Monsoon Diary Page 7
Unlike these short overnight journeys, the trip from Madras to Bombay was satisfyingly long. The train left Madras at daybreak and reached Bombay nearly twenty hours later (if it was on time). Shyam and I had all day and all night in the train to stake our corners, make friends with the other kids, run riot through the compartment, offend ticket inspectors by singing out loud to the rhythm of the train, and partake of our neighbors’ tiffin carriers.
The tiffin carrier is a simple yet wonderful invention. Several cylindrical stainless steel containers are stacked one atop the other and held together with a metal clamp that also serves as a handle. The one I took to school was small, with two containers; the bottom held a rice dish and the top a vegetable or a couple of idlis.
If my school lunch box with its measly two containers was a Manhattan town house, the Marwari matron’s tiffin carrier was the Empire State Building, with more than a dozen impressively stacked stainless steel containers. She opened each one at strategic points during our train journey together. At dawn we had roti and potato saag. At ten o’clock, a snack of crisp kakda wafers speckled with pepper. For lunch, a bounty of parathas (flat breads stuffed with mashed potatoes, spinach, radish, paneer, and other such goodies).
My mother had brought our lunch in a tiffin carrier too: petal-soft idlis wrapped in banana leaf and slathered with coconut chutney. She always made idlis for train travel because, among their other virtues, they keep well. The Marwari boys scooped them up with gusto when my mother offered them, and wolfed them down with gentle satisfied grunts.
As the sun climbed high in the sky, the train rolled into the arid plains of Andhra Pradesh. I began salivating for mangoes. As soon as the train stopped at Renigunta Station, passengers jumped off like scalded lemmings. My father and I disdained the trainside hawkers who carried baskets of high-priced, inferior mangoes and instead sprinted toward the stalls on either side of the platform. About a dozen different types of mangoes were piled high: custardy malgovas; robust sweet-sour Alphonsos, ultra-juicy banganapallis, parrot-beaked Bangaloras, and finally, the rasalu, the King of Mangoes in terms of sweetness. A few minutes of intense bargaining followed, fueled by the fact that the train would leave the station any minute. Just as the whistle blew and the guard waved his green flag, my father and I jumped back on the train carrying armloads of juicy mangoes. The tension and adrenaline surge that accompanied their purchase would only enhance their deliciousness. As the train rumbled slowly through the Deccan Plateau, my brother and I sat at the open door slurping mangoes and waving at villagers. I threw the seeds into opportune clearings and imagined entire mango orchards rising behind me.
Almost every station in India sells a regional specialty that causes passengers to dart in and out of trains. My parents have woken me up at 3:00 A.M. just to taste the hot milk at Erode Station in Tamil Nadu. Anyone passing by Nagpur Station is entreated to buy its glorious oranges. Allahabad, home to Hinduism on the banks of the River Ganges, is famous for its guavas. Agra, home of the Taj Mahal, has wonderful pedas (milk sweets). Shimla, called Queen of Hill Stations by the British, was known for its apples. North of Delhi we could buy thick yogurt in tiny terra-cotta pots. The earthenware pots sucked the moisture from the yogurt, leaving it creamy enough to be cut with a knife. Kerala, where my father spent his childhood and still leaves his heart, is where I’ve eaten the best banana appams, fried in coconut oil on the platform. A few stations down on our journey to Bombay was the summer resort of Lonavla, where my mother would hop out of the train to buy chikkis (peanut brittle).
As if the stations weren’t distraction enough, a steady stream of vendors brought food into the train. Our midafternoon card games were almost always interrupted by teenage boys in khaki shorts selling coffee. “ Kapi, Kapi, Kapi,” they would call, pausing to check out who had the best hand of cards. Frequently, the person with the best hand ordered a round of coffee for the group, inadvertently giving away his advantage. The boy would pour the thick, hot coffee from a large brass dispenser into small plastic cups and hand it around before stumbling down the train.
If we were lucky enough to stop at Andhra Pradesh during dinnertime, my parents would buy us aromatic biriyanis. Andhra cooks make the best biriyanis in the world, combining basmati rice, succulent meats or vegetables marinated in a yogurt-mint sauce with ginger, garlic, and green chiles, and a long list of roasted ground spices. All these ingredients are slow-cooked in a covered vessel with the lid sealed on with dough so that the flavors don’t escape. This dum pukht method allows the meats and vegetables to cook in their own juices, enhancing flavor. We only ate the vegetarian biriyanis, but the meat ones that my neighbors bought smelled delicious. Although I am a lifelong vegetarian, the only time I have felt like straying is when I encountered those lamb biriyanis on trains.
Sated and tired, we arrived at the Bombay station around 4:00 P.M. But there was still one more ritual left before we got into the car to head home. At a corner of the station was a tiny, smoky stall that served the best vada-pav in all of Bombay and therefore all of India. Vada-pav is Bombay’s version of a hamburger, a deep-fried potato pancake spiced with ginger, garlic, green chiles, and cumin and served on a sliced bun with spicy chutneys on the side.
The stall at Dadar Station was always crowded, and we waited in line surrounded by bulging bags and suitcases. A potbellied man stood behind a giant black wok, frying round vadas, balls of mashed potato, until they turned golden brown. With quick, deft actions, he removed the vadas from the oil using a large sieve and stuffed them between a sliced bun generously coated with butter. A dollop of green chutney, some red sauce, and sometimes a tart tamarind relish, and the vada-pav was ready. We slathered the chutneys on the bun and took a bite. It was tongue-scalding hot, gloriously spicy, crisp on the outside, and melting soft on the inside. It tasted piquant and spicy. It tasted like India. Pure heaven!
I have tried making vada-pav at home, but somehow it doesn’t taste as good as the ones I used to eat on the streets of Bombay. Perhaps it was the liberal use of spices, the rickety stall surrounded by thronging multitudes, the fumes from passing cars and buses, the guilty pleasure of gulping down savory bites in between errands and chores. Bombay is famous for its street food and produces a dizzying array of chaats (savory snacks) that are sold in leaf bowls. Like all citizens blessed with a bounty of food choices, Bombayites are extremely opinionated about their city’s food and have rabid debates about which stall serves the best mutton kebabs or which bylane or alley is most famous for its milk sweets.
My aunts and uncles had their favorite restaurants and would take us out on binges of gluttony. We started at sunset at one of Bombay’s many beaches, usually Chowpatty Beach, where we had a series of snacks: fried round balls called gol-gappas filled with a fiery, peppery water that brought tears to my eyes as I compulsively gobbled up one after another in quick succession; crisp, brittle bhel puri spiked with chopped raw onions, diced tomatoes, and mashed potatoes and drizzled with cilantro and tamarind chutneys; roasted potato patties called tikkis that were marinated in a spicy chickpea sauce; and pav-bhaji, the mother of all snacks, a melting mixture of sautéed vegetables served with a sliced buttered bun. This was the appetizer course.
We would wander the beach, tasting a little here, cooling our heels in the waves there, building giant sandcastles, or begging for money to ride the garishly painted carousels. Hawkers called, enticing us with their offerings. “Madam, bhel-puri khaoge?” (“Madam, will you eat a bhel-puri?) The more enterprising ones came after us, young boys carrying metal bins filled with fried snacks of various sorts. For a penny, the boy would deftly turn a piece of paper into a cone—the kind used for icing cakes—and fill it with namkeens (munchies) that we could share as we ambled along.
If mangoes were in season, the aam vala (mango vendor) would be there, slitting and slicing perfectly underripe mangoes that were on the verge of sweetness but had left behind the tartness of their youth. These green mango slices would be displayed
on carts, with a series of slits like so many teeth. The vendor would dust the mango slices with salt and paprika and offer us a bite.
Sometimes we had corn on the cob, roasted over charcoals until it was black. The vendor would take a sizzling ear from the open fire and hand it to us with the gentle admonishment “Mind your fingers.” Occasionally my tummy hurt from all the eating and my uncle would buy me a soda, not an orange soda or a Pepsi but plain Indian soda— chilled carbonated water in a bottle that the hawker opened with a pop.
Suitably fortified, we would head out to one of Bombay’s numerous restaurants. Cream Center was famous for its bhaturas, deep-fried yeasty breads that puffed up into a giant ball. Chopsticks and any other Chinese restaurant for that matter spiced up their sauces to suit Indian tastes and were uniformly terrific. Sometimes we would get a Gujerati thali (meal-in-a-plate) at a restaurant near Churchgate Station where waiters with lightning hands served first, second, third, and fourth helpings until you begged them to stop.
The paan vendor outside Churchgate Station was famous all over Bombay, and the adults would indulge in a paan after the meal—it was an excellent digestive. Our final stop was the promenade on Marine Drive. We would saunter down, lulled by the moonlit waves and twinkling stars, until we happened upon an ice cream vendor ringing his bell and cooing “ Kulfi khaoge?” Yes, we wanted an ice cream, brimming with slivered almonds and pistachios and as creamy and seductive as the tropical breeze. The man would slip the kulfi off its aluminum shell onto a leaf, cut it into small pieces, and hand it over to us. The leaf’s latent saltiness contrasted pleasantly with the kulfi’s creamy sweetness.
If there was a tea stall around, my uncle, who was fond of thick Irani chai, would have a cup, along with a brun maska, a type of biscuit.
And with that, we would go home.
PAV-BHAJI
Place: Camden Town, London. Time: a few years ago. I am wandering around a weekend open-air market. Amidst the stalls selling T-shirts, souvenirs, trinkets, and Chinese curios is a tiny stall selling—can it be?—pav-bhaji. I find myself wandering over, drawn by the smell of cumin, cloves, and cardamom. Behind the counter is a blue-eyed, blond Caucasian. I frown in confusion. A Caucasian making pav-bhaji? My chin rises challengingly. His name is Mike Guest, and he hands me a steaming plate. The pav is crisp on the outside and buttery soft inside. The bhaji vegetables are just right: a combination of soft potatoes, tangy tomatoes, crisp onions, and peas that have been transformed by the spices into a symphony of taste. Mike Guest watches with a satisfied smile as I quickly polish off the entire plate. “I’ve eaten better,” I say airily to the reincarnated Indian as I pay. “Can I have another plate to go? For my friend, not for me.”
Pav-bhaji is one of the few roadside snacks that tastes just as authentic when made at home. The trick is to make the bhaji (vegetables) piping hot and the pav (buns) buttery and crisp. The combination gives pav-bhaji its distinctive flavor.
SERVES 8
1 carrot, chopped
2 cauliflower florets, chopped
2 large potatoes, peeled and chopped
5 green beans, chopped
1/2 cup peas
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus more for serving
1/2 teaspoon grated ginger
4 garlic cloves, crushed
1/2 small green pepper, chopped fine
1 medium onion, chopped fine, plus more for garnish
2 medium tomatoes, chopped fine
2 teaspoons pav-bhaji masala (available in Indian grocery stores)
1/4 teaspoon turmeric
1 teaspoon salt
Juice of 1/2 lemon
Butter
Chopped fresh cilantro
8 hamburger buns
Lemon slices
Cook the carrot, cauliflower, potatoes, beans, and peas in a cup of water until tender, about 10 minutes. Drain and mash them coarsely. Set aside.
Heat the 2 tablespoons butter in a pan. Add the ginger, garlic, green pepper, onion, and tomatoes. Sauté over high heat, stirring for 2 to 3 minutes until the onions are translucent and the other vegetables are soft. Add the pav-bhaji masala, turmeric, and salt. Mix well and stir in 1/2 cup water so that the whole thing is the consistency of a thick gravy. Bring to a boil.
Simmer until the gravy is thick, stirring and mashing pieces so that the spices penetrate the vegetables. Remove from the stove. Add the lemon juice and mix well. Garnish with chopped cilantro and a half-inch slab of butter.
Slit the buns horizontally, leaving one edge attached (to open like a book). Coat with butter (as desired) and roast open on a griddle until hot and soft with the surface crisp on both sides. Fill with the vegetable bhaji, a teaspoon of chopped onions, and serve with half a slice of lemon.
SEVEN
Of Baking and Brides
ONE AFTERNOON I came back home from school to find about eight ladies sitting around the dining table. In front of them were bowls of flour, butter, and some eggs.
“I am teaching them baking,” my mom explained. “We are making sponge cake.”
I knew that my mother knew how to bake—she had taken classes when we were babies. But our family’s Brahminical aversion to eggs combined with the fact that we didn’t possess an oven had prevented my mother from acting on her knowledge. All that changed when my father surprised her by buying a small portable oven for her fortieth birthday.
Mom was delighted. She began baking cakes for my lunch box, offered to bring a cake for the class picnic, and donated cakes in lieu of money. She had tiny cupcakes waiting for us when we came home from school. When my orthodox aunt, who couldn’t abide an egg, came to visit, Mom even tried her hand at eggless cakes, substituting yogurt for eggs. The cake tasted good, in my opinion, but my aunt still wouldn’t eat it, since it was cooked in the same vessel that previously held the tainted egg-containing cakes, or “egg-plus cakes” as she called them.
A year later my mother was ready to become a culinary guru. She put up a flyer in the local Ladies Club and was in business. Every Thursday afternoon about eight ladies would congregate in our living room at four o’clock—after their naps but before the dinner hour. Happily for me, it was also the time when I returned home from school. I would drop my bags and promptly sit down beside them, enraptured by the smell of butter, sugar, and vanilla essence.
My mother would measure flour, butter, and sugar into a large bowl and pass it around. Since we didn’t possess a blender or a cake mixer, we had to mix the ingredients by hand, with a wooden spoon.
“Twirl it faster, faster,” my mother urged. “The dough has to be like a feather. Only then the cake will rise.”
I gritted my teeth and held my breath as I turned the wooden spoon around as fast as I could. Finally, breathless, I would pass the bowl to the next lady.
Each “aunty” had her own style of mixing the cake. Devi-aunty would start slow and build up speed with every turn until her hand looked like a whirling dervish. Leela-aunty, on the other hand, took off like a sprinter—at top speed from start to finish. Old Mrs. Rao went red in the face as she swirled the mix till her capillaries jutted out like black worms.
“Enough, enough,” my mom would say worriedly.
Viji, the single accountant, would stare into the cake batter as if it were an analytical problem to be solved. Then she would take a deep breath and nod slightly before setting off at a steady clip. She stirred the slowest but for the longest time.
Tina and Reena, twins who were waiting to get married, would collapse into giggles while turning the spoon.
When the bowl circled back to my mother, she would whirl the wooden spoon around authoritatively, break a few eggs into the mixture, and pass it around again. This time speed was not of the essence. The main thing was to make sure that the eggs didn’t spill over the sides of the bowl. We took turns and carefully mixed everything before passing it back to my mother.
She would add the final touches—a few drops of vanilla or orange essence, a handful
of chocolate chips, raisins, and nuts—before pouring the mixture into the cake bowl and sticking it in the oven. She shut the door with the air of a magician and beamed.
Thirty minutes later the cake emerged from the oven, having risen to nearly double its size. I licked my lips as my mother cut generous slices for everyone. And so it came to be that my brother and I enjoyed finger-licking cake and tea every Thursday when we came back from school.
As the demand for my mother’s baking classes spiraled, she began thinking about charging her students and expanding her course offerings. She was also proficient in juice making, fabric painting, flower arrangement (ikebana), and crocheting, and wondered if she could teach a different class each afternoon. She didn’t want to do it at the Ladies Club. “Too much politics,” she said. Rather, she wanted to operate out of our home.
It was my father who suggested that they go into business together. He was a professor of English at Anna University. Since he knew several languages—French, German, and Russian besides a few Indian ones—he also gave private lessons at home. “Why not combine their services under one umbrella?” Dad asked. He had even thought of a name: Bright Tutorial Academy. It would be a school where the home arts merged with foreign languages and turned out bright students, he explained.
“Why the ‘Tutorial’?” asked Mom.
“Because it has a nice ring to it,” Dad replied.
They hired a Chinese painter and asked him to make a signboard. Old Chu had come to Madras eons ago to work for one of the many Chinese dentists practicing in my hometown. He had married a Korean lady, opened a Chinese restaurant, which his children ran, and a beauty salon, managed by his wife. Chu himself had “retired” to pursue his passion: painting signs in beautiful calligraphy. He turned up on Saturday morning toting a signboard that he unwrapped with a flourish of cloth. Mom and Dad stared at the sign, speechless. Old Chu had misheard the name. Instead of “Bright Tutorial Academy” he had painted—in elegant letters: BLIGHT TUTORIAL ACADEMY.