Chhota Baingan

The definition of Bharwan Baingan (Stuffed Brinjal), as found on the internet is : Baby eggplants stuffed with a delicious, tangy spice mix. While no one quite cooks this as good as my mother (no one cooks ANYTHING as good as my mother), I still prefer this to any other vegetable dish anywhere. However, I had not been able to make Alma and Sitab taste it, much less like it. One look at the humble eggplant and they would reject it with a vehement ‘NO’.

Last Friday, as Sitab was being served his dinner of dal, roti and one lone bharwan baingan, he called out to the cook, and with a face that expressed disdain, holding the poor baingan with its stalk in his fingers, he asked her to take the offending thing away from his dinner plate. Something inside me snapped that day. I asked him if he had ever tasted the thing he was rejecting, and he was vague. I knew that losing my temper would not help, since getting angry only results in a screaming match with sulks, tears and “You don’t understand” wails ever since the kids have grown up.

I calmly told the cook to put the baingan back on the plate. I saw Sitab pick up my phone to play his favourite ‘Subway Surfers’. I let him do that since I had decided to make technology work for me this time. While he was deep into the game, I mixed a piece of roti, dal and baingan and told him to open his mouth. As he bit into it, he looked surprised. I asked him ‘How is it ?” He still looked surprised when he said “It’s quite good, actually.” The rest was easy. He ate through the whole baingan, and then asked for more.

I felt the flush of victory and moved on.

A few days later, as I was rushing out of the house, the cook asked me the dinner menu. Before I could say anything, Sitab spoke up “Can you make Chhota Baingan ?” It was so cute that I did not feel like correcting him. I let him call that dish Chhota Baingan and leave things there. The feeling of victory was enhanced manifold in my mind.

However, when I came home that night, I was in a terrible mood. Everything was falling to pieces and I was extremely stressed. My temper kept flaring even while I was at home. So at the dinner table, I sat there, not even registering what I was eating, with little Sitab eating quietly next to me. After we were done, I realized he was showing me something, his large, clear eyes shining. It was the stalk of the baingan alone, since he had eaten up the whole baingan. I realized that he had sensed my sad mood, and he was trying to cheer me up. I smiled, pride conflicting with my pain.

At around 11 PM that night, with my mind at peace again, I realized I was rather hungry since I had not eaten well at dinnertime. I spoke aloud to no one in particular “ I am so hungry. I was so preoccupied tonight, that I did not even know what I was eating today !”

A small voice piped up “Chhota baingan.”

 It was Sitab, full of miracles, magic and surprises, standing in front of me with Chhota baingan. I hugged him tight, feeling overwhelmed with emotions. He is as spicy, as tangy, as comforting, as good for me, as his Chhota baingan.

I used to love this dish earlier, but now it is symbolic of little Sitab eating healthy, of Sitab expressing love for his mother, of Sitab shining and smiling. And I will always be grateful to the humble baingan.