My daughters were in their early teens when I went on strike. Not a hunger strike for some moral cause but a labour strike ? in our own home! Zany Not quite?. It happened this way. The girls were going through a difficult adolescence in a single-parent household with me struggling to establish myself as a journalist while battling on several family fronts. Living with us was not easy. Three maids quit within weeks. While the third one was packing up I overheard the girls celebrating ?Yeay! Now we?ll get Mummy ka hath ka khaana?. ?Did I hear right I asked, aghast that they?d been plotting to get rid of the maid. As if I didn't have my hands full enough! They nodded gleefully, expecting me to be flattered. ?Make yummy Ham and Rice tomorrow, Mamma.? ?Pl-ea-ease.? ?I am not entering the kitchen, ? said I firmly. ?You have an assignment?.? We can get food from outside.? ?Make your delicious Chicken Casserole over the weekend.? They?d missed the glare in my eyes. ?Girls, ? I said, gritting my teeth. ?I am not entering the kitchen from tomorrow onwards. Not tomorrow, not the weekend, not next week.? Something was beginning to register. ?Then?then who?ll cook, stammered Nishat. ?You!? ?Me?!!!!? ?Yes, you and Naheed.? ?But?but we can't We don't know how to cook, Mamma.? ?You?ll have to learn or we?re all going to starve. From now I will not enter the kitchen till you two can serve up a decent meal.? Thus began the culinary lessons with me doing nothing more than giving verbal instructions. The first few days we survived on puch-puch chawal and kali (burnt) dal. I remained unrelenting. No outside food. When stocks ran out I bought vegetables, rice, dal, fish. No quick bites. Not even biscuits, chivda or cheese. By the fourth day the rice and dal were beginning to look like rice and dal, though the dal still had no tadka. Then Naheed tentatively asked ?Can I try chips? We have ketchup in the fridge.? ?Okay, ? said I, slightly apprehensive, for lowering wet potatoes into hot oil can be tricky for a beginner. ?Will you cut potatoes for me The peeler and knife are in the drawer.? ?If I cut my hand?. There's a first time for everyone. Be careful.? Some potato wedges were thick, some were thin. Naheed panfried instead of deep-frying. But the chips tasted good after the gooey stuff we?d survived on. One week into my labour strike we had not-brilliantly-cooked-but-edible French fries. That was the beginning. The repertoire increased. Chips were accompanied by fried fish. Eggs were boiled, fried, scrambled. Dal and rice combined into a khichdi. I had graduated from ?cook? to ?teacher?. It was time to re-enter the kitchen. Nishat took longer than Naheed to get over her fear of getting burnt. When it was her turn to cook, she?d get Naheed to light the gas stove and stretch over the degchi from two feet away with a long-handled spoon! Since she wears loose kaftans there was a risk of her clothes catching fire unless she did things properly. I decided to teach her to make White Sauce which requires constant stirring. Holding her hand, I forced her to stir, despite cries of ?You?re going to kill me!? When Baked Chicken was served at a party and Nishat received compliments, her tears turned into smiles. To widen their repertoire I decided to teach each girl to master a simple basic recipe, then go into variations that could emerge from it. That way they were quickly equipped for party cooking, and compliments are the biggest incentive for further experimentation. Nishat's White Sauce had variations in a range of baked casseroles. Naheed specialised in both Tomato and Green Chutneys from which a variety of vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes would emerge. This was a time when our home was a buzz of activity with theatre persons, artists, poets, and political activists coming in and out. They became our guinea-pigs, a source of suggestions and encouragement, their fast-emptying plates being our greatest compliments. Then someone had an idea