Monsoon Diary (7 page)

As soon as we sat down, a harried waiter would appear, bang tumblers of water on the table, and ask, “What will you eat?”

We would toss the question right back at him. “What do you have?” we would ask, even though we knew what was on the menu and, in fact, exactly what we were going to have. Still, it was pleasant to hear what one’s options were.

The waiter would begin a recitation of the day’s menu in a singsong voice that hypnotized us into a happy haze even before we had taken the first bite. “Idli, vada, dosa, masala dosa, rava dosa, onion rava, onion rava masala, idli-vada combo, dosa-vada combo . . .” The permutations and combinations were endless.

After mulling over the choices presented to us, we would settle on our old favorites. Shyam always ordered a
masala dosa,
my mother, a plain
dosa,
I an onion
rava dosa.
My dad always had
idlis,
followed with piping hot coffee.

The waiter would turn around, yell our orders in the direction of the kitchen, and appear a few minutes later carrying our plates. The golden
dosa,
shaped like a pyramid, the steaming
idlis,
and my flaky onion
rava dosa,
accompanied by little bowls of coconut chutney and
sambar.
We would devour the food in fifteen minutes flat, enjoy a tuttifrutti ice cream outside, and head home.

ADYAR DIDN’T LACK good hotels and shops. But it was after Grand Sweets opened that it became a destination instead of a road to nowhere. Located in a rambling suburban-style home, Grand Sweets was an instant success, renowned throughout Madras for its crumbly
sohan papdi,
saffron-specked wheat
halwa,
golden
jilebis,
ghee-dripping
badushas,
spiral savory
murukkus, cheedai,
and flat, spicy
thattai
specked with chili powder and fried lentils.

The shop hummed with activity from dawn to dusk. Spritely young girls in green uniform saris flitted between counters, filling orders. Each customer was given a free leaf bowl filled with a tasty rice dish. Spicy
sambar
rice on one day, pungent pepper rice on another, tart tamarind rice, sweet
pongal,
bland yogurt rice. While my mother tried to get the attention of the cashier, I would quietly take my steaming bowl of rice with its wooden spoon under a tree and gobble up the contents, sans guilt or remorse.

SOFT IDLIS

My grandfather fell in love with my grandmother over
idlis.
As a child bride, Nalla-ma was put to work on the granite grinding stone (
aatu-kal
in Tamil). She was twelve and spent her morning turning the stone to make
idli
batter. Enter my grandfather, a strapping lad of twenty-two. Desperate to ease the burden of his beautiful bride yet fearful of being taunted as a henpecked husband if caught beside her, he came up with an ingenious solution. He donned a sari, covered his head like any dutiful daughter-in-law, sat down beside my grandmother, and turned the heavy granite stone himself. They gazed into each other’s eyes, didn’t say a word, and together made the fluffiest
idli
batter imaginable.

Good
idlis
are soothing and filling. The trick is in the batter’s proportion and consistency. The
urad
dal makes it soft, while the rice flour gives it heft. The batter has to be thick enough to hold its shape, yet thin enough to ferment. After many questions and experiments, I came upon the perfect
idli
recipe. Here it is.

SERVES 4

1 cup
urad
dal
1 teaspoon fenugreek seeds
2 cups cream of rice (available in Indian stores and also called
idli rawa;
this is not cream of rice cereal, which is cooked)
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon plain yogurt, lowfat or nonfat

Combine the dal with the fenugreek in a bowl and cover with
enough warm water to cover by one inch. Soak for 2 hours. In a separate bowl, mix the cream of rice with just enough water to form a paste.

Grind the dal and fenugreek seeds, using a grinder, adding a little water if necessary, so that it is the consistency of cake batter. Add the salt and yogurt. Put the cream of rice mixture into a grinder and blend it well with the dal batter until it’s the consistency of honey—viscous, not too thin but not too thick either.

Since the batter will ferment and rise to about twice its initial volume, pour it into a bowl large enough to accommodate this. Cover tightly and keep it in a warm place. Do not look at it for the next twenty-four hours.

When you uncover the bowl, the batter should have fermented and risen to about twice its height. There should be bubbles on top and a salty, fermented smell. Beat the dough, using a long spoon. Ladle it out into an
idli
stand, available in most Indian stores. Put the stand into a steamer, stock pot, or pressure cooker, and steam it (without pressure) for 10 minutes.

To test if done, stick a knife into the
idli.
When you lift it out, there should be no batter sticking to its sides. Eat with coconut chutney and onion
sambar.

SIX

Night Train to Mumbai

IN OCTOBER the monsoon began, gently at first, an overnight drizzle that left drops of dew wobbling on lotus leaves. By November it had become a full-blown cyclone. Rains, torrential and unremitting, drilled into the earth. The sea was raging gray, the streets streams of water. Clothes hung on lines waiting to dry. We sat on the verandah, hypnotized by the staccato drumbeat of falling water. Every now and then we would run out into the soft, slushy earth—to pick up the mail or drop something off—and get soaked to the skin. Sometimes we danced in the rain, sometimes we sang songs to the rhythm of the raindrops. We made paper boats and watched them capsize. And we ate
bajjis—
hot vegetable fritters—for tiffin.

Tiffin is a light daytime meal, an accompaniment to afternoon tea. It can be scaled up or down depending on the time of day and the number of partakers. It needn’t even involve tea; while most of North India drinks tea in the afternoon—be it milky chai with ginger and cardamom or plain Lipton—South India drinks coffee.

In the last fifty years, as more Indian women work full-time, Western-style cornflakes, toast, scrambled eggs, and pizzas have invaded breakfast, lunch, and dinner in India. But tiffin dishes remain authentically, unapologetically Indian, mouthwateringly tasty, even for an unaccustomed Western palate.

Four o’clock tiffin remains my favorite meal of the day. Siesta followed by strong chai and tiffin makes sense in tropical India where the heat lulls everyone into a somnolent stupor anyway. When my brother and I came home from school, my mom always had some sort of tiffin ready. Sometimes it was snacks like boiled, salted peanuts. Frequently it was a hearty vermicelli
upma
spiked with green chiles and ginger. We would eat our tiffin, drink a glass of milk, and run out to play.

When it rained, Mom made
pakoras
and
bajjis
for tiffin. Thinly sliced vegetables—potatoes, onions, eggplant, or plantains—were dipped into a savory batter and fried until golden brown. The crispness of the
bajjis
were a perfect antidote to the dampness of the rain. We would sit in the warm, cozy kitchen munching our
bajjis
contentedly.

OCTOBER WAS the holiday season in India, and we got a couple of weeks off from school. My parents took us to different places, usually by train. Trains were—and still are—the preferred mode of transport, since they were moderately paced, convenient, and above all, reliable. Indian trains move more than five billion people per year. Newer, air-conditioned trains like the
Shatabdi
and the
Rajdhani
have all but blocked off the heat and dust of India from the passengers cocooned inside. But when we traveled by train as children, it was almost always by second-class, which meant open windows that blurred the boundaries between the outside and inside.

The most important thing when traveling by train in India is not the location of your seat (first-class is more comfortable, second-class more congenial), whether you have confirmed tickets, or even your destination. The crucial element is the size of your neighbor’s tiffin carrier. If you’re lucky, you will be seated near a generous Marwari matron whose method of making your acquaintance is to hand you a hot roti stuffed with potato
saag.

I was twelve when this happened to me, and I still remember biting into the soft, ghee-stained roti and feeling the explosion of spices in my mouth as I encountered cumin, cilantro, ginger, green chiles, pungent onions, and finally—like a sigh—a comfortingly soft potato. It was dawn. The train whistled mournfully as it click-clacked its way through the misty countryside. A cool breeze wafted through the open window and teased the curls behind my ear. Fragrant turmeric-yellow
saag
dribbled down the corner of my mouth. A perfect symphony for the senses.

We were on the
Bombay Express
from Madras to Bombay, now called Mumbai. Across from me my parents, still faint and groggy from the effort of packing and bundling us into the train, were nodding off. Beside me, my pest of a brother was elbowing for the window seat. I licked my lips and turned toward the Marwari matron hopefully. She smiled as she opened another container. In a trance, I went to her feet. I was her slave.

Marwaris are from the colorful desert state of Rajasthan, and Marwari women are fantastic cooks. They are also known to be generous, which makes them dream companions for a long train journey. Enterprising Gujeratis, on the other hand, were more businesslike, which meant that I had to ingratiate myself by performing small favors in order to gain access to their divine
kadi
(sweet-and-sour buttermilk soup). A boisterous Punjabi family was always good for card games interspersed with hearty
rajma
(spiced kidney beans). Intellectual Bengalis from Calcutta were a challenge. I had to match wits with them before they would share their luscious
rosgollas
and sweet
sandesh
with me. I didn’t bother with the South Indians, being one myself.

It was access to this glorious, multicuisine, home-cooked food that made the train journeys of my childhood memorable. My uncle in Ban-galore was a few hours away by the
Lal Bagh
(Red Garden)
Express;
Nalla-ma and Nalla-pa were an overnight train journey away by the
Blue Mountain Express.
We got on the train and went to sleep on the sleeper berths, an ingenious system where the seats folded out into flat beds—far superior to reclining seats. We awakened to the smiling faces of my grandparents, who came to the station carrying flasks of hot coffee and crisp
vadas
(lentil doughnuts) that were fried right there on the platform.

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.