Menus & Misery

The Tedium of Meal Planning

Apr 05, 2025

The Greek myths tell us the story of Sisyphus, the king of Corinth. Sisyphus didn’t lack for wits, though his morals were a trifle loose. He married his niece as part of a plot to kill his brother-cum-father-in-law. He abducted his neighbour’s wife. He murdered his guests. He was, to quote Stephen Fry, ‘not a good man’.

But he did have gumption, daring to defy even the gods. Twice they condemned him to Hell — and twice he gave Death the slip. After a long and prosperous life, when Sisyphus died for the third time, he was greeted on the banks of the River Styx by the mercurial Hermes. In his book Mythos, Fry describes their meeting:

Hermes led Sisyphus down innumerable passageways and galleries to a vast underground chamber. A great ramp sloped up from the floor to the ceiling. A boulder stood at the bottom…
‘Now, all you have to do is roll that boulder up the slope. When you reach the top, that hole will slide open. You will be able to climb out and live forever as the immortal King Sisyphus.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it’, said Hermes.

You know what happens next. They say Sisyphus is still in that chamber, pressing his shoulder against the boulder, inching it up the slope until it eventually slips and rolls back down.

It’s an ingenious punishment, no doubt. And while I don’t mean to nitpick, I do wonder if Hermes could have devised something more elegant that'd have the same psychic effect.

If it were me, I'd have kept things much simpler. There'd be none of the cumbersome logistics of procuring boulders and slopes and whatnot. In the chamber, Sisyphus would be free to do as he pleased — but every evening, for all of eternity, he would have to deliver a cogent response when, at the stroke of six, his wife appeared and posed the question: ‘Sisu darling, what should we have for dinner tonight?’

When I was young, I was never short of meal-related ideas. I cared little for the staples: rice, roti, dal. My wishlist veered towards the extravagant. Every week, I would hover around the kitchen, peppering my mother with names of delicacies that I hoped would appear at dinnertime. Quite often, they did. If they didn’t, I simply added them to my list of demands for the following week. When it comes to food, requests tend to flow freely — it is only when it becomes a responsibility that the well begins to run dry.

During my initial months in Mumbai, the prospect of living with two flatmates and managing a household had seemed exciting. We were enamoured with supermarkets and in those early days, the three of us would spend Sunday evenings pushing trolleys through aisles of glitzy consumables.

Shopping for provisions meant buying chocolates, chips and cornflakes — the more colourful, the better. We picked up imported fruit that we never ate and exotic condiments that sat unused in our kitchen. The more prosaic purchases — flour, vegetables, rice — were left to our house-help-and-cook, Rajni.

Rajni was a large, stocky woman, with a short temper. She also worked for a couple of our friends in a neighbouring flat. This one time, they were not roused from their sleep when she rang the doorbell in the morning. After a few minutes, Rajni left. An hour or so later, they finally stirred and got ready to head to work. When they tried to leave the house, the door did not budge. Flummoxed, and panicking a touch, they called the watchman. He ran upstairs to find the outer door latch fastened tight, grimly set in place by an incensed hand. Rajni never even denied her culpability.

‘Maine kitna bell bajaya lekin woh uth hi nahi rahe the! Mera dimag bohut garam ho gaya. Bas, main darwaza bandh kar ke aa gayi.’1

Although Rajni’s culinary repertoire was limited, we soon realised we would have little say in the meals she cooked for us. She had the personality to stare down a typhoon, and we were just a bunch of twenty-something, fledgling householders. It was her kitchen, her rules. She would ignore our instructions with a dogged resolve until we resigned ourselves to eating whatever she deigned to serve us.

The most notable feature of Rajni’s cooking was her steadfast belief in the salutary properties of curry leaves. No preparation ever passed her hands without a liberal sprinkling of the vegetation. It was this commitment, this unshakable conviction, that once prompted her to make a sabzi of wild boar meat, garnished with curry leaves.

The wild boar had been a gift from a friend who’d brought it from France. We had stowed it in the back of the refrigerator, thinking we’d make a project out of cooking it over a weekend. Rajni, of course, had other plans.

When she presented her creation to us that evening, her face flushed with pride, an anguished cry escaped our throats. We considered giving expression to our anger — but we had visions of Rajni battering us with a ladle and then locking us in as we lay bleeding on the floor. We took a bite as she towered over us.

‘Kaisa bana hai?’

‘Hmm. Acha hai.’

‘Haan. Maine curry pata dala hai na. Isiliye taste aaya hai.’2

We only parted ways with Rajni when our lease ended and we moved to a different locality.

My indifference in the matter of menus, which I’d cultivated through my years of bachelorhood, came to an end when I got married. Where I’d been happy to let Rajni — and her successors — rule the kitchen as they saw fit, my wife had other plans. We had to take charge of our meals, she declared. We should only eat what we want to eat.

This philosophy necessitated much deliberation. My wife would ask me what our cook should prepare, and from the way her eyes flashed I learnt, very early in our marriage, that ‘Something yummy’ or ‘Something delicious’ were not acceptable answers.

Our landlord had left us a whiteboard, which we turned into our weekly meal planner. Every Sunday, we would wipe it clean, make a fresh 7x4 grid and then stare at the 28 blank rectangles.3 It was torture.

When we were dating, my wife and I believed we shared a healthy intersection of food preferences. Eating out — and ordering pizzas, pastas, and grilled chicken — had made our palates seem aligned. Domesticity quickly disabused us of this notion. I like eggplant as a standalone item but she prefers a revolting version where it’s cooked with potatoes. I detest tendli (gourd) and she eats it by the fistfuls. And don’t get me started on her love for methi (fenugreek).

Our parleys lasted for hours, searching for common ground and making liberal use of leftovers until we managed to fill the planner.

Things were not much better when she was travelling and I was left alone to populate the whiteboard. I’d list my favourites, all the dishes she despised, but get stuck halfway through the week. The empty space — labelled ‘Thursday Dinner’ — would leer at me, taunting my lack of imagination. In desperation, I would scribble a name that would later bewilder our cook. She’d try and fail to contact me. Then, in a tremulous voice, she’d call my wife.

‘Didi, ye kya likha hai…’

‘Kyun? Kya hua?’

‘Mujhe ye banana nahi aata.’

‘Arre, aisa kya likh diya hai.’

‘Tamatar Tum Tum.’

‘…..kya?’

‘Tamatar Tum Tum…’

‘…..’

‘Didi mujhe nahi aata, sorry. Aap ke paas iska recipe hai?’4

I have asked every cook we’ve since employed, but nobody seems to know about this dish. It’s quite simple, really. You dice a few tomatoes, add some onion, put it in the pan and then…. well, maybe I’ll just whip it up for you if we ever share a meal.

Experts believe people with high IQ are more likely to get bored when they’re saddled with repetitive work. The knowledgeable folk of Reddit also agree with this assesment. My wife, however, refuses to accept this fact.

Every time I tell her meal planning is too mundane, too tedious a task to interest someone of my prodigious intellect, her lips compose themselves into a thin line and I hasten to find an excuse to leave the room.

‘Yes, sorry, I’ll stop fooling around.’ Image Source.

We abandoned the weekly planner long ago and have now settled on daily discussions. Every day, at 6 PM, our cook arrives and looks at us. My wife and I, in turn, look at each other. All our faces reflect a tired resignation, a reluctant acceptance of the abhorrent chore that lies ahead of us. I take a stab at the problem.

‘What about bhindi?’

‘No, we ate that 2 days ago... Cabbage?’

‘Please no, we just had it last week.’

‘Okay, then think of something else. What do you want?’

‘You know…. I’ve been thinking… Why don’t we try something different? How about some...’

‘Don’t you dare say….’

‘….Tamatar Tum Tu..’

‘I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL YOU.’

‘I rang the bell many times but they didn’t wake up! I got very annoyed. So, I locked their door and left.’

‘How’s the food?’

‘Hmm. It’s good.’

‘Yes. I put curry leaves. That’s why it’s tasty.’