Come into my kitchen
A Malaviya Way of Life
A cookbook makes its way into the life of an 82-year-old. Simple and classy, like the recipes itself, cheerfully illustrated in happy watercolours, this book was published not for commercial reasons, but merely to be sent to friends and family. How did that come about? Let’s find out.
Text & Photographs: Farzana Contractor
Asha Sheth is among the Grande Dames of India. Moving around actively in Bombay society, bold, brassy and confident, she is the wife of Vasant Sheth, founder of The Great Eastern Shipping Company. They have wined and dined with the crème de la crème and entertained the best of the lot, at their penthouse apartment in South Bombay. Entertaining guests has played an important part in Asha’s life.
In spite of all the fanfare, at heart she is simple, especially with food and what she truly likes to eat. Simple ghar ka khana, the one she ate in her growing years. Which is the Malaviya cuisine. But before we get there, a little bit about Asha and her most favourite niece, Katyayani Agarwal, fondly known as Kuku, who is the one who actually cooked and supervised the fabulous lunch we sat and ate amidst loads of greenery and blue skies!
Asha Malaviya Sheth comes from an illustrious family of Allahabad. She is the daughter of freedom fighter, KD Malaviya, who was personally hand-picked by Jawaharlal Nehru, when he was a young M.Sc. student. A Member of parliament, KD Malaviya was a Congressman right until he breathed his last.
“My father was a great man,” says Asha, remembering how she herself would serve water to the visiting dignitaries as a child of nine years. “I was really little, dressed in a frock, while all others were doing other chores, wore saris,” she recalls of the political sessions at home.
Home was in Bharati Bhavan, the exclusive living quarters of the mighty Brahmins in the centre of a mohalla
in Allahabad. All the Malaviyas lived together in a large joint family. Basically, the people of this community had migrated from Malwa near Indore in Madhya Pradesh and of course brought with them their cooking prowess.
“What made you want to bring out Hamara Chauka, this lovely cookbook?” I directly enquired of Asha, who I have known ever since I was first married. She belongs to the legacy of friends Behram has left me.
“Oh, don’t ask, it’s a longish story,” says she, theatrically, and then goes on to enlighten me. “Some years ago I was seized with a sudden desire to revisit Allahabad and Benaras, the twin cities I grew up in. I may have shifted to Bombay, but these places always held me spellbound. The lure of the Ganges, the throb of the thicket of the narrow streets, densely packed with temples, worshippers, locals and tourists alike. I had to return, the distinctive aromas of our cuisine were assailing my senses.”
So Asha, who was longing to reconnect with her extended family, soon found herself trooping up the steep stone steps leading to the house of her uncle Shiv Shastri. “Shivbhaiya was special. He was a legendary figure in Benaras. A noted Sanskrit scholar, an Indian classical musician of such high calibre that he was once allowed to play the sitar all night at Tirupati Temple in Andhra. He was also acknowledged as a repository of all knowledge of Ayurvedic medicine and was a famous vaid. But what was closest to my heart was the fact that he had such mastery over vegetarian cooking. He could tell you how to whip up the most amazing recipes of the region, including Annakoot, the 108 recipes from the Malaviya’s family kitchen which comprised the traditional menu of dishes offered to Goddess Laxmi, during Diwali. I really wanted these prized recipes from him!” Asha sits watching me after this mini outburst. “So what happened?” I finally asked.
“Well,” she says, with a tinge of regret in her voice, “Shivbhaiya was in no mood to oblige. He was delighted to receive me and the two other cousins I had gone with, he even ordered the maharaj to make some samosas and tea for us, we exchanged notes about our various family members and so on, but when I gently steered the conversation towards the subject of Annakoot, its recipes and the customary rituals that accompanied their preparation, he was clearly in no mood to discuss the same.”
Asha never met her Shivbhaiya again and he left this world carrying the secrets of ‘Annakoot with him. But Asha is a determined kind. When her niece Kuku, who lived in a joint family back home, came to live in Bombay, Asha got a brainwave. Why not put Kuku to task. She was an accomplished cook who had learnt the art of preparing most of the subtly flavourful vegetarian dishes from her grandmother, as also her mother.
“And soon, here we were, collaborating on a revival project of sorts, as much a tribute to our shared family culture as to its cuisine. Served with nostalgia, pride and love!” “Tadaaaa,” I added my two cents!
Indeed, it’s a charming book. Executed with freshness and simplicity, exactly how the cuisine is. Which I was now about
to taste.
Over lunch, I got to understand the nuances of the subtlety of Malaviya cooking. Kuku took me through it. The key words being, delicate, aromatic and light. Says Kuku, “The food is Satvik, devoid of onions and garlic. Even tomatoes were introduced into our cooking much later. We use spices rather sparingly, mostly as chhaunk, merely a tempering. Spices are just to enhance the taste, not drown or kill the natural taste of the vegetables.”
“There are also medicinal reasons for the masalas and other ingredients used. Hing to prevent acidity, haldi for its healing properties, ginger for better digestion. We do use garam masala but just a hint of it. A pinch… It helps us keep warm during the cold North Indian winters.”
I must confess, having gone through all the recipes in the book earlier, I had selected and requested Kuku to cook my favourite veggies. So there was torai, something I eat at least twice a week at my home. It was indeed made very subtly. Not raw or over-cooked. And it had retained its lovely green, perfectly. I learnt torai was Kuku’s favourite too. Laughingly, she told me, “You know whenever I am abroad, and return home, this will be cooked and kept ready for me. I can wallop a whole bowl of it, without any roti or rice!”
Colocasia, arvi, was cooked in yogurt and I have never had it that way. It was different from the dry kind. Usually I have it cooked in mutton, but I don’t know if I can utter that when I am going Satvik! “But that’s perfectly alright,” say Kuku and Asha in unison. Kuku ate non-vegetarian food before she was married. It was her choice that she gave it up. Oh, well.
The most interesting of all on the table was the baingan, Asha’s favourite dish. Kept saying, “Pass me the baingan!” It has all kinds of things in it, including the badi. For the uninitiated, I may add, this concoction is an acquired taste and, if I may make a confession I never did acquire a taste for badi. BUT, it is an important ingredient in Malaviya cooking. Almost as ubiquitous as potatoes. Badi is made from urad dal, a lentil, during winter months. Soaked overnight, then ground into a fine paste, it is left to ferment over many days. It gets really smelly as it matures. Finally the day arrives when this concoction, doubled up, or even tripled in quantity due to the fermentation process, is brought out and spices added, along with grated radish or white pumpkin and fresh coriander. It is then spooned out in small dumplings on old saris and left to dry in the sun for five or six days.
“The tedious process doesn’t stop there,” adds Asha, “the badis have to be taken indoors every evening to avoid getting moist in the dew at night. And again put out in the sun the next morning. Only when it is bone dry do we peel it off the sari and store in a box!”
Kuku adds, “As loathsome as the making of badi is, eating dishes made from the same badis is just as pleasurable!” I guess, for some, it is. Just for information, badis are added to brinjals, arhar dal, potatoes and tomatoes. With the last two mentioned, it is made into a watery, soupy, rassa-like consistency which I am told is a favourite with those who like badis, and it is consumed bowl after bowl!
I did learn a lot this afternoon from two passionate women in love with their cuisine. And not just about food but also their way of life. For example, Kuku is a patron of Sanjhi art which is practiced at Vrindavan and Mathura in Uttar Pradesh, where she visits at least four times a year. During the period of Shraadh, large rangolis are made on a platform, layered with the sand from the Yamuna river. Very complex designs are created taking hours, only to be erased the next morning, when a new one is started upon. Deep-rooted Hindu philosophy based on the theory of non-attachment. This too shall pass away… There are many stories waiting to be written in Benaras, Allahabad, Lucknow and Kuku has promised to take me there whenever I can go with her. I think I will take up her offer. India, myriad India, cuisine and beyond...