Pot of rice

The problem with most Indian festivals, however minor, is that they involve food. Yesterday was, according to the TamBram calendar, one of the four days of Pongal, the one that we choose in all our infinite wisdom, to celebrate. It was, for us, also the most convenient, sandwiched between one long working week and the next, sort of bundled into a time-and-space continuum that fit neatly into our combined lives.

So, forewarned being forearmed, we got all set for the Big Day. I remembered only dimly what my mother did for the festival but, after a brief argument with the self, the Patriarch and the kitten – who yawned, bit me on the thumb and muttered direly something to the tune of feed me or else I will bite you and shred your favourite silk kurti that is lying on the bed – I decided to keep it simple, think clean thoughts and step nimbly over the religious sentiment and ritual to my seat at the dining table. The day was all about pongal of two kinds – sweet and savoury – and a bite or two of crisp friend something and some dahi-based something else.

Which worked out well. I do a good khichdi, which is what ven-pongal essentially is, and am a dab hand at pakoras. It was the sweet, nut-and-raisin-studded sakkaraipongal that defeated me, not in deed, but in word. I looked up the recipe, combed my memory for what my mother would do and got all the ingredients together. I was all ready and fairly willing to get to work, since all it really involved was to cook rice and dal in milk, add jaggery to sweeten it and the dunk in the bits and pieces nicely fried in copious amounts of ghee. Plan made, process not difficult, but prospect distinctly frightening.

With all this, I needed a back-up plan. So I made one. I called the Rama temple in central Mumbai and asked if they were making the sweet-rice concoction for the occasion. They were indeed, and I merely had to call them, make a booking and then go and collect the prasadam – as that was what it would be, nicely sanctified and more appreciated – before a certain time in the morning the next day. I did. And, while that makes another story that I shall tell tomorrow, I picked up my containers of sakkaraipongal and bore them triumphantly homewards.

On Pongal, duly and dutifully bathed and purified in body if not quite in mind, we sat down to a lunch of ven-pongal, morkozhambu (kadi), bajji (pakoras) and sakkaraipongal. It was delicious. Maybe it would have been better if I had made it. Maybe next year, I will.