Food and farewells

Number four on my list of things to do while in India was to eat, eat, eat.


Not surprisingly, I have succeeded marvelously.

From the richness of vegetable korma in Delhi, dry fruits sweetly seducing the bite of the chilies, to the heat of the Goa’s fish vindaloo, food has been a central part of this journey. Breakfasts of papaya and idlis lazed into lunches of masala dosas. Dinners teemed with possibility, my stomach usually opting for a curry of sorts. Of course, there were countless mango lassis and gulab jamuns along the way, as well. They were attempts at replacing the mid-afternoon temperature highs with sugar highs. The sugar faded. The heat did not. Nothing a watermelon juice couldn’t solve, though. Or maybe a lime soda. And oh-my-food-network, the chai. Odes must have been written about you. Just in case they haven’t, here we go:

From trains to rooftops, the kitchen to the sidewalk,
You are always there, my sweet and spicy drinkable companion.
Whilst many solely call on you in the morning, perhaps eight o’clock,
You, my chai, were a continual and constant source of devotion.

Attempts to satisfy our palettes and our stomachs, of course, are central to our existence. Shouldn’t they be a focal point of our travels, as well? Over the past month, on days when I actually made an agenda (they were few and far between – Wake up and wander suits me much more), plans were made just as much on the lunch locale as they were on train tickets. After all, could there possibly be a more accessible peek into the soul of a region, of a people, of a family?

When I arrived in Udaipur, then, I was thrilled to discover how food was so integral not just to the lives of its relaxed residents and its sizeable tourist population, but almost to the landscape, as well. Perched around Lake Pichola, Udaipur is a swath of creamy buildings, nearly all of which have rooftop restaurants. They’re like some sort of culinary buffer between the lake and the Aravalli hills, between the narrow, sloping roads and the occasionally cloud-free sky. Being able to dine while gazing at the two mid-lake palaces, both of which seemingly float like royal yachts, was godly. Udaipur quickly became my favorite city in this massive subcontinent.

As I stepped into a stairwell to avoid an Udaipur traffic jam of a cow, a rickshaw, a donkey carrying bricks, and a group of students, I saw a sign on the side of an azure structure. For me, I suppose, it wasn’t just a sign. It was The Sign. I was being called. Beckoned. Summoned by hand painted letters which gloriously stated, “Shashi Daily Cooking Classes.” Cue singing angels.

My next steps can be assumed, and the following evening I was seated in Shashi’s living room, she in front of me, her son to my right, two British girls to my left. In my hands were nine pages of recipes, all of which would be revealed to me over the next five hours. Thinking back on the moment, I don’t know if I’ve ever been so anxious. That’s not hyperbole. Not only would we make chai, paranthas, naan, curries, cheese (who makes their own cheese?!?! Shashi and me, apparently.), pulao, and chutney, but we would also get to eat them. Cue even more singing angels.

Before donning a floral apron and ducking into her diminutive kitchen, I listened as Shashi explained her own journey from village girl to cooking maven. It is by no means my place to tell her story. I could never do it justice, but let’s just say that it involved death, the caste system, an Irish tourist, and chili powder. She communicated it brilliantly with English that she has picked up solely from travelers. It’s amazing, I think, how impactful a story can be despite the absence of grammatical tenses.

Shashi’s story aside, I was continually impressed how such simple ingredients can morph into such morsels. Take, for instance, the chapatti. It is the tortilla of India, equal parts carbohydrate, eating utensil, and napkin. Similarly, it consists of only three ingredients: wheat flour, water, and salt. Just like every other flattened bread from around the world (isn’t it odd that every culture seems to have one?), it’s beautiful in its simplicity. The process of making them – the kneading with your knuckles, the rolling, the cooking on cast iron, the bubbling and ultimate browning of the dough – is strangely therapeutic. I derived such satisfaction from seeing a chapatti pile form on one of the few remaining empty spots on Shashi’s meager countertop. The chapatti is, if I had to compare to one of the stops along this adventure, just like Kerala – the relaxed state stretched along the Arabian Sea. There are such elementary ingredients (in Kerala’s case, water, land, and good people) but the end result is so comforting. So necessary. So calming. So centering.

Mumbai, on the other hand, is the stuffed parantha. Like Kerala/chapattis, it ironically starts with the same ingredients: water/land/people – water/flour/salt. However, the parantha formation veers in a somewhat greasier direction as you add a few tablespoons of oil during the rolling process. Then comes the potato, onion, anise, garam masala, and chili. The extras are mashed together, plopped in the middle of what was once the oily cousin of the chapatti, and then rerolled. Mumbai, it seems, is the same. The purest elements are the same as Kerala, but then all the extras –the skyscrapers, the foreigners, the chaos, the swarming markets – are rolled into a larger, grimier concoction. It’s delicious.

Delhi takes appetizing grime to a new level. It is, without a doubt, the paneer pakora. For my Midwestern brethren, this tasty treat is akin to a fried cheese curd, an amuse bouche that screams with artery clogging palatability. Again, it starts with flour. Yogurt is added and then a handful of spices until a soupy, somewhat gritty, paste is formed. Dip the salty paneer in the mixture, drop in bubbling oil, cook to your stomach’s content, and enjoy. It is unabashedly fried. Your fingers will glisten. Your stomach will thank you. Your heart will not. Pakoras were one of the first treats I tried when arriving in India and were indubitably a marked departure from my typical snack of carrots and hummus. My taste buds were overwhelmed. It was like that first moment I stood amongst the madness of Old Delhi. You simply grow to accept the ceaseless movement and urban melodies. You begin to relish its flavor. And then you reach for more.

Then there is the deliciously sweet parantha. Once again, it’s the same combo of flour, water, and salt, this time with a bit of butter – but you also add shaved coconut and powdered sugar so that each bite is this blissful marriage of its savory outer shell and its tropically sweet center. It is, in a word, divine. Make no mistake, though, it is not a light dessert. It does not apologize for its buttery glaze or the sedentary state in which you will assuredly fall after a few bites. And so it goes in Udaipur, I suppose. The setting is so perfect, so sweet, so appetizing that you can’t help but only seek pursuits of a rather inactive nature. I couldn’t even begin to tally the number of hours I spent simply staring and trying to absorb the calm surroundings. Maybe it was my attempt at cataloguing those feelings so they could easily be pulled out of the recipe box upon my impending return to Brooklyn. There, quietude can sometimes be scarce. Frankly, I’m frightened to go back and fall back into my checklist routine. Wake up. Have breakfast. Make list of the day’s task. Complete as many of the day’s tasks as possible. Order food. Mindlessly stare at TV/computer. Fall asleep.

It’s telling, then, that I started writing this blog with a checklist. These are five things that I must do. My trip to India will only be valid if I complete these tasks. Without them, my meanderings will have been a failure. Doesn’t it have the potential to completely limit your experience? What if I had spent hours simply trying to cross them off? Would I have been oblivious to the rest of the symphony that was beautifully being orchestrated around me? Maybe. I did manage to see a Bollywood premiere and there were plenty of elephants (although I declined paying $20 to ride one for five minutes). I didn’t make it to a wedding, but I’ve been invited to two (One of which falls December 28-30. Christmas in Kolkata, Mom and Dad?). The eating? Duh. And the last item? My existential desire to become a different person? I’ll explain shortly.

The moments I’ve savored the most, those tiny insights into what could be overly generalized as “Indian life”, could never have appeared on a preordained checklist. I simply had no idea they would exist and that they would so profoundly impress me. I have grown to love and will deeply miss:

• The urban grey/brown/slate blue that is continually punctuated by brilliant saris.

• Sitting to do business. Whether it’s a house or a handbag, pants or a pillow cover, everyone sits to negotiate.

• Cardamom cookies.

• Families of four amazingly balanced on the seat of a scooter. Potholes and Mario Cart-esque maneuvering simply do not phase – or unglue – them from their perch.

• Chai stands. Unlike the Starbucks of the Western world, there is no to go option. You stop, order your chai which appears in its minute glass, and then converse with those around you. It’s so communal, so personable, so gently human.

• The peaceful music and chanting floating out of picturesque tiered temples

• Taking off your shoes in a respectful gesture. It is this surprisingly effective removal of barriers that is such a reminder of the power of touch. In our creation of personal space, we deny ourselves the opportunity to come in contact with the world beyond our clothes.

• “Kya Soorat Hai.” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_28DEnD-lsE) This is all thanks to Mangala and her continual renditions of the campy, overly ridiculous song. (“No one’s so SAX-y, in the whole ga-LAX-y.”)

• Street food served on tiny squares of yesterday’s newspaper.

• The Indian head nod! Is it yes? No? I’m happy? That’s great? Okay? All of the above? Whatever its meaning, the bobbling gesture is so jovial.

Beyond the Taj, apart from Varkala’s beach, aside from Jaipur’s stunning Amber Fort, these are the passing scenes that flickered in my mind as I boarded the plane to head home. Funny, I suppose. After 16,208 miles of flights, 1716 miles of train journeys, countless rickshaw rides, a handful of frightening taxi voyages, a stiflingly hot bus adventure, and a singular ride on the back of a scooter, I’m sitting here contemplating a head nod. So it goes, I guess.

And we’re off.

India is some 35,000 feet below us. Its border, quickly approaching the nose of the plane, will just as swiftly fall behind us. I know this, of course, because our current location is displayed on the shining LCD screen before me. Staring at the flight path is oddly entrancing. You so easily become fixated on the silly airplane icon, taking a surprising amount of joy from seeing it ever-so-slightly tick across the screen. Look! We’re passing over Kabul! Did you know St. Petersburg was so close? I wonder what’s happening in Minsk. Yet, it’s so odd to see the world minimized on a screen with a clean dotted yellow path that marks our way. It’s so two-dimensional. Overly simplified. It’s peanut butter and jelly. Comforting, yes, and maybe even interesting (Will we fly north or south of Iceland? Should I have creamy or chunky?), but not at all representative of the smorgasbord of other experiences. Just like no one should limit themselves to PB&J when there are so many curries and appams and dosas to be had, we shouldn’t deny ourselves actual life that flourishes 35,000 feet below glowing pixels meant to symbolize it.

That brings me to the last item on my list: come back a changed person. It would be impossible, I think, to spend a month in India and not look at even the most mundane in a different light. I’ve realized that I must make a conscious and continual effort to stay away from a PB&J life. I must seek out the anise and the oregano, the palak paneer, and the puttus of human experience. Why stay at the salad bar when there’s an entire buffet? We are so fortunate to have such varied opportunities stretched before us – to read, to talk, to jump out of an airplane, to hug, to dye our hair pink, to tap dance, to sing, to love, to meander – so why don’t we take them? Even if we choose not to skydive, why don’t we at least take a moment to examine what that experience might be like? How it might impact us? What draws our peers to such an endeavor? This is not idle thought, but rather a way to actively engage in the lives of others and to attempt understanding their psyche. There was a time that I was much better at this. I looked at the world with such open possibility, but somewhere amongst school, work, falling in and out of love, and generally becoming an adult, I lost it. My scope narrowed and my thoughts tapered.

India, then, has been my cure for myopia. It has reopened my eyes, perhaps wider than they have ever been. For that, I will be eternally grateful. To Mangala, Natasha, and Ajay. To Kemps. To Khursheed. To Haji and Abdul. To Miraj. To Shashi. To the innkeepers. To the students in Bangalore. To those three French girls. To those two British girls. To that couple from Belgium. To the rick-wallahs. To everyone who showed up Saturday night in Mumbai. To the countless strangers who engaged me in conversation and thought. To each and every one of the one billion souls that call India their home.

Thank you. I hope to see you soon.