One of my aunts was famous in the family for her dal. In 50 years of living in Bombay, she had held on to her Punjabiness resolutely and she felt her "asli Punjabi dal" was proof
Illustration/ Ravindra Jadhav
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One of my aunts was famous in the family for her dal. In 50 years of living in Bombay, she had held on to her Punjabiness resolutely and she felt her "asli Punjabi dal" was proof. But, there was nothing particularly Punjabi about her dal, other than its particular robustness, tempered as it was with things like kadi patta, infrequently used in Punjabi cooking, but common in Western and Southern India. It was a most delicious dal and she was justly famous for it. But clearly the recipes of different neighbours, in-laws and cooks she had encountered, had mated with her original recipe to birth something new. Recipes are like that.
Just last weekend I got a recipe from someone I met for the first time (fine, so I'm a fast mover). It was for another Punjabi dal, called be-aabe ki dal — yellow moong cooked with khada masala and yoghurt. More correctly, when she told me about the dal, I got excited, so she got the recipe from her mother and sent it to me on Facebook Messenger.
I then explained it to my cook who looked sceptical but announced on sampling the finished dish that it was sensational. "I will make it at home today" she said with satisfaction.
"You go around taking recipes from all here and there" she said, referring to the Tamilian sweet-sour karela, the Goan prawn curry with okra, the Bihari suran with raw mustard oil, the Kutchi baingan-aaloo with peanuts, the Spanish cake made with a whole orange, the Andhra chicken with star-anise, the green peas nimona, all acquired from friends, relatives, and, occasionally, their Facebook posts. "Then I make them at home and my kids are most happy with me." We laughed. I promptly called a friend and informed him of this recipe.
We discussed potential modifications which we felt were suggested by the combination. If the recipe-giver ever eats this in my house, she may find the recipe has digressed a bit; that some things were lost in transmission, but also that some things have been gained (probably a slit green chili which does not figure in her recipe).
Most people have a recipe they are proud of — it could be a family tradition, a memento of a place or relationship, or a personal invention. Once women's magazines were plump with these home-cook recipes, a shiny display of everyday creativity and skill. One of my bhabhis always dreamed that her recipe of omelette curry would be published (personally, I thought she stood a greater chance with her meat wali kadhi).
There is something beautiful about recipes. Their clarity and openness are intended for transmission. Unlike some who exert control through feeding others, a recipe-sharer does not seek to assert ownership. It is understood that where there is exchange, there will be change, that recipes are built for traveling from one kitchen to another, for going out into the world, for finding many lovers. Recipes are lovingly polyamorous — even when with others, they are still yours. They are designed for generosity. There are few who will not easily share recipes. If you meet one who won't, be cautious, for such kanjoosi reveals a lack of confidence in love. Yaniki, something is kala in the dil, not the dal (but a good dal can sometimes fix that dil).
Paromita Vohra is an award-winning Mumbai-based filmmaker, writer and curator working with fiction and non-fiction. Reach her at www.parodevipictures.com
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