View from the Other Side - What the Sink Saw

 

An old soldier's Confessions from the Frontlines of the Kitchen

It’s been fifteen days since I left the safety of the dining chair and entered the Culinary Combat zone I’d only observed from afar. Not as a visitor, not to sneak a fried something, occasionally as a part-time tea brewer. This time, I was the man on duty. A new recruit dropped into the theatre of war, also known as the kitchen.

With my mother commanding operations and the strange new digital sous-chef called ChatGPT offering no-nonsense suggestions (and no physical help), I dove into daily cooking. Not the special occasion theatrics when guests are due and I do my part by sprinkling a few shredded almonds and raisins on the halwa my wife had made. Not the weekend experiment. I mean actual cooking — breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, the odd snack, and the never-ending “quick chutney” that isn’t actually quick. The daily grind on the parade ground of the kitchen.

And now, standing with splotches of turmeric on my old, worn, torn T-shirt and my eyes watering after hand-to-hand combat with onions, I have a confession to make.

I see it all now.

I see why my wife — the multi-tasking magician — did five things at once before sunrise: soaked almonds, curd being set, filter coffee already dripping, buttermilk for the pet ready in a glass, and milk on the boil — all before her alarm rang. 

And of course, the 8:30 AM calls on the mobile. Why she hated them?

Who takes a call at that time — when the bread is burning in the toaster?

Why can’t people understand? Don’t they have anything better to do than call right then?

I see why she rotated pans like a Grandmaster, why the same Kadai got washed and reused even when a gleaming dishwasher stood nearby like an unused Bofors gun. It’s not just about food. It’s about rhythm, pre-emptive action, and muscle memory. It’s war prep and temple ritual rolled into one.

I used to complain —

Why is the stove always sticky?

Why are there onion skins near the sink?

Why does milk boil over daily like it has a grudge? 

Now I know.

Let this old soldier tell you what the sink saw today - those previously annoying things I grumbled about.

        • Tamarind rinds squished and lodged in the sink corners like forgotten war relics.

• Splatters of sambar and mystery vegetables forming abstract art on the cooktop.

• Peels of tomatoes, ginger shavings, and onion skins staging a protest on the counter.

• The sides of the heavy-bottomed pan used just for heating milk, streaked with dried rivulets — the familiar evidence of milk’s latest escape act.

• The burner base blackened with what I once thought was soot — it is, in fact, my burnt ego.

• Papadams that always brown at the bottom first, even when you stare at them like a sniper on surveillance.

• And of course, the inexplicable use of five pans for what appears to be one dish.

Then came the oils. Oh, the oils - those slimy beggars. They reminded me of my cadet days, when we would deliberately do something our senior had specifically told us NOT to. Plain disobedience.

• Sesame oil? That mischievous fellow heats up faster than gossip in a family WhatsApp group. 
• Safflower oil? Lazy fellow — takes its own sweet time like approval from the boss after you apply for leave.
• And ghee? The diva of the lot — turns golden, fragrant, then decides to burn if you look away for a second. 

Timing is everything.

And speaking of timing — let me tell you, the 10:30 AM cup of tea doesn’t brew itself. It is a medal earned only if you’ve successfully soaked the dal, chopped the veggies, tempered the tadka, cleaned at least one Kadai, negotiated a truce with your pet (who believes the kitchen doorstep is the Line of Control), and remembered to switch off the pressure cooker before the whistle hits full siren mode.

The 1 PM lunch on the table is no coincidence, either. It’s the result of split-second decisions and long-range vision in the war room. It’s battle strategy, event management, and crisis control — all wrapped in a thin fog of steam.

Every one of these has now become mine. And it bites.

I have crossed over.

Cooking, it turns out, is not just about knowing recipes. It’s about sequencing, anticipation, cleanup tactics, flame control, sensory tuning — and mostly, respect. For the food, yes. But more so for the people who’ve been at it long before I stepped in. From being the uniformed officer who thought he ran the world — to the humbled foot soldier in a sweat-soaked battlefield of bubbling pots and exploding mustard seeds, run by commandos in saris, salwars, yoga pants, and jeans.

Here’s my salute — to my wife, my mother and to every kitchen warrior who runs this invisible army. You work without medals, but your victories are etched in every satisfied burp and second helping.

And to the kitchen sink — my silent witness, my confessional booth — thank you for seeing me for what I truly am: a man with greasy hands and a newfound respect.

From the cooktop of the self-styled new Commander of the Culinary Front. 🫡

And to those of you who have stood on the LoC between the dining room and the kitchen — or faced this battlefield while armed with a scrubber and a sense of wonder — I’d love to hear what your sink saw - in the Comments below.