How My Dad-In-Law & I Discovered Each Other Over ‘Khichdi’

When thin salt-free hospital ‘khichdi’ became the glue for a family dealing with cancer.

My dad-in-law Professor Om Prakash Sharma, known in his lifetime – a bit ominously – as ‘OPS’, was this tough protective dad, who even rejected me as a prospect for his daughter Geeta!

Geeta’s Gandhigiri Melts OPS

But his Geeta, as bull-headed as he was, went on a 2-month maun vrat (silent protest), after which OPS semi-relented, and agreed to send me a questionnaire drawn up by Geeta’s elder sister (sample: What are the employment prospects of a freelance daily soap director?).

Four months later, we got to ‘relented-with-unstated-misgivings’, his Geeta became ‘saadi’ Geeta, in October 2005. In part his resistance also broke down due to a mystery illness that forced him to miss the shaadi.

Lymphoma, they Said

A few days later, the mystery illness revealed itself – OPS was diagnosed with cancer… a lymphoma… 3rd or 4th stage… not much time in hand. I begged my daily soap producer (another Punjabi, aptly named Tony Singh) in Mumbai, to let me join Geeta and my dad-in-law at this hospital in Ludhiana. Geeta needed my help.

Over the next three weeks I was at DMC Hospital, Ludhiana, with OPS, my mum-in-law, and Geeta, as the cancer creeped up on him. Tests, more tests, medicines, lots of them, doctors, second opinions, we fought the big C ferociously, as all families do.

Despite the Q&A I’d answered before the marriage, OPS’s apprehensions about me hadn’t all gone away. Main mota tha, daadi thi, I was in a ‘dicey’ profession, free-lance kaam, no job-security, taking away his daughter from quiet Nabha to big bad Mumbai – so I had major bridges to build with him at the hospital.

Bonding Over ‘Patli, Pheeki… Khichdi’

AND… it all happened over.. KHICHDI! Yellow… really patli… salt-free… but hot and yummy. With equally patli dahi.

As I helped him with his khichdi, spoon by spoon, over several meals, I felt his apprehensions dim a bit. He particularly liked the fact that I would genuinely enjoy gobbling down the khichdi he could not finish (I would add some salt of course!). It never became an outright bromance, but from an Amrish Puri, he did scale down to a slightly moody Ashok Kumar.

Occasionally he would smile through the pain, make a wry remark while glancing at the morning papers or while I powdered a bed sore. He was a bit mota like me, and gradually allowed me to joke mildly about it. On Diwali, we lit candles by the bedside, and celebrated with khichdi and a dash of laddoo.

After three weeks of khichdi I had to return to Mumbai, promising to be back in another two-three weeks. But OPS could not manage without me, it seems. He passed away, a few days later.

OPS, a ‘Khichdi' of Memories

We still have khichdi every other week at home. Sometimes it reminds me of big, bad, bull-headed OPS. I hope when I’m in hospital at the end of days I have someone nice to share my khichdi with.

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