State

Capital : Mumbai

I am strapped to my dining chair and I am on my way to Maharashtra. When I say Maharashtra I am actually travelling to Aamchi beloved Mumbai. The sun has just set as I travel through the streets of Colaba. It brings back pleasant memories. I reach Marine Drive and watch each pearl on the Queen’s necklace lighting up, as the night descends on the city that doesn’t sleep. I still sit on my dining chair on Marine Drive, hypnotised by the twinkling lights, the dark sea that seems to stretch endlessly, and the cool night sea air that blows on my face. I don’t know how long I sit there but I am unable to pull away my eyes from the sea. And my mind travels to the Mumbai of my memories…

I’ve lived three years of my early childhood in Mumbai. I remember as a six year old travelling in a kaalipeeli and looking in awe at the tall buildings. Even though I was just a six year old I was already zealously patriotic, fed extensively on stories of India as the Golden Bird with uncountable wealth (fact: by the 17th century, India was the world’s wealthiest economy, worth nearly 25% of the world’s GDP), British colonisation and its eventual reduction to a developing nation. At that time my idea of a developed nation was the images of skyscrapers in London and New York. That’s what we had been fed through television. And then, seeing it in Mumbai, made my heart thump with joy. Move over London and New York, welcome to Mumbai.

Now obviously tall buildings are more of an eyesore and less of a joy but it’s important to shed innocence slowly. So, back to my six year old life… it was good, because it was innocent. I had three close friends whom I shall refer by initials as S, P, B (no pun intended). What do girls that age do generally? Play games in the park, go cycling or skating, climb fences and walls and trees, make up stories, fight boys whom they secretly have crushes on, and get back home before the sun sets. After the sun sets, it was time for washing and cleaning of the wounds that came in the two hours of play, getting scolded for leaving homework pending, and then family time with dinner, and off to bed by 8:30 or 9:00.

Incidentally I don’t recall much about the food I ate at home at that age. It was regular food that I remember more clearly in my early teens and later come to cherish in my adulthood. Both my parents worked, so cooking was one of the many chores like washing, dusting or cleaning. Not that they were bad cooks. On the contrary they were both good cooks, but I guess I was looking for variety, just like how I search for it now. So what is the food that comes to my mind? Let me tell you.

We had a maid whose name was Vandana. She lived in the servant quarters that extended beyond our kitchen. She lived with her mom. I don’t know what happened to her dad. For a small girl any older girl with an indefinable age was “didi”. I would put her age as 21 or probably younger. The only man who came to visit her was Ashok, her boy friend/fiancé. I think they later got married. In the afternoons when the house was empty and my baby sister slept I would sometimes sit with Vandana. I don’t remember any of our conversations but I remember that one day she offered me some food in her plate. It was something that I had never seen before. It looked like yellow globules interspersed with green curry leaves and something, something else. I was apprehensive but I put a spoon in my mouth and my eyes widened. If there was a third eye in the matters of taste, then that was opened. I had never tasted something so different and so delicious ever, at least not in my house.

‘It is Sabudana Khichdi,’ she says.

I remember eating everything in the plate and asking for more and feeling guilty when she said that she had made just enough for her mom and herself in the vessel. I think I even told her to make more next time and to call me when it was ready. She said that she would make aalu-sabudana vadas next time for me. My tummy was somersaulting in joy. I wanted to eat anything that had sabudana. My mother though wasn’t excited when I told her that evening about what I ate at Vandana’s place. It wasn’t about what I ate but more along the lines of: Don’t eat anything what people give you, always show restraint; Vandana keeps herself clean but her mother doesn’t, who knows how hygienic the food is; They are not well to do and they make a little food for themselves and you with your voracious appetite will not leave anything for them; And Sabudana? You haven’t ever eaten it? I put it in the payasam every time… Then my third eye for realisation opened this time when I realised that the transparent to white globules in the payasam was nothing other than the sabudana I had eaten, but who knew that it could taste so different. I clearly knew what I wanted.

‘Ma, make sabudana khichdi and I’ll not eat at Vandana’s anymore.’

‘I don’t know how to make it.’

‘Ask her and she’ll tell you and you can make it.’

‘Hmm.’

My mother never made it ever. I would be the first one to make it in the house. So that meant that I always ate sabudana khichdi or vada every time it was made at Vandana’s place. I just never mentioned it to my mom.

This humble sabudana khichdi or fasting food during Shivratri or Navratri is my tribute to Vandana and her family. I hope wherever they are, they are well.

I left Mumbai at the age of nine with a heavy heart and weary steps, as if I had glued my feet to the very soil of Mumbai. I vowed to myself that I would hate the place I would next live in. My third of realisation would repeatedly open throughout my growing years.

***

Sometime after my engineering I asked my dad if we could travel to Mumbai again. I thought he would pass a book into my hands but he surprisingly agreed. He also agreed to go by train because that’s my favourite mode of travel. It’s a long journey of almost 22 hours with stops and delays that could cause the travel time to be longer. During every stop where people were selling vada pavs, we bought and ate. They were as cheap as Rs 2 per pav in remote villages. In Bangalore a vada pav sells for a minimum of Rs 25. I spent my train journey biting into soft pavs, crispy vadas and spicy chillies in between, till my stomach would seethe in anger waiting to spew out all the chillies at one go. But I couldn’t care less, continuing to eat them with tears streaming down my cheeks and with regular gulps of water.

I attempted my own vada pav. It’s relatively simple to make and tastes delicious. But what’s even simpler and tastier is the Pav Bhaji. I recently looked up on chaats and found some interesting titbits. The concept of chaats originated in Uttar Pradesh, but different types of chaats have their origins from different parts of the country and are now collectively served all over. Pav Bhaji is one such chaat that has its origins in Maharashtra. I for one feel that it’s a healthy breakfast or lunch option. It uses so many vegetables like: tomatoes, onions, cauliflower, potatoes, capsicum, green peas, carrots, green chillies, ginger and garlic, etc, that it gets a huge thumbs-up from me. It also happens to be my sister’s favourite chaat, so I make it a little more often at home.

Keeping my watering mouth in check as I feel the urge to taste a mouthful of the pav and bhaji, I go back to my memories of my second visit to Mumbai. When you revisit a place as an adult, where you had once lived in as a child, there is a mismatch of sizes in the head. The Gateway of India looks as majestic as ever but many other buildings in Colaba where I lived appear smaller. The roads seem wider (maybe they were done up over the years), the parks look small. The park where I played in and the see-saw that looked menacing to me as a child, didn’t quite pack the punch now. Even the trees that stood tall then seem to have shrunk.

I remembered that before we left Mumbai in my childhood my parents took me to Essel World (I can still sing the catchy tune of the Essel World ad). I was thrilled to bits. It was my first time at an amusement park. While I had sat on the Giant wheel and other smaller rides, what I was looking forward to was the Roller Coaster. I had only seen it on TV then and even there it looked dangerous. My mother who herself feared thrill rides of any kind shuddered at the sight.

‘I want to go on that.’ I say.

‘That is too scary. I can’t put you on that.’ She says.

I remember stamping my feet in frustration and making a call to my uncle who was in the US to take me there and put me on a roller coaster.

And then I see the roller coaster right before my eyes in Essel World and I am literally screaming with joy. My parents look apprehensive but I am determined. When I get to the end of the line, the operator looks at me and shakes his head.

‘There’s a height limit,’ my dad says. ‘You can’t get on the ride.’

I was horrified. I stood on tiptoe next to the height gauge and it was at least a head over my head. The operator again shakes his head. I wished then that I could hang on to his neck and scratch his face. In the end, my dad pulled my reluctant mom on to the ride and I baby-sitted my sister. I sat there wallowing in self pity as I watched through blurry eyes how my parents were rising and falling and twisting all along the rails.

‘How was it?’ I ask them when they get out.

‘Nothing great. You didn’t miss anything.’ My father says, bright eyed, red faced and trying really hard to wipe the grin from his face.

I could feel the frustration, like rising stomach acids, right at the base of my throat.

‘I want cotton candy, pop corn and noodles to make up for this.’ I say in anger and tears.

‘Sure. Anything.’ He replies.

‘Believe us. It was terrible.’ My mom says, wheezing and looking green in the face.

‘When I am taller, I’ll come back here to ride this roller coaster.’

My father nods and pats my back.

Though I’ve sat on many roller coasters since then, I still haven’t sat on the one in Essel World. In our second trip, my dad refuses to spend an entire day in an amusement park.

‘We don’t have many days to spend here. We’ll have to meet old friends too. So instead of thrill rides I’ll take you to Elephanta Caves.’

Going to Elephanta Caves was quite an enriching experience for me. I am fascinated by anything historical. There was a time in school when I had seriously considered being an archaeologist, whenever the mood to be an astronaut ebbed. I could spend hours amidst ancient ruins, marvelling at the science and craftsmanship of our ancestors. At Elephanta though I was filled with righteous anger when I read about how the Portuguese invaders desecrated most of the statues. Few years later I would travel to Portugal, and I kept alive a desire in my heart to mark their monuments in return. But it’s difficult to desecrate art when art moves you; also I was fearful and well aware of how I could be branded as a national embarrassment if I was caught doing anything like that.

Anyway I am digressing from food and my stomach brings me back with a rumble. I can hear the sounds of people at Chowpatty and my mouth begins to water at the thought of food. I stop at the pav bhaji stall and pick up a hot and steaming plate for myself. I sit on my dining chair by the beach. I press the pav lightly and liquid butter oozes from its pores. That’s how I like it and I can feel my insides squirming in delight. I take the pieces of chopped raw onion and mix it in the bhaji and squeeze lemon over it. Then I tear a piece of pav and soak up a dollop of the bhaji and put it in my mouth. Hot, spicy, tangy, buttery…aaah heaven!

In Maharashtra I’ve been to Mumbai and Pune. There are so many places to visit but at the top of my list is Nagpur –to visit our dear family friends; and, the caves of Ajanta and Ellora –no points for guessing why. I’ll travel there soon. For now, I am ‘chaat-ing’ my fingers.

Note: My sister’s friend has been reading my travel and food articles. When I mentioned to her that I’ll be visiting Maharashtra, she told me about Zunka, a dish that her grandmother used to make for her when she was hungry and when she needed something quick.

‘I remember it to be so yummy.’ She says.

I decided to try out the Zunka (with the stress on the ‘N’). It was every bit as yummy as she said it would be. And so simple to make. Just onions, chickpea flour and spices! I browned my onions a little more than usual but no worries, the entire dish finished in a sitting.