Men complain that ‘modern women’ are unyielding and individualistic. Yet every woman I know has considered a major sacrifice for a man she loves. They have learnt a new sport, a new language, changed diets, moved cities if that’s what it took to love a man. And so have I.

I dated a vegetarian boy when I was young. When we first started dating, I did not think my diet would be a matter of contention at all. As far as I knew, he loved food and experimented with it. But every time he visited his vegetarian home, he was wrought with guilt. He wanted to be a good child to his parents and a possible future with a non-vegetarian haunted him, I think.

After we had dated for a considerable time, I wondered if I should turn vegetarian. Two people spending time together adopt each other’s diet. It is a compromise everyone makes, I convinced myself.  It would save him some heartache and maybe doing hard things was good for me. So as a new year resolution for 2015, I decided to be vegetarian.

My parents hail from the coastal city of Mangalore famous for its fish. In Mangalore, some religious occasions are marked by the sacrifice of an unwilling chicken who is then prepared in ‘prasad’ and fed to the family. We never ate mutton at home because us children didn’t relish it. But on Eid, my dad’s friends would send mutton home for my mother. My mother would carry an aluminium container of stinky dried fish, we call 'nungel meen’ from her village when we came back to Mumbai after our summer holidays. My favourite curry was made from it.

I was 22, living with my parents and as far as they knew, single and meat-loving. ‘I have decided to be vegetarian for 2015.’ I said to my mother. ‘For what religious joy?’ She asked me. ‘I just think it’s good for me.’  Like with all lies I have ever told my mother the moment the words left my mouth, I knew my mother knew the truth. This was about a boy. She knew this was not about my love for animals. I was scared of the colony cat. ‘Are you expecting me to cook vegetarian food for you separately?’ She asked rhetorically and walked away.

My mother did not cook vegetarian food for me separately. But she started cooking my meat favourites more often. She wanted to check my resolve. ‘Just have the curry, don’t have the chicken.’ She would say. I don’t know if it was young love or my belated teenage rebellion at my mother, I ignored her. I went to the kitchen, served myself rice, dahi and achaar. And ate it like I enjoyed it, particularly aware of my mother’s stare. By the second half of the year though, when I returned from work, I often found a small bowl with vegetables and dal on the kitchen counter.