Sharon Puthur's Blog

Odisha

State

Capital: Bhubaneswar

There was one and just one reason why I wanted to visit Odisha… But I shall come to that soon.

When I had first heard of Odisha it was in its form as Kalinga in my history books. I remember our history teacher speaking enthusiastically about the awe-inspiring grandeur and might of the ancient Kalinga empire. The one who ruled over Kalinga was called “Kalingadhipati” or the Lord of Kalinga. It was a coveted title as we see in history of the various rulers who wanted control over Kalinga, the most famous one being King Ashoka of Magadh. Not many may agree with me but I have scarcely read of any other greater ruler on Earth other than King Ashoka. Under him almost the entirety of the Indian subcontinent turned Buddhist, or to say it in modern parlance, Buddhism became the national religion. He is also credited with the spread of Buddhism through Asia which is a massive feat. And all this happened in the forty years of peace during his reign following the great Kalinga war. It was probably the deadliest war ever fought in its time with casualties amounting to around 250,000 lives.

The kingdom of Kalinga extended roughly through present day Andhra Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh and West Bengal, which meant that the Kalingans controlled trade routes through the Bay of Bengal and were a prosperous people. The people in Kalinga were skilled artisans; this was reiterated by another skilled ‘pattachitra’ artist whom we happened to interact with in the Chausath Yogini Temple premises. He said that the other ancient name for Odisha was Utkala (Uttar: North, Kal: Kalinga; Incidentally ‘Utkal’ is the name for Odisha mentioned in our National Anthem) which was a name synonymous with artistically skilled people.

So coming back to the Kalinga war, here was a people who were extremely skilled with their hands, had trade with other kingdoms since they controlled vast portions of the eastern coastline, and turned prosperous; as a result they would have had so much to lose if they had to come under the Mauryan rule. Their prosperity also meant that they would have had an immensely skilful army and thus the losses in the war were that much more deadly. It was this war that made King Ashoka to be remembered as he is now, as the King who changed from violence to non violence with never marching into another battle or war ever again. I know that it’s a romanticised version of King Ashoka but nevertheless a story that sets him apart from all other kings that have since existed.

In Dhauli hill a peace pagoda was built that looks more like a memorial to mark the spot where the Kalinga war was fought. All around the periphery of the stupa are rock cuts that depict different aspects of Buddha’s life.

There are other Buddhist sites that probably date back to the Mauryan age which include Ratnagiri. Lalitagiri, Udyagiri and Langudi hills. When we went to Ratnagiri, the Archaeology Survey of India (ASI) was excavating some of the ruins. It was the first time I’ve ever seen excavations happening live. As I walked around the portions that had to be unearthed, I noticed the tops of the statues and carved rock peeping from just beneath the surface of the ground. I was standing upon those once revered structures. These were grounds on which monks and Kings and devotees walked on, now covered in millennia of sediments.

Taken at the Khandagiri and Udayagiri Jain caves Climbing the caves was quite tiring as you can see it on my face

When I decided to visit Odisha I was keen that it had to be a trip dedicated to ancient historical sites. I am a keen lover of history and I had once harboured a dream to take up archaeology. Though that was not to be my chosen field, my love for it only grew stronger with time.

Now let me tell you my actual reason for coming to Odisha…

Konark

The sun temple covered by mist and fog at sunrise. You cannot see it yet but it’s majestic!

The temple dedicated to ‘Arka’ or the Sun God is probably one of ancient India’s finest architectural feats. It is not just a beautiful structure like the Taj Mahal is, but it has so many complexities that makes it an engineering masterpiece, not just for its time but for all of time and history. There are westerners who have compared it to great European art as seen in Venice. I have been to Venice and nothing there compares even remotely to the grandeur and majesty of Konark.

I stood in awe in front of the temple for several minutes as the experience slowly absorbed into my consciousness. All I could repeat under my breath was ‘wow, wow, wow!’ because even now words fail me and nothing I say can even begin to sketch the beauty and experience of Konark. Please go there once to feel the blood rush through you and the nerves under your skin tingle in front of the structure. In its days of glory it must have been an even greater sight to behold. People may not agree but even the pyramids did not evoke as much emotion in me as the temple at Konark did, because while there are many pyramids, there’s only one Konark.

For those who may be shocked, the artworks on the walls are erotic in nature. It would shock even the people who watch porn regularly because God and sex are seen as separate fields in the modern secular world. But when you go there do make a conscious effort to step back into time, to an age where being spiritual and being carnal was both appropriate and necessary to live a good life.

The temple structure in itself is unfortunately falling apart. Measures are being taken to hold it up but I wonder how long it will take before it finally succumbs to the vagaries of time and nature. The sea along the east coast with its periodic cyclones is also particularly unforgiving.

I would like to end my trip to Odisha with Konark but I cannot without mentioning the other grand temple there which is the Puri Jaggannath temple. There are many mysteries surrounding it, which are mysteries only to the dull minded future generations who were dumbed down by colonial thinking… namely us. But for our ancestors they were engineering skills that were understood and expected from the Kings and rulers who commissioned such works to glorify the Gods they worshipped. Their excellent architecture and engineering was commonplace to them like how our die-cast steel skyscrapers are commonplace to us.

I looked up at the spire of the majestic temple and yes though birds fly around it, not one rested on top of the spire. And yes, nowhere did I notice the shadow of the temple. For me though the strangest feeling of all was when I went in for the darshan. The moment I came close to the idols of Lord Jaggannath, Subhadra and Balabhadra, I could feel a lightness in my chest and in my belly. It felt euphoric inside my body. That was a unique feeling that lasted for a while till I left the temple premises. Whether it was an effect of Loadstone or not is something that I cannot ascertain but it was truly uplifting.

The unique images of the idols have many versions associated with it. One version talks of a cultural appropriation of tribal gods into mainstream Hinduism. Odisha incidentally has a large tribal population and each tribe has their own unique gods and goddesses and indigenous medicines and agricultural practices, among other things. I would highly recommend a visit to the tribal museum in Bhubaneswar, which will give a tiny peak into the daily lives and customs of the tribes. It was such an enriching experience that I hope the governments in our country will ensure that all tribal spaces are preserved. In the name of development and emancipation these spaces should not be encroached upon. We as a people will stand to lose so much of indigenous knowledge that is rooted in these forests and rivers that these tribes live in and protect. Most of it is truly Indian and truly cultural. As we, the now millennial generation slowly and seemingly innocuously step into a global and secular world we may become the new civilization that would look lowly upon these old tribal wisdom and instead conspire to build a capitalistic space with a thought of ‘civilizing’ these people. I hope that does not happen and that all their beliefs and learning continue to inspire us. In the midst of all their understanding, I with all my education am truly humbled.

The tribes teach us that Gods and Goddesses and their messengers are much closer to us than we can imagine. We humans are capable of being divine, as the legend of the Kalijai temple in an island in Chilika Lake describes. The divine is both in us and in the nature that surround us. The preservation of our divinity depends a lot in the preservation of our wildlife and our forests and all of nature around. I hope we don’t forget all this in our quest for our greed and comfort.

Inside the mangroves of Bhitarkanika Through the mangroves

I have rambled more about everything else in Odisha other than its food. Since my blog is called ‘Dining Chair travels’ I cannot skip any conversations about food. I was advised to try out the prawns and crabs, which I ate at every given opportunity. The prawns are prepared with their shells which was something that I did not expect. The freshness and flavours were on point everywhere. I tried their vegetarian and non vegetarian options, eating till I almost exploded with room still there for desserts.

We happened to visit Pahala on the Bhubaneswar Cuttack highway and there, right on the road were shops upon shops of people selling sweets. Piping hot rasgullas, cakes of chhena podas and my new favourite: chhena gaja! Google will tell you to eat Chhena gaja from Pahala itself because trust me the flavour in Pahala is superior to what I tried elsewhere. I kick myself for not buying enough of chhena gaja from there. Anyone who I may know who may go there, remember me, a poor desperate soul, who craves to bite into the juicy depths of the gaja, and please get me boxes and boxes and boxes…

Just out of the Bay of Bengal… The sea is right behind me

I have friends from Odisha and now I am certainly glad that I do. There is so much that I need from there! I can imagine how the ancient traders of goods from Utkala must have felt. I feel the same way. All this till I visit there again, which I shall. Till then… 

Himachal Pradesh

State

Capital: Shimla (Summer), Dharamshala (Winter)

My bag is bursting with warm clothes and my heart with joyful expectations as I leave for the land in the lap of the Himalayas!

Before leaving my friend specifically advised me to load up with winter wear because though it is considered to be summer there, some of the areas will be cold, and since we were planning to climb up high altitudes the temperatures were bound to dip towards minus on the scale. The first time I experienced snowfall and minus temperatures was in Switzerland. Though it was snowing there it did not feel unbearably cold so I was sure that the cold in the Himalayas would be bearable too. Oh how wrong I was!

My main reasons for travel is always food, history, natural beauty, adventure, fun, and, to unwind; mostly in the same order, though this time I had a story in my head that I was setting in these locations so my interest tended more towards culture and history.

The first thing though to welcome us to Himachal was actually the traffic. I thought I was leaving all that behind in Bangalore, only to see that it had followed us all the way there. Due to the oppressive heat wave across North India, almost the entire belt was in Himachal. I probably saw every northern state number plate while I was there. The sea of people was a true amalgamation of varied features and languages, so much so that it was honestly difficult to identify the true Himachali from the mix provided.

The same could be said about the food. Maybe the touristy nature of the place meant that the palate had to be made suitable for everyone visiting. Breakfasts were generally parathas, poha… and the other meals were the common north Indian dishes. Was this really what the Himachali people ate? Apparently it was. Though there are a few that are truly native to Himachal. I tasted something called Siddu.

To explain simply, Siddu is like steamed stuffed garlic bread. The outer bread is made with wheat flour and possibly even rice flour, and the stuffing is something that has plenty of garlic. It is served with chutney. Let me tell you that the taste was amazing! It is unfortunate that I could eat it only once in my travel because of availability issues in different places, since like I previously mentioned that most places typically cater the usual north Indian food or offer mixed cuisines.

But saying all this, in a lovely home stay in Lahaul, we were served a traditional Kullu meal. There was Kullu red rice with mildly spiced rajma curry, roti and a juicy chicken curry, mixed vegetable pickles, and a simple sooji halwa. It was pleasant on the stomach, which meant that the mind was calm too.

That was important particularly to me since I had fallen ill. It was just the kind of nourishing food that I needed to recover quickly. Why I fell ill was probably because of the drastic variations in temperatures. At the foot of the mountain the sun beats down on you and the barely there breeze makes you question why you had to layer up for a trip to the Rohtang La. I had pulled off most of the layers and decided to partly walk and partly travel in our vehicle. The vast influx of people to Himachal meant that the Rohtang pass was packed with a multitude of vehicles all desperate to reach the peak. My friend told me not to expend my energy walking alongside other parked vehicles but I was finding the traffic jam frustrating. As we climbed higher and higher we came across solidified snow walls along either sides of the road. The breeze became cold and the layers came back along with a smirk from my friend who had forewarned me about the cold. The ice and the snow activities actually made the inordinately long wait seem rewarding. My body though didn’t think so and succumbed to the virus.

The owner of the home stay was kind enough to offer a traditional tea which they call Kadha chai. It is a warming infusion of ginger, cinnamon, cloves and pepper, mildly sweetened with honey. It lifted my spirits instantly. I drank quite a few cups of the tea along with the now common ginger-lemon-honey tea, and I felt my energy return.

My father had spent three months in Antarctica for an expedition and when he returned he stated that hell was cold but beautiful. Now being surrounded by the Himalayas at a height of 10,000 ft, with the cold piercing relentlessly through two layers of clothing, I had to agree. In one home stay we were provided with a heater that was kept on high the entire time we were in the room. But in another place we were only provided with thick blankets. My friend from the comfort of his home in Bangalore commented about the cleanliness of the blankets that we were provided. I told him that if I had to hug a yak the entire night to keep warm, I would. The temperatures were dipping to minus and the germs on the blankets were the least of my concerns. For a reference Bangalore is at a height of around 3000ft and here I was at least 7000ft higher.

Along with the cold I also had to contend with altitude sickness. At Baralacha La which was around 16,000ft I experienced breathing difficulties, where in every step I took in the snow would send me huffing and puffing as if I had run a kilometre. I was grateful when we began descending and I could breathe freely and not feel nauseous for no particular reason.

At the base of the mountain we went to a dhaba and I had probably the most delicious dal and rice of my entire trip. I am not sure what were the lentils used for the preparation but I assume it was either whole masoor or whole urad or some combination with chana dal. Whatever it was, it was amazing. I tried recreating it in Bangalore and managed a ninety percent accuracy with the original flavours.

After talking about all these mouth watering dishes I forgot to talk about one that is extremely popular in Himachal. In fact I saw it almost everywhere, in restaurants and on the streets and even on the mountain tops. No, it’s not momos, but Maggi noodles. I recently read that India was the biggest market for Maggi and the proof is right here in Himachal. Here Maggi and chai is probably the biggest comfort food for the people. Easy to prepare and readily available. Even momos and bread omelette pales in comparison. Here the noodles are prepared with spices and vegetables in a slightly soupy base, probably to warm the body in the cold. I personally prefer mine with little to no liquid remaining and with dollops of hot and sweet tomato ketchup….Mmmmm….

I know a friend of mine who eats Maggi every time he falls ill and magically his health is restored. I tried it too and it surprisingly works, first in the mind and then when the mind is happy it translates to the body. Anyway saying all this I don’t advocate eating ultra processed food. I do care about what I eat but I don’t get paranoid so I can enjoy these foods once in a while.

So I shall end my food stories from Himachal and shall enjoy my Maggi and Kadha chai as of now. Bangalore is pleasant at 24 degrees but the comfort of this food warms my soul. Cheers.

  

Gujarat

State

Capital : Gandhinagar

My bags are packed and my seat belt is fastened and I am ready to fly. Only this time I am seated inside an airplane. This is my first trip since the virus and the lockdown rendered me immobile. There is a squirming excitement building inside me as I look out of the window and see the minuscule buildings, trees and vehicles of Ahmedabad. Yes, I am off to Gujarat!

From ancient times India has always been a much sought after destination. Either to visit, to trade, to live or to conquer, people somehow by hook or crook find their way here. While they say that all roads lead to Rome, it seems more like all paths physical or metaphysical find their way eventually to India. One of those paths was through Gujarat. The reason why India is one of the oldest civilizations in the world is because of what once existed along the ancient plains of Gujarat. Now they are searching for conclusive evidence of an ancient civilization in the south, probably older than even the Indus valley civilization, but that story is for another time. For someone like me who loves history and heritage travelling, standing on the soil where people of millennia past once stood gives me goosebumps.

I think my first association with Gujaratis happened in college when they became my close friends. I’ve visited their homes, shared meals together, gone on long drives, played board games and even worked with them.

One of my friends is a Jain. I have always wondered how Jain food could be, considering that it’s vegetarian but also excludes root vegetables and others that may harbour some life forms, like potatoes, garlic, onion, carrots, mushrooms, beets, radish etc. I remember that his mother had made Khakras (internet describes it as a thin cracker made with pulses, wheat and oil) that I had with oodles of ghee and a chutney powder over it; Theplas (soft flat Indian bread similar to the chappatis except that it’s multi grain), and served with curd and a sweet pickle; and pulao rice with a gravy made with peas. I remember stuffing my belly and sitting on his red oxide bedroom window seat in a stupor. Who knew that Jains could eliminate so many vegetables from their diet and still make their food taste like that!

In my other Gujarati friend’s (who happen to be Brahmins) house, his mother had cooked a considerable lunch spread when I was invited. I unfortunately didn’t count all the dishes that were served but I could cry in delight at the variety. The one dish that I remembered to have loved and could manage a second helping of, even though I was stuffed already with single helpings of the others was Undhiyu. The internet describes it as a mixed vegetable dish, but it is such a tame description for the explosion of flavours in my mouth. I desperately waited to eat it again and this time in my trip I rushed to the counter when I saw the tag ‘Undhiyu’. When I took the first bite of it I was immediately disappointed. It tasted nothing like what my friend’s mother had made. I ate it in dejection, feeling that I had cheated my mouth of a good dish. It is true when they say that restaurant made food cannot compare to home made preparations. But saying that, I also relished many soft, spongy cubes of Khaman Dhokla at the restaurant. Restaurant made or homemade or even with ready mix versions, Dhoklas in general is a dish that I can’t say no to. Not ever! 

My various meals in Gujarat: colourful and appetising

While we were driving along the roads of Bhuj, which is like the capital of the Kutch region, our driver showed us entire stretches of villages that were completely devastated during the 2001 earthquake. I could see the vestiges of the old foundation walls where new bricks were put over to build new homes. The cracks left by the earthquake still visible. Incidentally my cousin pointed it out to me that I was travelling to Bhuj exactly 20 years later and around the same time when the earthquake took place. This time that year full-fledged rescue operations would have been happening to locate bodies buried under the rubble. I wondered if the Earth would break open while I was travelling there but thankfully the tectonic plates were at rest.

A view of the Aina Mahal and the surrounding areas of Bhuj from the Prag Mahal

Almost as if to break the sombre mood the driver said that we needed to try the Dabeli there. Dabeli was a dish that originates in the Kutch region and the flavours there will not be found anywhere else in Gujarat. I sprang to that opportunity as a woman on a mission. We went to a tiny store that had a board saying “Since 1965”. It was my first time trying a Dabeli and I had no clue on how it even looked like. The man gave me a small paper plate with two pavs (puffy Indian bread/burger) sandwiching a patty that was packed with spiced peanuts, pomegranate, and sev (crunchy flour noodles –I liked the internet description of sev!) I remember taking a deep breath before biting into the Dabeli. If I try to explain the symphony in my mouth I may not do justice to it. I went on to try Dabeli wherever I could including at Ahmedabad, but I’ll suggest that you try it in the Kutch region for that perfect blend of salt, sweet, sour, umami and fresh flavour in every bite.

Delicious Dabeli at Bhuj Dabeli near the sands of Kutch

While vegetarian food is what is available everywhere and is good, my mouth craved for something non vegetarian. Our driver offered to take us to non vegetarian joints but since it was only me who craved for it, I satisfied myself with a chicken shawarma. The familiar taste was such a delight to my senses that with every bite of the roll I felt like I was floating placidly in my happy place. It is amazing how the mouth can trigger so many emotions in the mind. The driver also offered to provide us alcohol if we needed. According to him, Gujaratis drink more alcohol than UP, Bihar and Rajasthan put together. Only a Gujarati can confirm how much of that statement is true and how much is an exaggeration.

If I have to dwell on my ‘take home’ memories of Gujarat, I have some that shine brighter than the others because I repeatedly visit them.

I tried para-motoring or riding the flying scooter, as I preferred calling it, on the salty sands of the Rann. On the one hand it was equivalent to burning money for a two minute ride. While on the other hand, it was the rush of wind and the release of adrenaline as I flew across the sky watching as the setting sun reflected like gold on the white Rann that went on for miles, trying to find an end that wasn’t visible even while on a magical flying scooter. Or maybe, the memory of gazing at an orange-red moon against a soot black sky accompanied by stars with their constellations all within your grasp, in a surreal world where it was difficult to ascertain where the white of the Rann ended and the black of the sky began.

The Flying scooter against the setting sun

There is also a funny-scary episode when my friend who was walking ahead of me on the Rann suddenly went in as the salty surface gave way. She went in till her thighs. I know that you will think of me as callous and insensitive but I couldn’t help myself as I doubled up in laughter. I still can’t get her shocked expression out of my head. I was bent over with laughing while still walking over to help her. She managed to pull herself out of the slush before I reached her because the ground around her was yet hard. Once the rains set in, the Rann turns into a kind of quicksand and a dangerous adventure for someone who is unaware of it. A highly un-recommended adventure!

Three shadows on the White Rann

Another interesting experience was when our driver took us over a ‘gravity hill’ on Kalo Dungar. At that time we weren’t informed much about such a phenomenon, and so watching the car move from down slope to up slope, defying gravity, was strange indeed. Now I understand that it is an optical illusion though it didn’t seem like one then. You can read more about gravity or magnetic hills on the internet. There are a few in India and many more such hills all over the world.

A strange fact I noticed while in Gujarat is that the auto rickshaws don’t have meters. Coming from a city where the minimum distance has a fare of Rs 25 and the digits add up faster than your racing heartbeat, and yet the drivers haggle for extra, I wonder how the people manage in Gujarat. Our driver told us that the locals know how much the fare is exactly between places. It is the tourists who end up paying heavily. Tip: ask a local about the fares before you ask an auto to ply for you.

Inside the Adalaj Stepwell

On the last day of our trip we visited the Sabarmati Ashram. The tranquillity inside the Ashram is starkly unlike the hustle and bustle of the roads around it. This was the place where decisions and plans were made that would alter the course of our country and its people for ever. The ground in all respects was hallowed, because that is where the people who bought me my freedom walked. The photos of Mahatma Gandhi and other freedom fighters, both the recognisable and the countless other nameless boys and girls, men and women are hung in the museum, and the stories of their struggles are mentioned. These were those who gave the prime of their youth for their country and made it their life’s purpose to fight for freedom, so that generations later one as insignificant as me can travel freely in any train compartment or bus, and visit any restaurant without anyone objecting, and living a life so different in comparison that I have the freedom to dream of things that they couldn’t. Because of the purpose in life they chose in their youth, I can choose a purpose in life that could be as frivolous as travelling and writing about my travels and taking photos to post on social media. The price of the freedom I now enjoy I see on the faces of those who fought the Satyagraha, walked the long Dandi march, languished in jails, suffered unjustly and probably even died before they could see the fruits of their labours on August 15, 1947. With utmost gratitude and with tears in my eyes I bend my knee and bow my head to them.

My experience in Gujarat in this short trip is but a fraction of what there is to experience there. I hope in the coming years I may see more. Like Amitabh Bachchan says, to see, smell, hear and experience Gujarat, let us spend some moments in Gujarat.

At the Chhatedi, at Bhuj

  

 

Maharashtra

State

Capital : Mumbai

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I am strapped to my dining chair and I am on my way to Maharashtra. When I say Maharashtra I am actually travelling to Aamchi beloved Mumbai. The sun has just set as I travel through the streets of Colaba. It brings back pleasant memories. I reach Marine Drive and watch each pearl on the Queen’s necklace lighting up, as the night descends on the city that doesn’t sleep. I still sit on my dining chair on Marine Drive, hypnotised by the twinkling lights, the dark sea that seems to stretch endlessly, and the cool night sea air that blows on my face. I don’t know how long I sit there but I am unable to pull away my eyes from the sea. And my mind travels to the Mumbai of my memories…

I’ve lived three years of my early childhood in Mumbai. I remember as a six year old travelling in a kaalipeeli and looking in awe at the tall buildings. Even though I was just a six year old I was already zealously patriotic, fed extensively on stories of India as the Golden Bird with uncountable wealth (fact: by the 17th century, India was the world’s wealthiest economy, worth nearly 25% of the world’s GDP), British colonisation and its eventual reduction to a developing nation. At that time my idea of a developed nation was the images of skyscrapers in London and New York. That’s what we had been fed through television. And then, seeing it in Mumbai, made my heart thump with joy. Move over London and New York, welcome to Mumbai.

Now obviously tall buildings are more of an eyesore and less of a joy but it’s important to shed innocence slowly. So, back to my six year old life… it was good, because it was innocent. I had three close friends whom I shall refer by initials as S, P, B (no pun intended). What do girls that age do generally? Play games in the park, go cycling or skating, climb fences and walls and trees, make up stories, fight boys whom they secretly have crushes on, and get back home before the sun sets. After the sun sets, it was time for washing and cleaning of the wounds that came in the two hours of play, getting scolded for leaving homework pending, and then family time with dinner, and off to bed by 8:30 or 9:00.

Incidentally I don’t recall much about the food I ate at home at that age. It was regular food that I remember more clearly in my early teens and later come to cherish in my adulthood. Both my parents worked, so cooking was one of the many chores like washing, dusting or cleaning. Not that they were bad cooks. On the contrary they were both good cooks, but I guess I was looking for variety, just like how I search for it now. So what is the food that comes to my mind? Let me tell you.

We had a maid whose name was Vandana. She lived in the servant quarters that extended beyond our kitchen. She lived with her mom. I don’t know what happened to her dad. For a small girl any older girl with an indefinable age was “didi”. I would put her age as 21 or probably younger. The only man who came to visit her was Ashok, her boy friend/fiancé. I think they later got married. In the afternoons when the house was empty and my baby sister slept I would sometimes sit with Vandana. I don’t remember any of our conversations but I remember that one day she offered me some food in her plate. It was something that I had never seen before. It looked like yellow globules interspersed with green curry leaves and something, something else. I was apprehensive but I put a spoon in my mouth and my eyes widened. If there was a third eye in the matters of taste, then that was opened. I had never tasted something so different and so delicious ever, at least not in my house.

‘It is Sabudana Khichdi,’ she says.

I remember eating everything in the plate and asking for more and feeling guilty when she said that she had made just enough for her mom and herself in the vessel. I think I even told her to make more next time and to call me when it was ready. She said that she would make aalu-sabudana vadas next time for me. My tummy was somersaulting in joy. I wanted to eat anything that had sabudana. My mother though wasn’t excited when I told her that evening about what I ate at Vandana’s place. It wasn’t about what I ate but more along the lines of: Don’t eat anything what people give you, always show restraint; Vandana keeps herself clean but her mother doesn’t, who knows how hygienic the food is; They are not well to do and they make a little food for themselves and you with your voracious appetite will not leave anything for them; And Sabudana? You haven’t ever eaten it? I put it in the payasam every time… Then my third eye for realisation opened this time when I realised that the transparent to white globules in the payasam was nothing other than the sabudana I had eaten, but who knew that it could taste so different. I clearly knew what I wanted.

‘Ma, make sabudana khichdi and I’ll not eat at Vandana’s anymore.’

‘I don’t know how to make it.’

‘Ask her and she’ll tell you and you can make it.’

‘Hmm.’

My mother never made it ever. I would be the first one to make it in the house. So that meant that I always ate sabudana khichdi or vada every time it was made at Vandana’s place. I just never mentioned it to my mom.

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This humble sabudana khichdi or fasting food during Shivratri or Navratri is my tribute to Vandana and her family. I hope wherever they are, they are well.

I left Mumbai at the age of nine with a heavy heart and weary steps, as if I had glued my feet to the very soil of Mumbai. I vowed to myself that I would hate the place I would next live in. My third of realisation would repeatedly open throughout my growing years.

***

Sometime after my engineering I asked my dad if we could travel to Mumbai again. I thought he would pass a book into my hands but he surprisingly agreed. He also agreed to go by train because that’s my favourite mode of travel. It’s a long journey of almost 22 hours with stops and delays that could cause the travel time to be longer. During every stop where people were selling vada pavs, we bought and ate. They were as cheap as Rs 2 per pav in remote villages. In Bangalore a vada pav sells for a minimum of Rs 25. I spent my train journey biting into soft pavs, crispy vadas and spicy chillies in between, till my stomach would seethe in anger waiting to spew out all the chillies at one go. But I couldn’t care less, continuing to eat them with tears streaming down my cheeks and with regular gulps of water.

I attempted my own vada pav. It’s relatively simple to make and tastes delicious. But what’s even simpler and tastier is the Pav Bhaji. I recently looked up on chaats and found some interesting titbits. The concept of chaats originated in Uttar Pradesh, but different types of chaats have their origins from different parts of the country and are now collectively served all over. Pav Bhaji is one such chaat that has its origins in Maharashtra. I for one feel that it’s a healthy breakfast or lunch option. It uses so many vegetables like: tomatoes, onions, cauliflower, potatoes, capsicum, green peas, carrots, green chillies, ginger and garlic, etc, that it gets a huge thumbs-up from me. It also happens to be my sister’s favourite chaat, so I make it a little more often at home.

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Keeping my watering mouth in check as I feel the urge to taste a mouthful of the pav and bhaji, I go back to my memories of my second visit to Mumbai. When you revisit a place as an adult, where you had once lived in as a child, there is a mismatch of sizes in the head. The Gateway of India looks as majestic as ever but many other buildings in Colaba where I lived appear smaller. The roads seem wider (maybe they were done up over the years), the parks look small. The park where I played in and the see-saw that looked menacing to me as a child, didn’t quite pack the punch now. Even the trees that stood tall then seem to have shrunk.

I remembered that before we left Mumbai in my childhood my parents took me to Essel World (I can still sing the catchy tune of the Essel World ad). I was thrilled to bits. It was my first time at an amusement park. While I had sat on the Giant wheel and other smaller rides, what I was looking forward to was the Roller Coaster. I had only seen it on TV then and even there it looked dangerous. My mother who herself feared thrill rides of any kind shuddered at the sight.

‘I want to go on that.’ I say.

‘That is too scary. I can’t put you on that.’ She says.

I remember stamping my feet in frustration and making a call to my uncle who was in the US to take me there and put me on a roller coaster.

And then I see the roller coaster right before my eyes in Essel World and I am literally screaming with joy. My parents look apprehensive but I am determined. When I get to the end of the line, the operator looks at me and shakes his head.

‘There’s a height limit,’ my dad says. ‘You can’t get on the ride.’

I was horrified. I stood on tiptoe next to the height gauge and it was at least a head over my head. The operator again shakes his head. I wished then that I could hang on to his neck and scratch his face. In the end, my dad pulled my reluctant mom on to the ride and I baby-sitted my sister. I sat there wallowing in self pity as I watched through blurry eyes how my parents were rising and falling and twisting all along the rails.

‘How was it?’ I ask them when they get out.

‘Nothing great. You didn’t miss anything.’ My father says, bright eyed, red faced and trying really hard to wipe the grin from his face.

I could feel the frustration, like rising stomach acids, right at the base of my throat.

‘I want cotton candy, pop corn and noodles to make up for this.’ I say in anger and tears.

‘Sure. Anything.’ He replies.

‘Believe us. It was terrible.’ My mom says, wheezing and looking green in the face.

‘When I am taller, I’ll come back here to ride this roller coaster.’

My father nods and pats my back.

Though I’ve sat on many roller coasters since then, I still haven’t sat on the one in Essel World. In our second trip, my dad refuses to spend an entire day in an amusement park.

‘We don’t have many days to spend here. We’ll have to meet old friends too. So instead of thrill rides I’ll take you to Elephanta Caves.’

Going to Elephanta Caves was quite an enriching experience for me. I am fascinated by anything historical. There was a time in school when I had seriously considered being an archaeologist, whenever the mood to be an astronaut ebbed. I could spend hours amidst ancient ruins, marvelling at the science and craftsmanship of our ancestors. At Elephanta though I was filled with righteous anger when I read about how the Portuguese invaders desecrated most of the statues. Few years later I would travel to Portugal, and I kept alive a desire in my heart to mark their monuments in return. But it’s difficult to desecrate art when art moves you; also I was fearful and well aware of how I could be branded as a national embarrassment if I was caught doing anything like that.

Anyway I am digressing from food and my stomach brings me back with a rumble. I can hear the sounds of people at Chowpatty and my mouth begins to water at the thought of food. I stop at the pav bhaji stall and pick up a hot and steaming plate for myself. I sit on my dining chair by the beach. I press the pav lightly and liquid butter oozes from its pores. That’s how I like it and I can feel my insides squirming in delight. I take the pieces of chopped raw onion and mix it in the bhaji and squeeze lemon over it. Then I tear a piece of pav and soak up a dollop of the bhaji and put it in my mouth. Hot, spicy, tangy, buttery…aaah heaven!

In Maharashtra I’ve been to Mumbai and Pune. There are so many places to visit but at the top of my list is Nagpur –to visit our dear family friends; and, the caves of Ajanta and Ellora –no points for guessing why. I’ll travel there soon. For now, I am ‘chaat-ing’ my fingers.

Note: My sister’s friend has been reading my travel and food articles. When I mentioned to her that I’ll be visiting Maharashtra, she told me about Zunka, a dish that her grandmother used to make for her when she was hungry and when she needed something quick.

‘I remember it to be so yummy.’ She says.

I decided to try out the Zunka (with the stress on the ‘N’). It was every bit as yummy as she said it would be. And so simple to make. Just onions, chickpea flour and spices! I browned my onions a little more than usual but no worries, the entire dish finished in a sitting.

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Lakshadweep

Union Territory

Capital : Kavaratti

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There is a mystery associated with islands. A landmass entirely surrounded by waters that could only be chanced upon by sea in the past, unlike now. What could we find there? Will it be safe? To capture this same mystery is why I set my novel “The Princess who ran away” on a fictitious island named Saagaradatthi.

I have visited islands but never actually lived on one. The thought itself seems fascinating, further fuelled by a novel that I read some time ago. I remember when my dad bought me The Secret Island by Enid Blyton, the first of her adventure novels in the Secret Series. I was probably 10 years old then. It gripped me from the very first chapter, so much so that I found it hard to put down and I decided to carry it to school. In between classes I would pull it out and read. At that point I was vaguely aware of a rule in school that children were not supposed to read story books in class except during the library period. I thought it was an unfair and entirely stupid rule. And being someone who gave scant regard to rules such as these I sat and read. A boy, whom we shall call Ashok, saw me reading and warned me that he would complain. I dismissed his threat but I did keep the book in. Nevertheless, when our class teacher, who happened to be my favourite teacher and who I could say with some assurance also liked me, came in, he snitched on me. That snitch bitch! I explained to ma’am that I only read in between classes. She, I guess, wanted to be fair and asked me to give up the book. I could take it back only when I called my father to school. That was so unfair. In fact, even at the age of ten I found the whole thing absurd. Before I gave up the book I pleaded and pleaded but she wouldn’t budge. I only wish I had slammed the book on Ashok’s head before I gave it up. Anyway, I somehow didn’t have the courage to tell my dad to come to school for this. I know you might think it silly, I think it too now, but at that point I was terrified. I didn’t stop begging her to give me the book but nothing worked. In the end I had to forget about asking her and she stopped being my favourite teacher. Days passed into months, my book remained with her physically and in my head mentally. I must have given it a thought almost every day but I still couldn’t speak to my dad about it.

My final exams for the 6th std came and went. It was time for the report card. My father always came for the report cards and parent-teacher meetings. It was always a time of dread and fear. My report cards most often read as: Very talkative and naughty. Good in studies. Can improve.

I already knew what would be said of me and how my dad would respond. But this time I even had the story of my book to be revealed. Ma’am mentioned it to my dad and I wished that the Earth would open up and consume me. I was so embarrassed to even look at my dad’s face. I remember he had a look of surprise when she said that she had kept my book with her for months, and that I hadn’t mentioned anything of this to him. That report card meeting was the longest meeting I can remember it to be. Every second felt like a year as they discussed about how little I studied, how poor my concentration was, how naughty I am, how talkative I was and yet I hadn’t spoken about the book at home. By the end of the meeting I had sprouted roots in the concrete floor and my face turned into a tomato. I got the book back and I held it firmly in my hand that had become a shaking leaf. On the way back home, my father looked at me and said, ‘You know, you can tell me anything. I wouldn’t be angry with you over such things.’ I nodded.

I would go ahead to crash two cupboards from the biology lab in the 7th std, get called out in front of the whole school for a prank I played in 10th, skip a final exam in my 11th because I did not study for it, and many more such occasions to increase the grey hairs on my parents heads. But I made it a point to tell my parents everything, sooner or later.

Now to come back from my digressions, I got the book back and began to leisurely read it in the start of my summer vacations. The Secret Island spoke of the adventures of four kids learning to live on a deserted island and the difficulties they surmount. I am a slow reader; transporting myself into the pages of the book with every line I read, wishing that I too could live on an island. Till date, it remains one of my favourite Enid Blyton novels.

Talking about islands, my mind is travelling to Lakshadweep now. Lakshadweep is an archipelago, with its name meaning “one hundred, thousand islands”. It’s a little hard to imagine that many mounds of land floating in the Arabian sea. Maybe there were many more such lands in the sea in the past and it’s possible that some went under sea due to various reasons. Or maybe the ancestor who coined the word might have been a fantastic exaggerator with a vivid imagination. As of now there are around 39 islands and islets with many of them uninhabited. So this is where I decide to travel on my flying dining chair. I park my dining chair on the sands of Kavaratti and stretch out luxuriously in the sea. I lay floating on the waters, allowing the waves to rise and dip me rhythmically in them. Swimming in the sea always helped in working up an appetite. Was it the salt in the sea, or the sun shining down, or the constant struggle against the waves and currents that made a person hungry and obviously dehydrated? I remember swimming in the Dead sea and feeling extremely thirsty in a short span that I had to rush out through the green-brown mud and gulp down a litre of water before I could get back in again.

So while I was in the sea, a table and stove and utensils materialised on the beach, under the shade of a few coconut trees. All kept ready for me to cook. And cook what? A special fish curry of Lakshadweep, called Mus Kavaab. It’s traditionally made with Tuna but I caught the King fish for the dish. After dousing the fish with spices I cook it in an earthen vessel (for the best flavours) with onions and tomatoes and a thick coconut paste with spices. The end result? Delectable! The fish pieces are cooked soft, with the flavours of cardamom and cloves and red chillies and coriander permeating its layers. They break apart gently between the teeth, disappearing quickly down the throat, making you put piece after piece into the mouth. It’s eaten with rice and I’ve cleaned the plate of every grain.       

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After enjoying the flavours of the Mus Kavaab on the beach, I decide to strap the containers of curry and rice on my dining chair to take it back home. Fish curry tastes best on the second day. On the first day the spices form a layer of garment on the fish but on the second day the spice and the fish become one, completing their union.

One day I shall eat Mus Kavaab prepared by a chef in a restaurant in the Lakshadweep islands. Till then I shall eat it on my dining chair while being transported to the glorious sun, sand and sea.

Kerala

State

Capital : Thiruvananthapuram

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When you hear the word ‘Kerala” what are the images that form in your mind? Maybe the first phrase that comes up is the catchy “God’s own country”. And then comes pictures of natural green abundance, rolling hills, winding roads through thick vegetation, flowing rivers and languid backwaters.

In our family road trips we don’t need to check maps or signboards to know that we’ve entered the Kerala border. There is an almost immediate change in the flora. The verdancy grips you, hypnotising you like a snake charmer does to a snake. And then when you stop to eat, the next set of images come into the mind. Jackfruit chips, banana chips, coconut oil, hot beef fry with parottas, fish steamed in banana leaves, chicken stew with puttu or appams, and then the Periyar River begins to flow in your mouth.

The other images of Kerala that people associate is with, Ayurvedic tourism. Pictures of people serenely enjoying massages, bodies glistening with oil, show up in pamphlets advocating health through Ayurveda. For people coming from the humdrum of city life with its exhaustion and poor air, this will look like heaven that you can reach only by climbing on to the Jacob’s Ladder, that is, where you perforce drop all your burdens and climb to find your peace.

My earliest memories, not the ones shown to me on tape, but the ones that I can actually remember, are from Kerala. I was probably three or four when we were staying in Kochi (Cochin). My snatches of memories include watching the shimmering blue sea from the balcony of our apartment. The children’s park at its base. Playing in the park with my ayah. And nothing much else. Later when I would go back there and look at everything through adult eyes it would be like watching a tape. Oh, this is where we lived, this is the apartment overlooking the sea, these are the roads, so much has changed now. Nothing changed for me, the adult me. With so many more memories added to my brain these didn’t mean much. These only meant something to that three year old girl collecting her first set of the many memories to come.

Another first that I share with Kerala is my first ever experience of culinary tourism. Internet describes culinary or food tourism as the exploration of food as the purpose of tourism.

When we travelled to Kozhikode (Calicut); the city famously known to have been the place where the first European, Vasco da Gama, landed in India by sea; we did not intend to do the usual sightseeing. It was planned as an out and out food trip. All we did in our three days there was to eat –walk around –get hungry –eat –walk around again –visit the beach or watch a movie –get hungry –eat –walk around to digest –sleep –and repeat. It might seem like a mundane way to spend a holiday but even now it remains as one of our most memorable holiday trips. We were inspired by the Malayalam movie “Ustad Hotel” that was a movie revolving food and shot in Calicut. We did not repeat a restaurant. The foods we had ranged from the humble pazham pori or ripe banana fritters, to parottas and appams with chicken curry; beef biryani; mutton biryani; fish thaali –that included not fish curry but a fish sambar, with quite an interesting flavour; arikadukka –that is, stuffed, steamed and fried mussels; karikke juice –that is, tender coconut flesh beaten with coconut water and sugar. I loved karikke juice so much that I couldn’t stop myself from drinking mug after mug of it. I tried it at home after we got back, but the coconuts from a tropical place and the coconuts from a city that is more than 3000ft from the sea level are quite different. Nevertheless, if you haven’t tried that yet, I recommend that you do. Another must try from Calicut is their wheat halwa. Even now if anyone I know goes to Calicut I beg and plead with them to bring me that halwa. If you haven’t tried that, I beg you don’t wait too long. My mouth waters now as I think of its flavours. Drool… And to digest all this good food, don’t forget to have glasses of piping hot Sulaimani chai at regular intervals!

To travel to Kerala now from my dining chair I did not choose the usual meat varieties that Kerala is known for. Instead I decided to try the Onam Sadya. Onam is celebrated with great exuberance in Kerala and the grand meal or the Sadya is an important aspect of it. Onam Sadya dishes can range from 24 to a whopping 64 items. I’ve even heard of a 100 dish Sadya! The meal is traditionally eaten on a banana leaf. This is an image of my leaf that I cut from my garden.

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I shall explain the dishes to you starting from the top half of the leaf to the bottom. Starting with:

SaltPickle (I used garlic)Injipuli (a dark brown, sweet-sour and spicy curry made of ginger (inji), tamarind (puli), green chillies and jaggeryBanana chipsSharkaraveratti (fried pieces of banana coated with jaggery)Cheera thoran (methi cheera (fenugreek greens) and coconut, a dry vegetable dish)Radish thoran (cubes of radish cooked in coconut oil and sprinkled with a generous amount of coconut, a dry vegetable dish)Pineapple pachadi (sweet curry with pineapple and ground coconut and yes, sugar)Olan (yellow pumpkin cooked in rich and creamy coconut milk, topped with raw coconut oil)Avial (a dense mix of vegetables –I used onion, tomato, potato, beans, carrot, drumstick –cooked in ground coconut, topped with raw coconut oil)Erissery (a thick curry of yam, pumpkin and ground coconut)Beetroot kichadi (a sour thick curry with beetroot, ground coconut and curd)Parippu (thick lentils curry with ground coconut)Kootukari (a thick mix of Bengal gram, pieces of yam and raw banana, stirred along with coconut)Pappadom (South Indian version which blows up into a balloon)BananaKerala red rice (yummy!)Ghee (yummy!)Pulisseri (thin, sour curry with white pumpkin, coconut and curd)Sambar (thick curry with lentils, vegetables, tamarind, and spices)Rasam (a watery dish with tamarind, tomatoes and spices)Palada Prathaman (Payasam with pieces of cooked rice, milk and sugar; the white sweet dish in a bowl on the top half of the leaf)Cherupayar Payasam (Payasam with lentils and rice, cooked in milk, coconut milk and jaggery; the brown sweet dish in a bowl on the top half of the leaf)



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I made 15 of these dishes and by the time I was done I was exhausted. But the satisfaction at the end of the meal was so great that post lunch, for a couple of hours, my body rested in peace.

Till the next meal…  

Sikkim

State

Capital : Gangtok

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Sikkim has always been first on my list of places to plan a family trip to. I would excitedly tell my dad about it. He would give me a blank stare, shake his head as if pitying me and say that it’s too far. No amount of arguments will make him budge from the basic point that Sikkim is too far. Finally we would plan a 6 hour drive-in trip to a neighbourhood scenic place, spend two days there and get back home. And the Sikkim of my imagination, with its hills, Buddhist temples, red robed monks, clean roads; stays as it is, a dream. Though it is still a dream to be physically present there, my Dining Chair travels comes to my rescue to treat me to a taste of Sikkim.

Sikkim as a state shares its borders with three countries namely, Tibet, Nepal and Bhutan. So there will be some shared dishes between them. One of them is the Momo. Personally I associate momos with Tibetan food. Bangalore has a sizable population of Tibetans, and one of the pastimes that I share, especially with my cousin, is to eat Tibetan food. It is cheap and delicious. And momos are a fixed inclusion to our table at every Tibetan meal. The variables would be Tingmo, Shaptra, Shabaley, Thukpa, fried noodles etc. But a Tibetan meal without momos is unthinkable. That’s how I associated Tibet and momos. Now, finding a momo stall near home is not hard. That’s how popular it has become in most places in India. So you can imagine my shock when my friend from Goa looked at me quizzically when I told him about momos. ‘Whatever is that?’ was his reply. Either it isn’t famous in Goa or my friend was living under a gigantic rock. I am inclined to believe that it is the first reason.

I assume that everyone knows how a momo or a dumpling looks and tastes like. When you pop a momo in your mouth and its soft, squishy form comes in between your teeth, you desperately want to break into it, want it to release its spices, its juices, its vegetables or its meat. You allow those flavours to mix in your mouth, swirling and swirling, and when it goes down, there is this immense satisfaction and release of happy hormones. That, my friends, is nothing other than a food orgasm.

When I decided to make momos I had planned it as a meal. Who knew that the time taken to make a batch of sixty or so would take me 3 hours and the time taken to eat them would be 30 minutes? That’s the saddest part about cooking and eating. It’s something that my granny would tell me since childhood: the taste of the food is only for the few seconds that it is in the mouth; once it passes the mouth it is gone. So basically, there was no need for me to indulge in gluttony for those few seconds of pleasure. But life in general is unfortunately like that. While I know that my granny is right, I indulge in many of these similar pleasures quite decadently. Because the pleasure is greater in the anticipation, the hard work put into achieving it will make the pleasure that much sweeter.

This is how two of my fully vegetarian, mushroom momos with a tangy, umami tomato chutney, looked like before I gobbled them up.

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Well since momos are claimed by many places, I wanted to try something unique to Sikkim. I found a recipe for Phagshapa. It’s a pork dish wherein strips of pork are stewed together with radish. The only heat in the dish is from red chillies. When I prepare a non vegetarian dish I add many more spices. But I was pleasantly surprised at how this dish turns out with just one type of spice, unless you refer to ginger and garlic as spices too. And who knew that pork and radish could be friends? It is served with rice and it barely lasted long enough for me to mull over it.

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Some things end sooner than you expect and then you wonder how to replace those flavours with something new. The solution is to travel to a new place. Wonder where I’ll go next?

Jammu and Kashmir

Former state, currently union territory

Capital: Srinagar (May-October)

Jammu (November-April)

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The first place I decided to visit through my Dining Chair Travels is Jammu and Kashmir. A place of extraordinary beauty; marred by violence and bloodshed. I read about this word called Kashmiriyat or Kashmiri-ness, which is the capability of Kashmiri people to live in peace and harmony with each other. Even Mahatma Gandhi had quoted, when the rest of India suffered in communal disharmony that: if there is a ray of hope for humanity, it is there on the soil of Kashmir. This was all before bloodshed took hold of Kashmir too, but I guess inspite of that, the true essence of Kashmiriyat does not go. Some things do get embedded in people, handed down through generations in the form of culture and traditions. And also through food.

The first time I heard about the Wazwan was through my sister. She herself read about it in Salman Rushdie’s “Shalimar the Clown”. She explained to me about this mind-numbing 36 course meal that is almost entirely meat based. As she described the kinds of food, I could imagine the various tastes and textures in my mouth, the aromas from the dishes, sounds of the cutlery, the laughter, the conversations, and the breathtaking view of the dishes in their assorted colour. And yes, my mouth watered and my brain signalled to me that I should eat even when I wasn’t hungry. My sister has Kashmiri students who have promised to invite her for their weddings with the traditional Wazwan feast. I have been hounding my sister ever since to add me as her plus one.

For now travel anywhere is not possible except in my dining chair and in my mind. So to experience Kashmir in some form I decided to make Kashmiri mutton biryani. Biryani as a dish has many variations all over the subcontinent, in other parts of Asia and also in Southern Africa. In India itself there are different varieties ranging from what you find in Delhi and Lucknow, to Hyderabad, Tamil Nadu, Kerala, Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka. I haven’t heard much about Kashmiri biryani though. The common dish from Kashmir that people talk about without batting an eyelid is Rogan Josh. But I was in the mood for something different. That’s why the biryani.

I have become a regular of sorts at the butcher shop, that the butcher wallah uncle recognises and smiles at me even when I am wearing a mask. He even remembers what I bought the last time I visited his shop. I wish I had a memory like his. So I picked up a kilo of tender mutton for this meal. Kashmiris use mustard oil, their staple, warming oil for their cold climate. I unfortunately didn’t think it necessary and prepared it with the regular sunflower oil. I know Kashmiris all over will be giving me disapproving glances. I have decided to use mustard oil in future for the dishes that require it.

This is how it looked from the top of the handi.

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It was a multi-coloured treat. The yellow of the mutton gravy, the red of the zaffrani, the green of the mint and coriander leaves, the brown of the fried onions, and in parts, the pure whiteness of the Basmati rice. The lamb was soft, with the meat infused with spices and almost leaving the bone. The flavours were mild and aromatic with nothing overpowering the other, unlike other biryanis that I’ve eaten. Each grain of rice here was coated in the flavoured oil. That makes a lot of difference to me because I love the smell of the biryani on my fingers after I eat it and the glossy feel of the oil on my lips. All the sensory experiences tally up to a meal well cooked and well enjoyed.

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I wanted to try another dish and I chanced upon Kaddu ka Ambal, from the Dogra cuisine of Jammu. Who knew that a simple vegetable like the pumpkin could taste like that! At our home we have three or four variations in the preparation of the yellow pumpkin, including both dry and curry forms. After trying out the Ambal it was a unanimous decision to include it into our regular preparations.

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You’ll have to taste it to know how the soft pieces of pumpkin, soaked in the sweet and sour gravy of tamarind and jaggery, with few flecks of mild bitterness in the form of fenugreek seeds, feels like in the mouth. It covers all the tastes in the mouth and leaves you craving for more. Ambal is traditionally served with Channah dal and rice, but trust me you won’t need the Channah dal at all.

Since I haven’t travelled to Jammu and Kashmir, and I haven’t eaten any home cooked meal of a Kashmiri, my references are only the two meals that I have prepared. Now I am sure that you understand my very justified reasons to hound my sister to take me as her plus one for a marriage feast there?

Anyway now I shall lick my fingers and strap myself on my dining chair and prepare to leave. Till next time, Jammu and Kashmir. Allah hafiz.

Introduction to the travels

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In our house, the one thing that we have more than anything else is books. Over the years we have carefully selected and added various titles and genres to our collection. One of the well-thumbed ones is the travel books. My father would sit comfortably on his armchair and leaf through the pages and transport himself right into the jungles of Borneo or sail on a yacht along the coasts of Ireland. If I asked him about our next travel plans he would show me the book that he is reading and tell me to take it once he is done. I don’t want to travel in an armchair, I tell him. I want to be there; walk their streets; see their people; eat their food and experience their culture. That is too much hassle, this is better, he would say, and get back to his reading. You can imagine my frustration especially since this was the man who made a fuss about going on an Antarctica expedition, spending three months in the frigid summer and gushing about his experiences if ever anyone even remotely mentioned the South Pole.

Now cut to the year 2020. Who knew that a virus could bring the world to a stop and make armchair travelling a frustrating reality? The reality is stark with people battling illnesses, families losing loved ones, people struggling financially with pay cuts or job losses, blue collar workers dying of starvation and exhaustion, those suffering from depression or abuse trapped at home, and the list goes on. It’ll seem like a blessing and a luxury if you have good health, have food to eat, have a family to support you, have a job, have hobbies, have a purpose in life. Reality might seem dismal and you may not have the energy or purpose to get out of bed in the mornings, but remember that even in their most despairing moments most Jews in concentration camps kept their hopes up. Depression is more than pain and sorrow; it is a complete loss of hope. While hope may seem like a useless emotion, fuelling fantastic thoughts with very little outcome, it is essential to keep our sanity. Hope fuels our purpose in our life and makes us want to jump out of bed every morning to make those fantastic dreams a reality.

In childhood, I spent a good amount of time day-dreaming. I would read, or listen to music, or travel without wanting to reach the destination; all the time making up stories in my head. I’ve heard plenty of advices from elders, and various aphorisms connecting dreamers and fools. But let’s not forget that most of our tangible reality was once a thought experiment or a day-dream or an idea. I still day-dream and it has kept my hope, purpose and imagination in life still alive.

I remember quite vaguely the story of the flying magic drum that I had made up while playing with my friend in our childhood. We had to sit atop a drum, strap ourselves on it and it’ll fly us away into magical lands where we have many adventures. I don’t remember any of the adventures now, else I would’ve shared a story or two here.

I imagine armchair travelling to be an adult version of the same magical drum experience. Strapping yourself on an armchair and getting magically transported in your mind to the places that you read about. But what if instead of the armchair, you were strapped to your dining chair that allows you to eat while travelling? You could be travelling on your dining chair along the cobbled streets of Italy and grab a Panini on the go or probably a roll of Sushi in Japan.

At this time I’ll be happy if I can at least travel through India. India is vast, with 28 states and 8 union territories; can you even imagine the number of dishes in each state/UT and its many variations? My life on this Earth might end before I savour every dish that is made in India. By dish I include sweets too. Better not even go there!

So, I plan to strap on my seat belt on my dining chair and travel through India savouring a dish or two from every state and UT. Some will be dishes that I’ve never eaten before and some are those I would want to revisit over and over again. Remember though that it is a lockdown travelling and many local ingredients will be impossible to source, sometimes even without the lockdown. Wherever possible I shall substitute and if I cannot, then I shall try another simpler dish. All dishes will be cooked by me with recipes that I find online or in books. If you, as the reader, have a better recipe then don’t forget to share it with me. And more importantly I would invite you all to travel with me on my magically transportable dining chair and share this gastronomic affair with me. Love for food is love indeed.      

Episode 10: The Essence of being Human and why it’s difficult to have every life matter

I was reading about the tragic death of George Floyd and the protests that have engulfed America and parts of the world. I took time to wonder about the human psyche and what it means to have human lives matter. Is it even possible?

Every human takes pride in being different. We each are different, from our physical appearance to our personality, even up to our fingerprints. When we are all uniquely different, why are some people singled out and have their differences pointed out to them loud and clear? Is it human to do so or are some people just warped?

I am reminded of my days in school. We weren’t subjected to serious bullying, but we were picked on for something that made us different. What was different in me? Nothing very astounding. Nevertheless I was picked on for three things.

One; my hair. I had short hair for the first twenty-one years of my life. It was my parents’ choice, not mine. I didn’t have a problem with it till it was pointed out to me. I was asked if I was a boy or a girl, as if it wasn’t obvious enough. It gave people a thrill to ask me that. Every time I had to get a haircut I ensured that it happened on a Friday or a Saturday. I needed a Sunday to prepare myself for the barrage of words that I will have to hear on Monday. I learned to laugh it off, not that it made me any less self conscious.

Two: I was teased for my body size. I am broad shouldered and stockily built, inherited from my dad’s side. Even a little food went a long way in making me look bigger than the other smaller built girls or boys around me. There was nothing much I could do about it. I was born that way. Nevertheless I tried hard. I exercised regularly and played various sports. But my stocky legs did not lengthen, my breasts and bum did not flatten, my arms did not thin down with all the badminton and the swimming. Even with all my hard work I was called fat. I wanted to diet but my parents wouldn’t allow it. According to them no girl in her early teens should diet. They were right. I turned slightly anorexic in my late teens and shed loads of fat, though unbelievably I still wasn’t the slimmest girl in class. It took me years to accept my body the way it was, but the vestiges of the old taunts still remain somewhere in the subconscious.

The third thing I was made fun of was my name. Sharon is a Hebrew name. Most people are unsure of how it is pronounced because its pronunciation is different from the way it is spelled. In Indian languages, the words are pronounced phonetically. And I realised that my name’s pronunciation cannot be written in any Indian language (as far as I know) and hence the difficulty among people to get it right. Ninety per cent of the time my name is first misheard as Shalini. I had got so used to it that I always mentally prepared myself to repeat my name thrice. In school, the children found uniquely creative ways to pronounce my name. I wouldn’t go into the details but I am sure you get the gist. I couldn’t change my name and I wouldn’t either because it’s my identity and I love it.

My story is not unique. In my class, a boy who was too short, a girl who was too tall, a boy who stuttered, a girl who was too slow in the way she thought, a boy who was very dark, a girl who had bouts of fits, likewise, were all made fun of.

In colleges and in some very prestigious institutions, bullying/ragging is considered as a rite of passage and a means of bonding. Nobody controls the fine line where it stops being fun and crosses the boundary into something dangerous. Most times it leads to mental illnesses and even death. But it is doubtful if ragging can ever be eliminated entirely.

***

This is still a narrow group to talk about. If we extend the geography to include India then it’ll be easier to understand. India is the first and probably the only country with such overwhelming diversity. Our differences stretch across terrain, culture, religion, language, skin colour, food, etc; so much so that sometimes it’s difficult to explain what actually decides our Indianness.

What we also have is our intricate caste system. Since the Indian civilization is one of the oldest in the world, it is safe to say that our caste system is older than most nations in the world. It is also safe to say that our caste system finds its roots in racism. Racism in itself is an evolutionary or human response to safeguard what is your own, from what is strange.

It is natural to assume that the early humankind looked at another breed of humans who were different from them in language and culture and skin colour and features and built etc, with a reasonable amount of suspicion. Even if they co-existed as good neighbourhood tribes they wouldn’t willingly give their sons and daughters to each other in marriage. But the beauty of humans is in their ability to look at differences with caution and also with allurement. Because of this there has been an intermingling of cultures over millennia. Now with travel and globalisation I don’t even have to walk a hundred metres for a change in culture and language. I can just pop into my next door neighbour’s house and I’ve said ‘hello’ to a different caste, religion, culture, language, etc, from mine.

What does it mean for us now? Is it much different from the millennia of human evolution? My neighbours and I are on good terms, but will that stop our minds from judging each other? No. Humans are wired to judge anything and everything on this planet; it’s all a part of evolution. The problems arise when the judgement that should start and end in the mind, travels to the lips, or provides itself with action by moving to our limbs. That’s when the term racism takes birth.

Now when you meet someone with some difference that you find amusing, or threatening, or repulsive, you can’t help the thought that has crossed your mind involuntarily. It’s all still ok up till here. But now you want to give words to your thought or cause your body to react negatively to that thought; then it’s time to pause, think and introspect. Why does that difference in that person bother you? Is it something that you have been taught since childhood? Is it peer pressure? Has it been imprinted in your mind by a religious group/cult/organisation? Is it a response to a stereotype?

I’m sure if Hitler had been asked these questions he would’ve given his answers, which would be supported by many, before continuing on his path towards the extermination of Jews and other weak-abled Germans to keep to his idea of a pure bred, Aryan, Deutschland. It’s an impossible thought, impossible to achieve because of the number of deaths that is involved. You see, there is a certain charm about death. Death can range from being ordinary and unmarked to being able to start riots and wars and in some rare cases, a religion. Death has the power to evoke deep, unimagined emotion.

I’ll give you a non-human example. No person living on this planet currently has seen a Dodo bird alive. But everyone has heard of it, seen its pictures and imagined how it could have been. It is a simple flightless bird, made extinct by humans, but this bird has imprinted itself into the minds of humans enough to have the word in our vocabulary. Same goes with Dinosaurs. George Floyd is still human, how much more will his name stay in the human psyche?

Coming back to the Indian caste system, that is older than nations, still continuing through millennia, that has witnessed innumerable deaths and protests. Are there laws against discriminating people on their caste? Yes. Are there still deaths? Yes. Will they continue? Yes. Will protests happen? Yes.

We are fighting against ages of reinforced thinking. It’s not going to be easy, almost impossible. But if you as an individual keep the discrimination only in the mind then the battle is as good as won. It is a conditioning that will require strenuous effort. If we keep to it then we can ensure that every life will matter.

***

After twenty-one years I let my hair grow out. Now it touches my hips. I met my school and college friends in great excitement. They take a good look at me and say that I looked better in short hair. I just smile, thinking to myself that it is impossible to please everyone. So it doesn’t matter if you are short or tall, fat or thin, vegan or meatarian, theist or atheist, of any skin colour or having different shades of colour on your skin. All that matters is to be happy being you.

Your life matters.