Cooking up flavours!

There was a time when breakfast was a standard fare of  idli and dosa. My address at that time was, needless to guess, Chennai! During my school days, Idli and Dosa were consumed with ghee and sugar. Jam was only for special occasions! Then, as tolerance grew to include spiciness, chutney, sambar and idli podi were all brought forth to the table. Chutney could be the chaste coconut and green chilli variety or the more adventurous type that had onions ground with coconut and red chillies. The other chutney that lingered on my tongue was the one I tasted at my aunt’s that had a sliver of ginger added to the coconut and green chillies to bring that zing. The other chutney that we were crazy about was the ‘ulli sammandhi’. This was a coarsely ground chutney of lightly fried sambar onions, tomatoes, red chillies, curry leaves and a generous drizzle of coconut oil. The onions would almost be raw but the flavours were aplenty. My dad’s favourite was the same chutney minus the tomato. It was more a relish than a chutney and it went beautifully with steamed tapioca.

My Kerala roots added coconut and coconut oil to almost everything! Even sambar was made with coconut browned along with coriander seeds and a few sambar onions. This would then be ground to a fine paste and added to the vegetables cooking in tamarind juice. Even though I make the ‘podi’ sambar (you just add the sambar powder to the boiling tamarind juice) for convenience, I sometimes just have to give in to the ‘aracha sambar’ (Ground masala sambar) temptation.

Puttu-kadala curry, aappam-mutta curry, idiappam-stew were all saved for special breakfasts. They meant a bit more work than idli and dosa! Then came a time when adai and aval upma became a part of the breakfast menu. That was when the Brahmin influence entered my life. Until then I didn’t even know that there were so many types of rasam! Tomato rasam, milagu(pepper) rasam, Poondu(garlic) rasam, paruppu rasam…you name it! For us Nairs, rasam meant a wholesome hash of pepper, jeeragam, garlic and tomato boiled in tamarind juice till your cold vanishes! After my marriage to an Iyer boy, I became an expert in making all types of ‘kalandha saadham’ (mixed rice). I could make lemon rice, coconut rice, tamarind rice, pudina rice and even ellu (til) rice. Oh and curd rice, of course! I learnt the trick of mashing the rice with milk and salt and then adding just a little curd to it. This allows the milk to turn to curd along with the rice in it ensuring the freshest curd rice ever, nit too sour, not too milky. The tadka of mustard seeds and mor molaga (chillies soaked in salted buttermilk and sun dried, which is then fried in oil to a deep brown) adds the colour and flavour to the otherwise plain curd rice.

In London, the cold weather permeates everything; even food. I was aghast that people actually relished cold meat, cold salads, even cold sandwiches! But to be fair, the British do have an extensive culinary history, like any other country. Although for an Indian who is used to dousing food with flavours and not flinching while throwing those spices and chillies into what they are cooking, the British cooking will appear absolutely bland. The British pride themselves on their reserve. They show this reserve even when they cook. Spice is added to bring flavour, not to kill the germs in what they are cooking. They even baulk at our tea, while asking politely, why is it that we are stewing our tea?! We do believe in cooking things till they become a slave of the spices added.

I learnt what the potato tasted like when I tasted my first jacket potato (Whole potato baked with its skin on). Until then I had only tasted the turmeric, chilli powder and the mustard in the urulai podimas and the jeera, garam masala and coriander powder in the aloo jeera. I had never tasted the potato till then!

Armed with knowledge of how an artichoke looks, what a petit-pois is and that white wine goes brilliantly with fish, I moved back to India. This time my address was Hyderabad. The land of biriyani and haleem was a “zor ka jhatka”. But now I can eat guthuvankaya (stuffed brinjals cooked in a thick gravy of dry coconut, peanuts, tamarind, garlic and sesame seeds among other things) without breaking into a sweat. I can cook it too. I do like the biriyani and mirchi ka salan combination, although I still believe that the Malabar fish biriyani is the queen of all biriyanis.

Somewhere along the way, Marathi and Mangalorean influences have crept into my cooking, from the numerous dinner and lunch invites from my friends. I can make a mean sabudana khichdi (which is supposed to be vrat ka khana, but is a sinfully addictive dish) and know that each neer dosa has to be lacy thin and soft in order to complement the spicy mangalorean chicken curry.

While the flavours of the North and the South are abundant on what appears on my dining table, the East and the West are not so well represented. Bengali cooking and Gujarati cooking eludes me. I think it is time to make some Gujarati and Bengali friends…!

Peek between buildings…you can see the hills.

 

Got off the train and got into a sea of people. They headed to the exit and we followed. At the top of the stairs to the exit, they split. We followed our noses and turned left because nobody would even stop to listen to our questions. We walked through shouts of “memory bolo”, “USB bolo”, “cheapest saab, dekho”! It started to drizzle and the kids were getting worried that we would let go off their hands. We walked down stairs and landed bang in the middle of a flower market. Lovely colours and shapes everywhere. Blue orchids strung into garlands ready to hang from Ganeshas’ neck, taut ‘mogra’ buds lined into ‘gajras’ with silver tinsel waiting to be tucked into a Marathi mulgi’s hair and tired looking women, men and kids selling them sitting on mounds of rubbish. This shocking assault of our senses kicked us into action and we literally grabbed a guy to make him stop and listen to our question. “Is this Dadar East?” He shook his head, pointed the way we had just come and disappeared. Back we trudged through the noise and the people. As you might have gathered, we were in Mumbai for a holiday during Ganesh Chaturthi.

Our initiation into the East-West divide left us a little wide-eyed, but we persevered and reached our destination which was in a surprisingly quiet, wide street lined with trees on either side in Wadala. We drove through an old Parsi locality with buildings named Ahura and Adenwala; spotting many Ganeshas. But the name that stayed on the top of my tickled mind through my stay in Mumbai, was ‘Highway Darshan’. An apartment overlooking a highway had been reverently named after its USP. I think the nomenclature stands for what I understand is the philosophy behind Mumbai city - matter of fact, unapologetically practical! “This is how we are”. If there is a bomb blast, we pick the pieces up and we take the next train back home.

We did not take the train in Mumbai this time. We drove around the city and took in the magnificent gateway of India, the beautiful Taj hotel with no sign of the bullet holes or fire, the imposing buildings built during the British Raj leading up to the Flora fountain, the in-your-face; soaring-up-to the sky Ambani residence, the unavoidable Marine Drive, the wow-evoking Worli sea-link (not just because of its architectural magnificence, but also because of how fast you reach Bandra from Worli!), the sudden appearance of Dharavi and the seemingly inert co-existence of people on either sides of the poverty line.

 

The Ambani residence                   Dharavi

Although we passed the best vada pav stall near the Central Telegraph Office (vouched for by a cousin who lives and eats in Mumbai), we did not taste the quintessential mumbaiya roadside grub. Not even when we passed a Jumbo king, the desi retort to ‘burger king(?), where they sell vada pav with cheese and diet vada pav using brown bread, apart from the original crispy, tangy, spicy, vada pav as we know it. But we did manage to tuck into the other pav snack, Pav bhaji! It was what it promised to be; chatpataa!

 

On our drives, we were pointing out things just to keep the kids engaged. Whenever we pointed something out and asked them what they saw, they would quip, “People”. Crowded bus stops. Crowded trains. Crowded markets. Crowds in shanty towns. Crowds in hi-rise apartments. Crowds on trailers taking their Ganeshas for immersion.

The other thing that struck me was the profusion of grillwork that invaded your view. Windows had grillwork encasing them. The AC compressors had grills around them for protection. The balconies had grills encroaching upon airspace, staking a claim to hang clothes or store cycles or line up flower pots! I looked up into a balcony and saw a man talking on his phone in his balcony. He was walking back and forth. And it was like watching a tiger in its cage pacing the small realm that it was allowed.

I think it is this repressed living that makes them pull out all stops when Ganesh Chaturthi arrives. They erect huge enclosures for Ganeshas in different poses. Golden Ganesha, silver Ganesha, flower Ganesha, pahelwan ganesha(!), you name it, they have it. On the day of immersion they dance without worry. They throw gulal without restraint. They blow the noisy trumpets without stopping to breathe. They beat the drums without missing a beat. The street party goes on…

The chaos continues. The traffic jams get worse. The buildings get higher. The people still arrive in hordes. But look between the buildings, you can see the serene, rolling hills in the distance!

Why die in Norway; when you can die in Mumbai?!

I have kicked in the thought with the blog title. No preamble, no arriving at the point.
"Why die in Norway; when you can die in Mumbai?!"
Now I will meander on.
When we lived beyond the shores of our homeland, we felt more Indian than we were in our own houses. We felt the need to eat controlled versions of chicken tikka masala and pilaf every now and then. We would go to dandiya dances organised in suburbs where we would not like to be seen in otherwise. Hindi movies, however trashy, seemed alluring just because it was our own! We would pay good money in foreign currency for over priced garam masala, but we would think twice before hailing the cab on a cold night to avoid the walk back home from the tube station.

A personal choice has brought us back to India and now we never miss out regaling our dinner party guests with stories of how it was there! My husband travels abroad even today but with an entirely different mindset. He confided that he keeps to himself and talks only when absolutely necessary to people he does not know. Dont arrive at the conclusion that he's an introvert. Its quite the contrary. He is quite a chatty person and is good at making friends. But now he feels the need to hide behind the same question - why die in Norway, when you can die in Mumbai?!

We read about intolerance. Muslims hate Jews. Whites hate Blacks. Yellows hate the Browns. The prudes hate the gays. The Chinese is building dams over most rivers in Asia. The French does not give in to the compulsion to allow the burqa. The Norwegian feels threatened by multiracialism. The Bangladeshi feels we are too domineering.

Let's face it, intolerance is all pervading. Religious intolerance, idealist intolerance, gluten intolerance, lactose intolerance!!! Will 'tolerance' get reduced to being a core subject in schools and colleges alongside psychology, anthropology? I cannot tolerate the idea!!!!

Behind the black veil

I have wondered what it feels like to be veiled by a black gossamer ‘shield’ or should I give in to my feminist prejudice and say ‘prison’?!

I have seen the colourful clothes of the ‘Mithai theru’ in my home town, Calicut, give way to the enveloping black of the hijab. The bylanes of old Hyderabad (where I live now) have always hidden the bright shades worn by the zenana brigade. While in Dubai as a tourist, the blacks intermittently woven into the contemporary colours of freedom were an obvious yet puzzling sight.

I turned to Google for more information on the black veil. The searches for ‘hijab’, ‘burqa’ and ‘pardah’ threw up a lot of irreverent pictures. There were even pictures of a leading lingerie brand literally ‘unveiling’ (see picture) a new line. I have  I gasped at the cheekiness of the pictures even though I am not directly affected by it. I don’t wear a hijab and I don’t have to!

The closest I came to the difference in attitude was when I had to promise a friend’s father that his daughter would not wear a short blouse for the group dance we were arranging at school. She wore a long blouse and long skirt with a dupatta covering her head. Even she did not wear a pardah to school. She just had to bend her head to some diktats. I never had the opportunity to ask a person who wore a pardah how she feels. I’m not trying to muscle in thoughts of dissent into the persons who have willingly donned the layer of chastity(?). I’m trying to peek into the ones who ‘have’ to.

The French government has dealt with this issue like a tyrant. But I cannot help thinking the next minute that only tyranny can overpower another sort of tyranny. Despite my liberal upbringing, I can even condone purity of thoughts and action in the name of religion. But it has to be the same for all. You would agree with me when I say that if men had to wear the hijab too, so as to desist from inciting lecherous thoughts in the opposite sex, the hijab, the pardah and the burqa would be reduced to being yet another kind of apparel!

 

Anuradha Venkatnarayan

Assam: Where Time stands by to let Nature have the last word

After travelling close to 2000 kms over air and road over 2 days; with a tyre puncture thrown in for the inevitable delay; waving to army trucks on their way to Tezpur (This town’s claim to fame is that in the 1962 Indo-China war, the Chinese managed to infiltrate till its doorstep) accepting the enthusiastically returned salutes from the soldiers, meeting an elephant and bouncing over the road to Nameri national park, we settled into quaint dusty tents and stilted cottages in Nameri eco-park.

Nameri eco-park

The earlier night had been a study in contrast in a home stay with British style tea service complete with milk jug and sugar jar and the toast and eggs breakfast. As we drifted to sleep inside cloth and bamboo walls the sounds of the nocturnal insects lulled us to slumber. Only to be woken up in a few hours to hear the rain washing out our hopes of an early morning bird watching session and the caked dust off our car! Even the kids were eager to spot birds after watching a movie about a cerulean macaw (Rio) recently! After a few minutes of fretting under thick blankets (thankfully!) since the temperature had dropped with the rain and for us Southies that was quite a change.

Listening to the rain pattering down on the thatched roof, there was ample time to think about the last two days we had spent in the NE.

Kamakhya Devi Temple in Guwahati

The flash rains ruining our trip to Kamakhya Debutter, the Arunachal Pradesh CM going missing in a helicopter in Tawang; reminding us to never consider a helicopter ride even if the roads were nothing but slush holes and huge pebbles from the Brahmaputra basin! The unavoidable tyre deflation of course added to the delay. We opened our door quite early for our standards, because the animals in the forest gave us an quite a wake-up call, to see some cows that had wandered in. We settled down to having some steaming hot milky sugary Assam tea! The couple of resident dogs settled themselves in dry spots near us assuring us of safety. And the cats watched us with glistening eyes for morsels! We spotted one monkey and followed it to a tree providing lodgings for an extended family of monkeys right above our cottage. We spent some time doing nothing but allowing the time on our city watches to slow down and the kids played on the swings and slipped in the muddied grass!

The rest of the morning was sluggish, thinking the rains would have doomed our plans of a trek and river rafting. We were right since they cancelled river rafting due to the raised water level. But after a couple of cups of tea the peeping sun gave us hope to walk through the forest to go and see Jai Bhoroli river, where we would have gone rafting if the rains hadn’t been in such a rush to pour down. The first thing you'd notice in the forest is the tangled branches of trees and climbers and the browns and greens brightened up by the pink clusters of orchids growing on the tree trunks, the beautiful parasites! The kids had a great time using their Rs.50 binoculars to spot birds. We spotted a cormorant, a big beaked crow and a few insects that were a testimony to the creator's quirky imagination.

Insects or flowers?!

We mistook a cluster of insects to be flowers since they had wisps of white wings which made them look like blossoms. We spent a few minutes carefully dipping our feet in the cold river since we were informed that the river was very deep. There was really nothing else to do except admire the Himalayan silhouette, clothed by grey clouds, beyond the pebbly shores of the deceptively serene river.

We got excited by the sight of a forest department boat carrying their employees to the market on our side of the river. We accosted them to check if they would give us a ride across the river in their boat, but they politely declined saying the waters had risen and that it was risky. It was assuring to know that they kept safety in mind despite us offering to pay them. The city wiles had no powers against the wisdom of the people used to the ways of the forest. We were suitably chastised, but we were happy to be forewarned about any danger!

We set out to Bhalukpong on bumpy roads, followed by worse roads with our guide and drivers smugly smiling at us bouncing around in our seats. When we reached the dirty market of Bhalukpong, we didn't have any good thoughts about what lay ahead. But the Prasanthi guest house was a treat nestled at a perfect height to view the Jai Bhoroli river upstream with breathtaking views of the mountains in Arunachal Pradesh. We were on the Assam side of the border between the two states. Rain played hide and seek with the sun in this part of Assam. We played around in the grassy lands amidst the cottages on stilts and watched the staff play a game of cricket and even include my son as the wicket keeper. The staff were a friendly lot providing hot food laced with outdated Hindi movie songs! One of the cooks was most certainly a Hrithik Roshan fan! Bhalukpong was a place that did not even attempt to be holiday spot. There was no electricity when we reached and upon enquiry, the man running the place said resignedly, "We'll turn on the generator since you (city bred people!) are here". It certainly made us wonder how reliant we were on the add-ons in life. You just had to pause and breathe in the fresh, unspoilt experience, marvelling at the timelessness passed on from nature to the residents.

Time takes its time to pass…in Bhalukpong

More rain followed and we slept for the 3rd night in Assam listening to the rhythm of the rain. In the morning, we set out to Kaziranga national park. The rains followed us and we took more stops than usual. We spotted an oriole and a hornbill on the way. Our guide Pulakesh, who was an avid ornithologist, was inspiring all of us to look on the treetops for birds we had never seen and he would point them out in his book - The Birds of the Indian Subcontinent. Once when Pulok stopped the car, I checked with him the reason for the stop. The brutally honest answer was 'pee stop'. I was quite surprised since he was an extremely polite guy and I was a bit taken aback. But it dawned on me later that he said 'pitstop' in his NE accent! The roads got better as we moved towards Kaziranga and we started covering distances the way we are generally used to on city roads! Then one of us spotted a lone rhinoceros and our trip to Assam was fulfilled. We had always read about the one-horned rhino of the Assam and we were looking at one now in all its trademark glory. Even our guide was happy that we could finally see Assam's pride since all that we had seen till now, really, was the rain!

Kaziranga’s most sought

We reached our resort, Bonhabi, meaning grass forest near the Kaziranga national park. We settled into our concrete rooms giving our city souls a breather. Assam has come across as a state with dirty towns and lovely green, picturesque villages. And I spotted a lot of similarities between Assam and Kerala, my home state. The countryside of Assam looks just like the village scenery of Kerala, with a lot of orchids and lots and lots of bamboo thrown in. Even the washing lines look the same with the Mekhala Chador hanging on them instead of Kerala’s traditional dress of Mundum Veshti. While the former has motifs and more elaborate borders, the latter is simpler in design.

Rain washed Assamese countryside

We were beginning to feel that we planned our holiday timing a wee bit wrong. Just the day before we reached Guwahati, the Kaziranga national park was closed for the monsoon which usually clouds the tourists’ plans in May. This year too was no exception, although we had fervently hoped while booking our tickets that some errant cloud would be on our side! But we had a sincere and persistent guide who was determined to show us the beauty of Kaziranga. So we hired a boat and saw nature's generosity along the banks of the river Brahmaputra and the Dhanshree, its tributary. We spotted freshwater dolphins, a wild buffalo and some birds native to the marshland- the cormorant and the white kingfisher.

The eco-park that organised the boat ride for us also gave us a simple yet sumptuous Assamese lunch replete with fish from the river. The park was run by Mr Gautam Saikia who was also passionate about making films on Kaziranga and its inmates. He has just come back to his normal lifestyle, running the bamboo cottages, after spending many days in the forest with a python waiting for its 87 eggs to hatch. We were thinking that his bamboo cottages were in the back of beyond, and he had been further than that! Mr Saikia was a ingenious man who had even invented a smart way of pumping water to the overhead tanks, using cycles. 20 minutes of cycling would fill up a tank!

On our way back we went to a park where they had built various types of Assamese houses. Tree houses and bamboo houses were the order of the day. There were some brilliant larger-than life sculptures of the different tribal peoples of Assam. We headed back to our resort to watch a Bihu dance performance. The foot tapping song and the lovely graceful moves of the dancers, resembling a butterfly moving its wings, was a treat to watch. The performers also explained to us their costume and jewellery. Their Muga silk mekala chadors, half moon pendants, dhol pendants, chokers, silver bracelets and their lovely smiles made the girls look beautiful against the dark night background. The boys added to the tempo of the dance with their drums, cymbals, 'drrrrrrr' cries and whistling.

The Rongali Bihu Dance

The rain finally had decided to let up. The next morning was bright and sunny. So sunny, that we got sunburned(!) on the ferry to Majuli, the largest river island in the world. The island is famous for its Satras, the seat of Vaishnavite culture. It was a place where religion and culture co-existed. We stayed in a traditional Mising tribal house made of bamboo. It was aptly named ‘La Maison de Ananda’, the house of joy. It provided us the simple joys…and nothing more! Electricity was in short supply, so we had candles. There was no running water, so we had a water pump in the bathroom! The slim stairs leading up to the house was just a log with steps carved into it. So the kids did the Tarzan routine on the bamboo pole planted next to it which was meant for people to clutch onto while going up or down the stairs!

La Maison de Ananda & Junali

Our Mising tribal hostess, Junali, served us simple, wholesome meal which we ate sitting on the uneven bamboo floor of her dining room cum kitchen. We watched the Mising Bihu dance in the fading light of the sunset hour. In a few minutes a cloud of flying insects appeared, adding magic to the picturesque setting. The racy beat of the drums and cymbals and the rhythmic moves of the colourfully dressed women were completely mesmerising.

The Mising Bihu dance and the Gayan Bayan

In the day, we visited few of the many ‘Satras’ in Majuli and imbibed, with almost a sense of disbelief, the disciplined lives of the inmates. We also watched a brilliant performance of the Gayam Bayam dance which showcased the complete synchronisation between beating the drum (called the ‘Khol’) and their dance steps. The performance left us with the realisation that the secret behind the Assamese spirit is largely the acceptance that Nature should not be excessively meddled with. With that piece of wisdom packed along with the handwoven muga silk Mekala Chador we bought from a friendly lady who ran a self help group, we reluctantly returned to the cityscape laced with exhaust fumes and fortified by high rises.

Anuradha Venkatnarayan