The Cook

Becky was recently told by some Indians we know that her figure is amazing. They talked for a couple minutes about how very nice and slender and statuesque she is. (And you're very pretty, too, they told me.) I guess there's at least one person, though, who does not appreciate Becky's thin figure. This morning Becky went in for breakfast, and after she'd eaten her fill she attracted the attention of our little old cook. He came over and began telling her that she was far too thin and that she needed to eat a lot more. And then he grabbed two slices of bread, put them on her plate, and started spreading two huge spoonfuls of jam on each slice. Becky dutifully ate both of them, and then went home and slept for two hours because it made her feel so sick.

I really love this little cook. He's very old -- he used to be a cook for the British back before India became an independent nation -- and he is totally passionate about food. The first time he talked to me I couldn't make out his accent, and I thought he was scolding me because he was so intense and was saying things rather disjointedly, but after he left the room someone told me that he was listing off the foods he knew how to cook. He stepped back into the room from the kitchen at least four or five more times to add foods he'd forgotten to the list, exactly as if he'd thought of new points in an argument.

He's slight, and his features and frame are somewhat sunken with age. He usually wears all white, and he carries an umbrella when he walks to and from work. He passes Krishnayya's house on the way home, and Krishnayya told me that he often stops by to quit on his way home because of something or other. Fortunately Krishnayya is always able to pacify him.

I'm going to miss him.