Miss Masala by Mallika Basu

Author:Mallika Basu
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2014-03-27T20:00:00+00:00

For all this talk of tandoors and gardens, decent weather is clearly the hardest thing to come by. The showery summer had been more Mordor than Marrakech. Still, I had a birthday party to look forward to the following week. Our Australian neighbour upstairs had planned an all-day barbecue to celebrate turning 21 again. He acquired an Outback, the aptly branded barbecue. Downloaded the latest tunes. And invited a motley crew of colleagues, friends and neighbours to the festivities.

We feverishly monitored the weather forecast. And, horror of horrors, the weather decided not to cooperate. The Outback was transported to the three-foot-square balcony of their second-floor flat. Which threw my party trick into total disarray. Sausages and burgers would work just fine on the billowing balcony monster. But tandoori chicken was clearly out of the question unless our neighbours fancied masala bedlinen and curry upholstery.

I took a chance on Seekh Kebabs, juicy ground lamb and herb cutlets on skewers. These famous kebabs are Mughlai, dating back to when the Mughals held sway in India. It was they who gave us the rich, fragrant delicacies that Indian cuisine is famous for – the meat biryanis, creamy dal makhanis and tender kebabs. If anything was going to impress the 30 grown men and women, it was these kebabs.

But by the time I had mixed the lamb, shaped the kebabs, taken a shower and slipped on a ra-ra miniskirt, the party was in full swing. I walked in, handbag in one hand and stainless-steel platter of the stuff in the other. Mounds of food lay all over the table. But the crowd was more interested in the giant Smirnoff on tap than soft, buttery kebabs of venerable Mughal origin. I grabbed a drink, keen to catch up with the rest of the crowd. Before I knew it, the iPod came on. Food was relegated to history, the building shook from dance moves perilously executed on the slippery kitchen floor.

A few hours later, the kebabs remained forgotten. The party was kicking. But my energy levels weren’t. I sneaked off quietly, taking the platter of food back downstairs with me. Turned the grill on. Cooked a few to perfection. As the guests launched into a Steps routine upstairs, I breathed a sigh of relief. Cheesy choreographed dance routines meant they wouldn’t notice the missing kebabs. I launched into them with a large squirt of tomato ketchup.

The next morning, I woke up relatively fresh but consumed with guilt about the Seekh Kebabs. There were six left over. The sun was shining. The Outback sat on the upstairs balcony amidst fag butts and empty bottles for recycling. I had a vision of the birthday boy waking up with a sore head, walking around with a cup of coffee in one hand and a bag of crushed ice attached to his forehead. He. Needed. Kebabs. I couldn’t believe my selfishness. I ran upstairs in my nicest pyjamas, handed over the leftovers with a feeble excuse and left him to fire up the Outback.

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