Monsoon Honeymoon: Part IX: An End to Bachelorhood: Shashi's School of Indian Cooking

Tuesday, June 25, Udaipur

Twelve months ago I was running a different program.  Single, low-budget, oblivious, I careened from one unremarkable hotel to another, eating whatever was in front of me, and spending my holiday time chasing after flawless waves with bros.  It was completely awesome.

If, at that time, I had proposed to a friend that we attend a cooking class together, said friend would scoff at me, saying, "Um, are you okay?  You enjoy that.  I'll be getting tubed."

Today was different.  Today I followed the lead of my new best friend and attended a five hour Indian cooking class.  And so, the only constant is change. . . .

We bolstered our bellies with a light breakfast, and then traveled across town to a spacious, leafy, hilltop neighborhood.  Through pointed internet research, Leigh had discovered Shashi's cooking school.  We climbed the staircase into Shashi's cooking school apartment, which doubled as her home for her two sons, her sister, and her sister's children.

Shashi was a phenomenon, the kind of person who proves that true education happens when we are determined to learn, when we must learn in order to survive and thrive.

Adorned in a striking saffron-colored sari, and decorated with a nose-ring, dangling gold earrings, and a red dot on her forehead (bindi), Shashi struck a figure of matronly Rajasthani beauty.  She opened with her story.

Hailing from the highest caste in Indian society- the Brahmin caste- Shashi was arranged into a marriage in her late teens.  Her husband, a generation older than her, was gentle and adoring, rubbing her feet in the evening, sharing household chores, and emanating kindness.  Devastation struck some fifteen years ago when her husband passed prematurely.  According to the rules of her caste, she mourned for 40 days, not eating, not leaving the house, and crying every day with her relatives.  Afterwards she was not permitted to leave the house or work most jobs, and she will never be permitted to remarry.  It was a personal and economic catastrophe, and Shashi almost lost her will to live, except for the love of her two boys.  Through a combination of lucky interactions with tourists, sharp entrepreneurial instincts, and tenacity, Shashi built a cooking school.  In the process, she taught herself a very competent version of English.  This cooking school enabled her stay home, hold an acceptable job, and support her family.  The Hindu gods smiled when a writer from Lonely Planet reviewed her classes glowingly, and the rest is history.  She has as much business as she can handle, she is the breadwinner, and she is the success story of her family.

Most importantly, for our purposes, Shashi is a master Indian Chef.  She led Leigh and I on a four hour cooking escapade, as she taught us to make, from scratch, masala, green and yellow curry, potato and veggie pakora, Naan, Chapati, Paratha, and more.  We minced garlic, chopped coriander, mixed yogurt with millet, boiled fresh chai, blended spinach and curry, and sprinkled a rainbow array of spices into our dishes. Four hours of cooking was capped with the freshest Indian feast of our journey.  Five stars to Shashi's cooking school!

We strolled home, and predictably, I collapsed into an afternoon siesta.  Our evening walk comprised an exploration of the backside of town, and a hide-and-go seek, secret tour of the opulent Raj's Palace perched on a cliff fronting the lake.  Parts of the palace had been converted into an official conference center, and the military security attachment was correspondingly present.  Darkening clouds boomed toward us as thunder clapped above. Leigh and I poked into private courtyards, manicured gardens, and panoramic viewpoints, as everyone seemed to vanish in the face of the approaching storm.  Birds chirped ominously and swooped above while raindrops matted our hair and skin.  The sultry purple monsoon rains chased us back to our palatial sanctuary, where we sought refuge from the clattering rainy darkness.. .