Onion Tears

Hi, my links with the human tear duct is as old as civilization. However, all these years it has been confined mainly as a rites of passage for those getting initiated to Indian cooking. Many outgrow that sooner or later.

My simple down to earth upbringing had made me root for low profile fields-market-cutting board cycle of existence. However my longer shelf life than other veggie cousins always arouses the hoarding instincts among unscrupulous middlemen. They buy me in bulk when the rates are cheap and offload me when prices go up. They salivate whenever there is even a mild drop in farm output. With near absence of any good storage infrastructure for fruits, vegetables and even foodgrains, the hoarders have a field day quoting eye-popping prices.

When this happens I leave all and sundry, including those who have not seen the insides of a kitchen, misty eyed. Even some netas are not spared as they end up shedding copious tears after losing their gaddi. I become an object of hatred, not just for Jains. Garrulous politicians fumble and are at loss for words when asked about onion prices and display symptoms of foot-in-mouth disease. The respectable phrase 'Know your onions' acquires a pejorative spin and conveys more about one's economic status than knowledge or wisdom.

When prices zoom TV channels witness heated debates on 'cold chains' and other measures to stem wastage of vegetables and fruits. But once prices stabilise all that is left to hibernate in cold storage, only to be taken out when the next spike happens.

At restaurants the shadow of price rise pans out somewhat like this. Initially I am used sparingly in all dishes that have an onion prefix. Then they temporarily vanish from tables though not from menu cards. You will be greeted with an apologetic 'sorry' from the waiter in case you happen to order them. They make a re-entry once the prices stabilise.

Lastly, no prizes for guessing whose bank balance swells amid all this gloom and doom ... the middleman.

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