Hirabai was as accomplished as a Cordon Bleu chef. Of course, she had no ovens or cooking ranges or dough mixers; not even a mixer, grinder or toaster. There was no natural gas pipeline and no gas cylinders either. Sometimes, she used a Primus stove which required to be vigorously pumped, making women muscular. There was a depression in the so-called stone kitchen platform into which wood was shoved and the aluminum utensil placed on top. No chimney was necessary, as smoke escaped from the kitchen which always faced the paachloon baar or backyard. Late evening, if you sat in the kitchen and sipped illicit hooch made from mahua flowers flavored with orange peel, the lingering smoke from the day’s cooking made the drink taste like smoky single malt.
Illustration by Farzana Cooper
This did not prevent Hirabai from conjuring up some mouth-watering pastries like sadhana (steamed pancakes made of fermented rice), kumaas (Persian sweet rice flour cake), varadhvaroon (deep fried mega crumble cookie with a hard exterior and soft sweet juicy interior), and finally, the much double entendred popatji (soft deep fried confection made with coconut milk). Sugar was expensive and sparingly used, and often substituted with local honey delivered by the adivasis. Homemade ghee and the eggs laid by domesticated poultry though were available in abundance. Toddy was liberally sprinkled into the dough, to accelerate the fermentation process. Nutmeg was costly and carefully used. Saffron would be sprinkled only for Hirabai’s richest patrons. She was a visiting cook who charged only for her services. Making these exotic delicacies provided her family with dar chawal (lentils and rice) and an occasional cheap vegetable like field beans; they ate jowar or bajra rotis, wheat being out of reach.
Most of her clients were themselves excellent cooks of rural cuisine. The fare was frugal, simple and delicious. This was a world without refrigerators. Leftovers were placed in aluminum vessels that floated in basins full of cold well water, and seldom had to be discarded. Curd was set overnight by adding a bit of the old curd to milk until it was time to change the melavnee (starter). White butter was churned out of buttermilk by a hand held wooden contraption called madhani, ghee was laboriously made over a wood fire with its peculiar aroma irritating some, and cottage cheese was set by wrapping fermented curd in linen cloth with the water allowed to drain through a utensil with many holes. The topli nu paneer was soft and juicy but not slippery velvety like the ones served in Parsi weddings in which rennet made from duck intestines is added. The brine in which these wedding paneers merrily float, well, we will let it pass.
Very little was discarded and nothing wasted. After a chicken had been scraped bare, its offal was turned into a spicy dish with some tomato and brinjal added. The peel of dodhi (bottle gourd) was sautéed in vinegar to make a tasty patio, to make dhan daar more interesting. In mango season, after Burjorji had sucked the fruit dry, Gooloo would wash the stone, break it open to extricate the inner kernel called gotli which was roasted on a thikra (blackened pan) and consumed after sprinkling it with salt and pepper; it had a slightly astringent taste and multiple medicinal benefits for diabetes and purification of the blood. Some claimed it had aphrodisiac qualities too.
During the four days of wedding revelry, seemingly unappealing items like khichri kohroo (khichdi with pumpkin), vegna ma gos (mutton with brinjal), papri ma kawaab (kebabs in field beans) were invariably served and were to die for, being far superior to the standard fare of Bombay caterers. Duck eggs were in great demand; cheap and large, but not so tasty.
In winter, chora ma khariya (trotters in lentils) was a great delicacy. Like everything else, it was to be eaten with the fingers which stuck to each other if not washed immediately after the meal. The only cutlery we remember was the marrow spoon, though our granduncle called us sissies if we used it instead of taking a deep breath, pranayama like, and sucking out the marrow in one single piece. Soups were unknown, though a lightly spiced watery soup called rus along with chawal was given to children recovering from the flu. Although our stentorian grandmother gave us no choice but to consume the horrid tasting soup, it was an incentive to tell her that we were feeling absolutely fine now. It was, however, better than the unrefined castor oil — desi aidyoon — we were made to consume in the morning. It was an instrument of torture — and we are not exaggerating. Perhaps that was the only cure for the gluttonous consumption of bhaaji ma bhéjoo (brains in spinach), vegna ma kaleji bookka (liver and kidneys in brinjal), sookka boomla no patio (a spicy dish made with dried Bombay ducks). Of course, Navsari strongly believed that cows and pigs should remain on the streets and not be seen on the dining table.
Dessert was an unknown concept but the delectable murabbas, sticky black ones with cardamom, cinnamon and cloves, the bright orange super sweet ones which were the dentist’s delight, and the mind boggling seasonal sour, sweet and tangy amba kaliyo (raw mango relish made with jaggery) are the stuff of nostalgia.
No wonder the kitchens of Navsari did not miss mushrooms, avocado, asparagus, broccoli, pasta and cheese.
Berjis Desai, author of Oh! Those Parsis and The Bawaji, occasionally practices law.