up for my rights."

In fact, she's just being a dog in the manger. When we shifted from Delhi to Noida, the family lost its right to vote in a city we had lived in for a quarter century. "I want to vote," my wife contended, even though a similar civic conscience had eluded her earlier. "Well, you can't," crowed Padma, part of her kitty gang, "You abandoned the city, now it doesn't want you." Padma isn't known to pull her punches. "Well, I will vote," said my wife, and set about it as only she can. She pulled out an old voter's card, but it was invalid. She went to the electoral office, which refused to accept old mobile phone bills as proof of residence. She stalked officials and called up councillors and wrote them emails, but they wouldn't accept past habitation as current residence. When she called them to complain, they hung up on her.
 

"If I can't vote, I'll make sure they don't either," my wife said, committing her friends to coming home for lunch despite their obvious reluctance. "You cannot vote without an informed decision," she told them, "I've got pollsters coming home to advise you." "But I already know who to vote for," Sarla cribbed. "My husband told me to vote for the BJP," Chanda said. "I don't want to vote at all," Smitha added. "Tut-tut, darlings," my wife reproached them, "you need to think things through," adding, "Let me help you."

"Who do you know that can talk politics?" my wife asked me in panic, having ensured all her friends had signed up for her luncheon party. I mentioned a few friends with somewhat left, or right, or in any case confused views on politics, even though much of it sounded like gobbledygook. "No, no, they might make sense," my wife snapped, "I want someone who will baffle them so they won't know whom to vote for, and will, therefore, not vote at all." Since most of her friends only listened to views on fashion, I suggested something altogether disingenuous. "You could lace their drinks with alcohol," I said, "making them more amenable to laze around over a lazy lunch than go out to exercise their franchise."

I meant it as a joke but my wife seized on it with alacrity. A bar has thus been set up, mixed drinks have been readied, and as you read this, there's trouble cooking by way of lunch. My wife has created an elaborate menu in keeping with the "theme". On offer are a Kejriwal khichdi, which is a mix of the eponymous offering from Bengal, a Rajasthani soyta and an English kedgeree. "Confused, just like him," my wife explained. There's Bedi aloo with Kumaoni raita that consists of crushed marijuana leaves, adhering to an old recipe my wife insists is authentic. The desserts are named after the Congress party, "because nobody wants any", my wife smirked when I asked her. Who gets a stomach upset after the elaborate feast, though, will only be known on Tuesday.