Writing a blog post after more than four years. Writing about one’s own experiences is the easiest way to get back to the task, and therefore decided to write on my late aunt – Sundari Atta, as I used to call her in Telugu. She is someone who influenced me tremendously and literally changed my personality in one respect, even though personality is difficult to change. I spent two years in Calcutta staying with her as a child, separated from my parents during that period.
Just before I left for Calcutta, my nursery report card in Bangalore, was a very descriptive one – with no marks but written evaluations on all subjects. In general, most of it was great or satisfactory (English, Math, Drawing, etc.) except for one subject – “Eating”. Having breakfast and lunch in school was compulsory.
The report card clearly stated that “Eating is her biggest problem” and went on to describe that I was a very slow and fussy eater. I do remember that tortuous phase because one wasn’t allowed to skip dishes or waste any food. It was mandatory to finish everything that was on the plate. For example, we were served raw tomato slices, upma with loads of green peas, and other items that were not particularly palatable for a five-year-old. My class teacher would sit next to me and goad me to finish up, and any requests to throw away the food would not be entertained.
However, unfortunately, the same problem does not persist anymore because I’m a diehard foodie now and have the opposite problem of overeating, always looking for new cuisines and recipes. I credit my aunt’s amazing cooking and her influence on me, for this change. My “fussy to foodie” journey is a tribute to my aunt’s talent and personality. Its only when I look back at life from a more insightful perspective, that I realize the difference she made.
Atta was in many ways, a unique person. She loved cooking even though she was required to do it each and every day, all days of the year, and without a break, or much help. That kind of passion, without any feeling of drudgery or boredom is rare. She was also an encyclopaedia of all kinds of recipes, and tips and tricks in the kitchen. I always planned to spend some time with her and learn so many things, but kept procrastinating, and regret to date that it never happened.
Being from Andhra, she was the “queen of pickles”. She probably knew how to make at least thirty or more kinds of pickles out of green mangoes, amla, gongura leaves, tomatoes, red chillies, green chillies, lemons, etc. In fact, she probably knew how to make more than ten different kinds of pickles with mangoes itself, having lived in different parts of India. Whenever anyone visited her, they would invariably at some point, head towards her multiple pickle jars. Most homes had porcelain “jaadis” filled with different varieties of pickles that were stored for months or even years, and making each one was a work of art in itself.
For example, she used to make a relatively unknown but tasty pickle out of vine ripened bitter gourds (karela) that had turned reddish. Generally, people throw away the ripe bitter gourds into the waste. However, she would specifically request the vegetable vendors to collect all the ripe bitter gourds and keep them for her. Then, she would transform them into a delicious pickle that was just the right combination of bitter, sweet, sour, and hot. One would always ask for more servings of this pickle. Am not sure if anyone still makes these rare pickles. Most of us have stopped making them at home and have started buying them from shops. The store-bought ones never taste as good.
Apart from her culinary skills, Sundari atta’s other impressive quality was her incredible generosity. She was always ready to give away the pickles made with so much hard work to anyone who visited her, and she always had small bottles ready to pack them for take aways!
Going vegetable shopping with her used to be an enlightening experience. It was obvious that she loved the activity and would first go around the whole market to observe and check the quality and the prices of vegetables with different vendors. While doing this, she would stop and explain how to prepare each vegetable or how she planned to enjoy the “dish of the day”. I still remember how she taught the theory of cooking eggplants with different masalas or stuffings, based on their size and shape. The small round purple ones had a different recipe, the round green ones had another, the fat round ones, or the thin long green or purple ones also had their own special recipe. My uncle used to proclaim that the proof of a great cook is the ability to prepare the same vegetable in seven different ways, for the seven days in a week! It was important to have this skill back in those days when everything was seasonal.
Though she cooked mostly traditional Andhra food, she was interested in and open to learning recipes from other states. Back in the 1980’s the food scene in India was starkly different from now. Some unique vegetables and ingredients found in one state were not easily found in other states, and certain vegetables were available only during a particular season. For example, its so strange to see palakura or spinach available throughout the year in many cities nowadays. Even in a cooler place like Bangalore, it used to be available only during winters. And I remember that it was considered very special and would taste exquisite. The hybrid varieties that grow throughout the year don’t have the same appeal.
In Calcutta, I got introduced to a new vegetable “potol” (parwal), that I had never seen before in my entire life. Atta had learned how to cook “stuffed potol” from a Bengali friend and it had become one of my favorite dishes. So, after returning to Bangalore, for a few months, kept asking my mother for “potol”, but it was not available anywhere and no one had ever heard of it. Every meal in her house was something to look forward to, especially her vegetable dishes. They used to be out of the world.
The neighborhood that we lived in Calcutta was mostly Marwadi rather than Bengali. So, most of my friends were Marwadis, and I picked up very good Hindi during my stay there and hardly learnt any Bengali. My best friends were two Marwadi kids “Neelu and Seelu”. We called their mother “Neelu Seelu ki mummy” and she was also a superb cook. During festivals she regularly invited us for lunch and made incredibly tasty “gatte ki subzi” among other things. I always looked forward to it. It’s basically gram flour dumplings cooked in a yogurt gravy. Over the years, I’ve travelled all over Rajasthan and had the same dish in so many cities and restaurants, but nothing comes close to “Neelu Seelu ki mummy”s. When Sundari atta realized how much I like it, she learnt how to make “gatte ki subzi”. One of the dumbest things that I’ve done in my life is not to have learnt the recipe from her. It used to be incredibly tasty with oodles of yogurt and ghee, and some special masala mix.
Atta also used to make some Maharashtrian dishes because she had moved from Poona to Calcutta. But I remember only sabudana khichdi. Whenever she had some free time and would sit down with me, she would get sentimental about Poona and tell me about the beautiful weather there, and the feeling that one got is that she regretted leaving the city. There was also another unique dish that she used to make with radishes that I have never seen elsewhere and wish that I learnt from her. The only dish that I hated was the “kashayam” that was prepared when someone was ill. It was a pungent and awful medicinal drink made with black pepper and spices, purported to cure colds, coughs, and almost all infections. One had to be literally threatened to drink it .
Of course, she also had her own eccentricities and some rigid beliefs like others of her generation. One iron rule set by her was to not eat in restaurants or from street vendors. She believed that everyone should eat only home-made food. Very strict instructions were also given not to eat in other peoples’ homes, no matter who or what. Neelu and Seelu’s house was the only exception because they were our immediate neighbors. Thanks to this rule, I never got to sample much Bengali food except in Durga Pooja pandals.
I did have a couple of Bengali classmates in school and would visit their homes sometimes, but whenever their moms offered me anything I would bluntly refuse to eat even if it was tempting. I was too scared of being scolded by atta if she ever found out. Also never ever got to enjoy “puchka” (pani puri) on the street because it was strictly forbidden.
In the entire two years in Calcutta, I ate out at a restaurant only once! It was such a rare event that I still remember quite a bit of the experience even after decades. There was a lot of excitement at home about this upcoming trip to a special restaurant that was very far away – somewhere near Bada Bazaar. It was an endless ride in a taxi, and we finally arrived at a “dosa place”, to my dismay. All through the ride I was imagining that I would get to eat some exotic dishes and got hungrier and hungrier. It was an anti-climax to realize that all the effort was made for a humble masala dosa. The only thing that made the trip worthwhile was to see my uncle have the dosa with a fork and a knife! He explained to us that while eating in a restaurant, one should always use a fork and a knife, irrespective of the food item. This seemed ridiculous to me at that time because it was terribly uncomfortable to consume a dosa in this manner. However, we all were in awe of the fact that he could manage the feat of eating a masala dosa with a fork and a knife.
We live in a society that values mostly external beauty, wealth, and worldly achievements. However, if we think deeply, the people who possess all those attributes might not necessarily be the only ones who really make a difference in our life or inspire us. Some people who might not be achievers in the worldly sense but are generous, kind, and uncommonly talented in their own way are also very precious. Sundari atta personifies values like kindness, generosity, and affection, that make a real difference in someone’s life.