Is this going to be more difficult than I originally believed? Perhaps, since I am never sure of something until it happens – isn’t everyone that way? I said that I would convert my blog into a food-focussed one, which has to begin today, as per my word, which for me is generally law. I like black and white in more shapes and sizes than the obvious, you see!
Ok, so my ode starts now…
Some years ago I lived and worked in Delhi, the city where chulhas never go out, or so I was told. Of course, that could have been a load of hogwash as far as I was concerned, since food there was too spicy and too meaty for my comfort levels, but it was delicious in parts, sort of like the egg of the much-maligned curate, whoever he was. At work, in an environment that was new to me and with people who were new to me in a city that was new to me, it was hard enough finding anything to eat, since after all the stories I had heard about going out alone and walking to wherever I wanted to go, the way I did in Mumbai, seemed to be true, after all. Whenever I went out of the office on foot, I was either followed or sung at, usually by types dubious enough to scare even me, who often went into risky situations protected by no more than my own innocence – or ignorance – and generally emerged unscathed, perhaps since I seemed so dumb about the whole thing (actually, I was, but don’t tell anyone that!)
Anyway, be all that as it may. Delhi managed to spark a passion for foods until then unheard of, unseen and untasted, but it also rejiggered the known with a certain exotic twist. Consider the onion bhajiya, for instance. What I had eaten was either made at home or, once, on a trip out of town with my mother, when any food that was not drenched in spices and incendiary to my rather nervous taste-receptors was entirely welcome. And both were mild, oniony and deep fried in clean, clear, untainted oil. Both were crisp fritters with the unexpected bite of an occasional chilli and the surprise crunch of a piece of ginger or a fragment of cashewnut. And both were delicious, devoured with passion and perhaps a touch of minty green chutney, demanded whenever the mood insisted.
So when I heard about onion bhajiyas sourced from the small dhaba below the building where I worked, I leaped up and commanded the office boy to go get me some. Everyone looked oddly at me, and one reporter asked me cautiously whether I was sure I could handle it. My boss, who walked in just at that juncture, took in the situation and suggested that I be allowed to undergo the experience at least once. I hesitated, vaguely suspecting that something was off-key in this scenario, but shrugged away my potential apprehensions and reinforced the order with some money. The office boy left. A tiny whisper of ominous mutter echoed around the room, but I had already shut myself into my office and didn’t really hear it.
And then the onion bhajiyas arrived. I offered them around, without really looking at them too closely. And when there was a unanimous headshake, I decided that something was indeed wrong. These people were not the kind that would refuse food, especially of the kind that is free. The bhajiyas looked okay, albeit a trifle darker and shinier than I was used to. But that was the Delhi light, I thought and lifted one cautiously, thinking it would be hot and so difficult to bite into. It was stone cold and oddly slick. The first bite snagged a chilli and I rushed to grab the water one of the trainees was thoughtfully holding out to me. Then the rest of the sensation-synapses caught up with my brain. Yes, there was onion in the bhajiyas, and a generous helping of green chillies, with no sign of any ginger or nuts. A kind of film of grease sat heavy on my tongue and coated my tonsils, making me cough. Between gasps, I called the office boy back to give the onion bhajiyas back to the dhaba, as my contribution to the survival of mankind in general and myself in particular.
Even today, every time I meet an onion bhajiya that is not home-made, I regard it with a certain justified suspicion. After all, post my one experience of eating these fritters deep fried in used car oil, I was not eager to do a rerun.
No comments:
Post a Comment