On the eve of the wedding of my friend’s daughter, I was having the first taste of selected dishes in the kitchen.

A man with a serious look and sharp nose came in and enquired,
‘who is in charge of the kitchen management here?’

‘Me, Sir!’, I submitted, ‘who else, when I’m available?’

The cooks busy in their work were not bothered about my tall claim.

‘Are you related to the bride’s father?’, he enquired.

‘No, I am the coach for the bridegroom’

‘What do you coach him?’, he asked sarcastically, ‘to roll coconut for nelanku?’

‘No. I have undertaken the task of training him in cooking so that his wife could relax’

‘You know to whom you are talking to?’, he asked, anger and arrogance floating on his face.

‘I have a fair idea, but not very sure. Are you the head cook in the boy’s father’s hotel?’

‘No, I’m the boy’s father’

‘So, your son was lying’

‘Never. He is my son’

‘Thank you. That was what I wanted to hear’

‘Why?’

‘Your son told me that his father is scolded by his mother everyday for not knowing cooking and that was why he came to me for training’

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