The announcement here
Thanks for the plug, Ashville, North Carolina here
“And, while there was precedent for a memoir with recipes (Elizabeth Bard’s Picnic in Provence, Shoba Narayan’s Monsoon Diary and an entire Goodreads list dedicated to “books shelved as cookbook-memoir”), “the cooking lessons with Jonah linked me to the way food was central to both of our stories,” Smith says.”
Is there a more beautiful sound in the world than the sizzle of frying jalebis early in the morning?
Forget about cholesterol if you happen to be in Varanasi. Photo: Alamy
South Indians, or should I say Tamilians, can be cantankerous purists. No mixing tastes. No adding sugar to dal like the Gujaratis do; or adding jaggery to rasam like the Kannadigas do. Only one vegetable per sambhar; be it okra, brinjal or small onions. If you mix multiple vegetables, you are a caterer who is trying to palm off all the cheap vegetables available into one pot. These Tamilians ought to taste the pleasures of breakfast in Varanasi. It might change their minds.
I am standing at Vishwanath Mishthan Bhandar in Vishweshwar Ganj. It is 8am and I have just done yoga and pranayamwith a hundred strangers on the banks of the Ganga, led by a female teacher who shouted, scolded and coaxed us into stretches, bends and submission. Just show up at Assi ghat at 6am if you would like to join in. Suitably lubricated, my body is ready for its next round of lubrication.
At the Vishwanath Bhandar, four men sit outside, frying stuff. Have you heard the sizzle of a jalebi early in the morning? It is the most beautiful sound in the world. Chopin’s Nocturnes have nothing on the twin sounds of jalebi and kachorisizzling in oil right next to each other. I stand with the milling crowd. It is my turn. I hold out Rs.10 and get two leaf bowls. An impassive man ladles aloo sabzi into one leaf bowl; and the kachori in another. Now comes the dilemma. How to stand, balance these two bowls in one hand and eat with the other? The others around me are doing just fine; they’ve had years of practice, darn them. If I could be born again, I would come back as a Kashi vasi (Kashi resident), not necessarily for the good karma but for the terrific kachoris. I have had kachoris in Jaipur, Haridwar, Delhi and Bengaluru. So far, the ones in Kashi are the best. They are fluffy, not brittle. They hold their round shape and have a respectable amount of dal. They collapse like a bubble when you tear them open. The best part is the aloo sabzi: a trite tangy, just enough spicy, and piping hot.
The only way to make a kachori better is to mix it with jalebi. It is like adding a pinch of salt to hot chocolate. The shot of pure sugar makes the shot of pure cholesterol better. Best if you don’t think in those terms and use the term that teenagers these days use to explain everything: YOLO (You Only Live Once). Ergo, eat kachori-jalebi for breakfast; if possible, every day.
Once breakfast is done, I go temple hopping. At the Sankat Mochan Hanuman temple, hot laal pedas (red pedas) are brought out. Devotees buy boxes of them to take to the Hindu god Hanuman and then distribute to those gathered. I stand in line, awaiting my share. A lady in a purple sari hands me one; then, seeing my face, she gives me another with a smile. “Jai Hanuman,” I say and pop one into my mouth. She looks pleased.
“My daughter conceived after eating 10 of these pedas,” she says. “They are a fertility tonic.”
I stop half-bite. Is this why India is overpopulated? Too late. The peda is “too good”, as my nephew, Harsha, says. The trick to a good peda, and I speak as someone who has never made a peda in her life, is the consistency. It has to melt in the mouth but you should be able to chew the last bits. You should make those popping sounds that babies make when they relish food. In Tamil, we call this naaka chappi kotti, which is like saying, “making clicking and clapping sounds with your tongue”. A good peda should make your tongue clap.
At the Annapurna temple across town, someone is serving sesame rice, perhaps because it is Saturday. Karnataka, where I live, is home to several “rice varieties”, or “chithra-anna”, as we call it: coconut rice, lemon rice, tamarind rice, curd rice, and, best of all, bise bele bhaath, which literally means hot lentil-rice mixture. Sesame rice is not often made or served. It is a delicacy and an acquired taste. I acquired it in Kashi. The recipe is simple: roasted and ground black sesame seeds, red chillies, curry leaves, some urad dal, and a good helping of asafoetida. Grind it all up and mix with hot rice. Here too, the leaf bowls make their appearance. If you like the depth and girth of good sesame oil, you will love sesame rice. It is great for vegans because it contains a ton of calcium.
At the Kashi Vishalakshi Temple, this wide-eyed goddess is served some ghee-dripping sheera as prasadam. The sponsor of this prasadam ladles out a spoon to a line of devotees, including me.
All this eating has made me thirsty. The great thing is that you can get thandai with bhang in Varanasi on an average day. You don’t have to wait for Holi to indulge. Lord Shiva, the ascetic, loved his bhang, made from the leaves of the cannabis plant. At a government bhang shop, I nervously watch the vendor pour a respectable amount of this green concoction, before adding chilled milk laced with crushed nuts, sugar and saffron. The resulting drink is slightly bitter. It is supposed to be hallucinatory. It makes people giggle and wake up with what seems like a hangover.
The other dish that is a signature of the city is not as potent. Banarasi paan is a digestive. I grow betel leaves in my garden. How different can this be, I think, as I stand in front of a tiny shop and ask for a paan.
“With zarda or without?” asks the vendor.
Zarda comes from tobacco. It is addictive; gives a high. How bad can it be? With lightning fingers, the vendor smooths open a bright green betel leaf. He throws in several items: betel nuts, lime paste, fennel seeds, a pinch of zarda, rose petal jam or gulkand, and what looks like tutti-frutti. He folds it into a triangle, sticks a clove to hold it together, and hands it over to me. I have eaten paan before, but this one has oomph. As I chew, I can feel myself becoming light-headed. The juices flow down my throat, inducing a pleasant sensation of relaxation. I smile beatifically and thank the vendor.
“Careful,” he says as I stumble out. “Sambhaalke.”
I wave my hand and keep walking. It is a beautiful day.
I don’t remember very much of what happened after that; except that I, much like a Hindi film heroine, woke up in bed.
Shoba Narayan loves a good Bengaluru bisi bele bhaath followed by a Banarasi paan. Write to her at firstname.lastname@example.org
This is going to be my year of regional styles of donning this garment. Just saw and loved Baji Rao Mastani.
Nanditha Lakshmanan, Shilpa Sharma, Sudha Kanago, Deepa Krishnan, Ally Mathan, Jo Pattabhiraman, Chandra Jain, Geetha Rao, and all you casual and effortless sari wearers, this one is for you.
For many of this generation, donning a sari is both a moral and an aesthetic choice
Dress is not a moral question. It is an aesthetic question,” pronounces Rta Kapur Chishti. For her, maybe. But for many 30- and 40-something women who are used to the “comfort” of wearing pants, the sari can seem constraining. So why bother with this garment? Why bother with six or nine yards of unstitched cloth that is, along with curry, cricket, bindis and bling, an instantly recognizable icon of India?
For some, like Ally Matthan and Anju Maudgal Kadam, who co-founded the 100 Saree Pact, the sari has become a crusade; a movement; a sisterhood. It is a way to preserve and relish a garment that is ours for the taking.
For others, like Shilpa Sharma, a co-founder of Jaypore, the online retailer, the sari is a work of art and a way to access Indian culture. Sharma organizes “textile trails” through the different states, introducing participants to weavers, techniques and experts like Chishti. Jaypore has brought Chishti to Bengaluru to run “The Sari School” workshop, in which she demonstrates some of the many regional styles she has learnt from all over India. I am one of the giddy participants.
Wearing a sari, for me, is both an aesthetic and a moral question. Do I sleep in a sari like my mother? No. Do I wear it throughout the day and travel to global conferences in a sari like my mother-in-law? No. Is the sari a second skin for me, as it is for Chishti? No. Then why am I wearing this garment? I certainly don’t reflexively reach for it every morning like countless women of the previous generation did. When invited to a party where I know most women will be dressed in designer Western clothes, the choice of a sari isn’t merely aesthetic. It is a blend of loyalty, even patriotism towards a garment that you believe is endangered and deserves to be saved, preserved and handed over to the next generation. It is a way of asserting an identity at the risk of standing out, something that many women dislike. It is a statement: “See, if I can wear a sari, maybe you will too.” It is—many times—uncomfortable to go to a party, be the only one in a sari and risk being stereotyped as old-fashioned.
Wearing a sari, for people of this generation, is an act of principle; a conscious choice. Having said that, I discovered a delightful consequence. The sari disarms. You walk into a room full of stylish, svelte women in bandage dresses and think, “Oh God! I am the only one in a sari.” But then they gravitate towards you, these men and women. They talk about Mangalore tiles; red-oxide floors; and grandparents. “I love your sari,” she says. “I wanted to wear one.” They associate your garment and you with comfort, nostalgia and family. That is the effect of this garment. It disarms the viewer and connects you with your past.
Chishti and Saumya Nagar, who works with her, demonstrated several regional styles, none of which required a petticoat. “Once you get hooked on to the feel of a sari around your body, you can never go back to the restrictions of a petticoat.”
The regional styles, many of which involve a kache, or drape between the legs, are like pyjamas; they are more comfortable than the way we wear a sari now, because they free up the legs to move.
That said, would you wear such a drape to a party? It requires conscious choice; the risk of standing out and being labelled “strange”, and the confidence to “own” a style that is Indian and ours for the taking. It is, in other words, the next and natural step for someone who chooses to wear a sari, not only for its aesthetic but also for what it represents.
Shoba Narayan is wearing regional-style sari variations to parties these days. Write to her at email@example.com.
Also read | Shoba’s previous Lounge columns here .
Funny how poetry evinces so much passion. Did not realize.
As a poetry junkie, loved your last column. Would love to meet your father some day. Like your father, I too “had to memorise” Abou Ben Adhem as a schoolboy!
By the way, if I am not mistaken, the correct verse is “An angel writing in a book of gold” – and not “an angel writing in leaves of gold”.
Here’s the link to a piece on Abou Ben Adhem and, incredibly, an obscure topic in the biological sciences. It is by, who else, a South Indian Brahmin (Tam Brahm, perhaps) scientist based in the US!
I think you will like it.
Best regards. Vivek
PS: Do let me know if the link does not open.
Begin forwarded message:
From: Padi Moorthy <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: May the professor’s tribe increase
Date: November 16, 2015 at 9:15:13 PM GMT+5:30
To: Shoba Narayan <email@example.com>, “firstname.lastname@example.org” <email@example.com>
My dear Shoba,
Read your piece on your father’s love for poetry
You are lucky to have a father who remembers Abu Ben Adam.
He has the talent to remember lines and recite them
My memory is notorious
But of all poems I remember Casabianca !!
The boy stood on the burning deck whence all but he had fled
The flames that lit the battle wreck shone round him over the dead”
In a school elocution competition I recited this poem with tears running down my cheek
I got the first prize for CRYING
When some one passes, I remember this dismal Tamil verse, not Kamban or Bharathi
Andandu thorum azuthu purandalum maandar varuvaro Manilatheer, Vendaam
Edu vazhiye naam pom alavum
Nammak Enna endru
Ittu, undu irrum.
Notice the emphasis on Ittu(Give first ,then eat and stay on)
For the plug here
This Friday, September 4th at 4 PM. Copies of my book will be available for sale. Please come if you can. Click below for the formal invite.
The lecture will be held at the Centre for Contemporary Studies (CCS), IISc. It is located just next to the Health Centre of the institute. The “main gate” (opposite to BHEL office) near Prof. CNR Rao circle, on the CV Raman Road is the nearest entrance to CCS. Please call the office (080-22932486/ 080-23606559) in case of difficulty in finding the venue.
Begin forwarded message:
From: Contemporary Studies IISc <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Invites you to a talk on “Storytelling: History, Techniques and Context”; 4 September 2015;4 pm
Date: August 31, 2015 at 10:09:08 AM GMT+5:30
To: Raghavendra Gadagkar <email@example.com>
CENTRE FOR CONTEMPORARY STUDIES
Invites you to a talk on:
STORYTELLING: HISTORY, TECHNIQUES AND CONTEXT
Speaker: Shoba Narayan
Day and Date: Friday 4 September 2015
Time: 4.00 pm
Venue: CCS Seminar Hall, IISc
Tea/Coffee will be served at 3.30 pm
All are cordially invited
Abstract: Where do stories come from? What is their purpose? In this crazy busy world, is there a place for stories? Why tell stories? Is there a way that we can incorporate narrative into our current professional lives— whether we are in the sciences or the humanities; in a large corporation or a small start up; as entrepreneurs and individuals? Do stories have a place in our ecosystem? And how do you tell stories? Using words, gestures and objects, Shoba Narayan, will discuss the power of storytelling using her latest book, “Katha: tell a story; sell a dream,” as a broad template.
Centre for Contemporary Studies
Indian Institute of Science, Bangalore – 560012.
(Near Health Centre).
Phone: 91-80-2360 6559, 2293 2486
Chair: Prof. Raghavendra Gadagkar