The First Undhiyu

The kitchen was barely big enough for two people to turn around in without bumping elbows. But on that particular Sunday morning, it was the warm heart of the house—a space alive with clanging spoons, spice-scented air, and the occasional whistle from one of the two pressure cookers going off like rival trumpets in a parade.

Pallavi stood by the maroon granite countertop, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of dhania paste on her cheek, and nerves coiled tight like sev in hot oil. It was her first Undhiyu. For the whole family. On a Sunday.

The spice tins—cylindrical and polished—were stacked on one side like a miniature Mumbai skyline. A rainbow of masalas peeked from their open lids: red, gold, green, and the indefinable ochre of grandmother-era dhana-jeeru.

Across from her, Sameer, her husband of seven months and self-appointed sous-chef, stood reverently with Tarla Dalal’s Swadisht Rasoi propped in one hand like scripture.

“She says to mix the muthiya dough till it’s soft but not sticky. What even is that supposed to mean?” he asked, peering at her hands.

“It means you try kneading it, genius,” Pallavi retorted, laughing.

The two pressure cookers took turns screaming on the stove—one cradling the muthiya, the other a mishmash of purple yam, surti papdi, and her tiny cubes of raw banana that were about to cause a culinary scandal.

Just as Pallavi added a generous scoop of jaggery and a hint of lemon juice for tang, Sameer frowned. “Wait—did you put garlic in already? We could skip it—my bua doesn’t like garlic.”

“Too late. Garlic went in before the lemon. Non-negotiable.”

At that moment, his mother appeared at the kitchen door, sari pallav tucked neatly, eyebrows rising like a warning system.

“You cut the kaccha kela this small?” she said, holding up a cube on a spoon with something between sorrow and disbelief. “They’ll vanish! This isn’t chutney!”

Pallavi flushed. “Oh—I thought—Tarla Dalal said—”

“No no, you listen to too many people,” Amma muttered, shaking her head and disappearing like a stage critic after a harsh but honest review.

Lunch, when it finally arrived, was a colorful mess—papads everywhere, pickles passing hands like hot secrets, the dining table echoing with overlapping conversations. Someone spilled chaas. Someone else shouted for more puris.

But the Undhiyu—rich, spicy, sweet, a little garlicky and perfectly clumped—sat like royalty in its large steel bowl. Everyone reached for seconds. Even Amma nodded silently and asked where the raw banana had gone.

Sameer’s father leaned back, wiping his hands with satisfaction, and chuckled, “Next time, don’t listen to this boy.”

The room broke into laughter, Sameer mock-offended, Pallavi quietly proud.

Later, as they stood at the sink doing dishes together, he nudged her and whispered, “Told you you’d win them over.”

She smiled. Her hands were wrinkled, the smell of garlic clung to her fingertips, and the kitchen was a mess of oil splatters and stories.

But the Undhiyu had arrived—and so had she.