Yayavr (2025)

15/08/2021

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12/08/2021

This week, I have been thinking of how different disciplines look at food?

Let's look at a simple sentence:
“I ate carrots today.”

Here are some questions I have generated for each of the disciplines based on my rudimentary understanding, as well as classes with my fanatics professors Sundar Sarukkai and Meera Baindur. Disciplines are of course not isolated entities - they influence each other, and sometimes branch out from each other. Here I have listed some broad strokes inspired by conversations on Insta with and . Sundar Sarrukai’s fantastic talk on Club House on Sunday, August 8, 2021 on the differences between ‘knowing’ and ‘doing’ also got my wheels turning. I would love to hear your responses.

Philosophy - Concepts:
What is the “carrotness” of carrots? (ontology)
Is sweetness the characteristic that defines a carrot? (ontology)
How do we know the taste of carrots? (epistemology)
How do we know that we are tasting carrots and not oranges? (epistemology)
Is it right to eat carrots, if we kill insects in the process? (ethics)
If a carrot is made into a soup, is it still a carrot? (metaphysics)
Is a red carrot more beautiful than an orange one? (aesthetics)

2)Literature - Text:
How would you describe the texture of raw carrots?
How would you describe the texture of cooked carrots?
What did she eat the day before?
What will she eat in the evening?
Do all cultures associate carrots with rabbits?

3) Sociology - Context:
Has carrot consumption increased in middle class India in the last decade?
Who grows the carrots? Who sells carrots? Who cooks with carrots?
What is the role of gender and caste in the agricultural production of carrots?
What communities celebrate carrots in their food?

4) Science - Empirical observation of nature
What is the chemical composition of a carrot?
What are the types of carrots?
What kind of root system does a carrot have?

5) History - Study of the past
How have carrots transitioned between sweet and savory dishes in north India?
Were carrots always orange?

A parting question for all of you - how do home cooks and chefs look at carrots? How do we frame this food? What do you see when you look at a carrot?

Image: David Holifield_Unsplash

11/08/2021

Traditional Post Natal Foods in India

The six weeks of postnatal confinement (roughly 40 days) are held sacred in many cultures across the world. Both the new mother and the new baby are physically and emotionally fragile, and traditional food becomes the medicine through which they are sheltered and fortified. In most marwari homes, the new mother is called ‘jacha’, and she along with her child the ‘bacha’ are, if lucky and blessed, tended to with utmost care and protection.

I wish I had access to the book “Traditional Recipes for Pregnancy and Motherhood” (2018) by nutritionists Sonal Chowdhary and Supriya Arun during my two births in 2016 and 2018. These two incredible women have accomplished the difficult task of collecting and documenting more than 80 recipes from across India specifically geared towards pregnant women and lactating mothers.

I was extremely lucky that my mother Anita could still tap into traditional food knowledge both through her own experiences as well as her extensive WhatsApp network of friends and relatives. As soon as she found out that I was pregnant, she contacted her college classmates and noted down recipes and concoctions from different communities. She even got one of her friends to get the postnatal specific ingredients from the more than 100 year old famed Shankar Gandhee shop in her hometown Indore.

The first four days after birth, my mother would make some hot ajwain (carom) tea by heating ajwain in ghee, and then adding jaggery, dried ginger powder, and a pinch of turmeric. This hot magical concoction helped reduce the post-natal bloating, and was a way to transfer her love directly to my insides. Her kitchen at once became a dispensary and a cauldron of hereditary potions. Over the next six weeks I was treated to the soothing goond ki raab, the densely filling and irresistible goond ke ladoo, and the crunchy, nutty and nutritious harira into which my mother sneaked in the bitter kamar kas powder, literally a powder to strengthen the back.

“Traditional Recipes for Pregnancy and Motherhood” (2018) by Arun and Chowdhary is structured in three broad sections.

The first section highlights six Indian superfoods for pregnancy and lactation. These include the bitter fenugreek (methi seeds), the versatile garlic, the currently fashionable moringa (drumstick leaves), and a marwari favourite gond (edible gum). Two ingredients that I had never heard of - the shatavari (root of a thorny undershrub asparagus racemosus) which is a blessing for female hormones, as well as the nutrient dense Turkey berry (solanum torvum/sundakkai) roundup this first section.

The second main part of the book contains traditional recipes for rasams, halwas, ladoos and digestive churans from across India, each accompanied with breathtaking photography by Arun and Rohitash Sharma. The dishes from across India are interspersed with short personal narratives from nine new mothers. These recipes are the tip of the ice-berg, and this book definitely deserves subsequent editions. For instance recipes from Meghalaya, Tripura, Chattisgarh, Kashmir, Madhya Pradesh, as well as recipes from muslim comminuties such as the mappilas of Kerala could also be included in the future.

I was particularly intrigued with the recipes that used betel nut leaves, and the enigmatic long pepper (in the pipramul doodh and the kandathippili rasam), as well as a halwa made with the flower shells of tender coconuts - ‘thengin pookkula lehyam’ from Kerala.

Given the plethora of names associated with a single ingredient across India, the authors have listed the ingredients in both English and the particular regional language from where the recipe originated. For instance black pepper is listed as ‘kari menasu’ under the Kannadiga jeera neeru recipe, as ‘milagu’ in the ingredients for the Tamil kandathippili rasam (long pepper soup) and as ‘kaali mirch’ on the Rajasthani laud ladoo page. This nuance shows that the authors have thought through the reader experience and I applaud their sensitivity.

The last section of the book lists 19 no fuss recipes for time strapped mothers that are nutrient rich, and inspired by ayurveda. I cannot wait to try out the ladoo and halwa recipes from this book although I am no longer pregnant or breastfeeding!

For pregnant women and new mothers who may not have access to channels of time honoured food practices and recipes, the book by Chowdhary (.chowdhary.1) and Arun () is a treasure trove. Thank you Rushina () for introducing me to this book and these lovely women.

11/08/2021

Tiny, blackish slate-gray, bigger than a full stop, smaller than a comma, lends a delicate onion-like taste to food - kalonji dana. Although the seeds are used on the Indian subcontinent, I was introduced to the raw form of these magical, miniscule spice soldiers in an American kitchen in Avon Lake, Ohio!

My room-mate in college Elizabeth had invited me to her parent’s home for Thanksgiving. Her mother Andrea is a fantastic cook and she decided to make ‘Rajasthani pumpkin’ for dinner. I had no idea how to make it, but was enthusiastic to help in any way I could. The recipe called for ‘kalonji/ onion seeds’ - I had never heard of them, and had no clue how they looked. I highly doubted whether Andrea would have these in her pantry. But she said - wait, wait, ducked her head into her well-stocked spice cabinet, and joyously pulled out a small bottle of kalonji dana from the back.

That evening when we had the delicious pumpkin gravy, with it's perfect balance of tangy, spicy, salty and sweet flavours, I was immediately transported back to my childhood. This was a dish that I had eaten in my neighbour Anushree’s house numerous times. In her home, vegetables and dal would be served like little smears in a giant steel thali. Light and airy phulkas served alongside would be the perfect vehicle to transfer the gravies to our tiny, hungry mouths.

Even my mother’s aunt Radha Nani would serve a version of this pumpkin gravy along with golden deep fried puris. I remember sitting at that giant dining table along with the rest of the joint family, as katoris of perfectly set dahi would be removed from an enormous fridge. In their house, I would surprisingly eat everything (!), while at home I would not venture beyond the safe confines of dal-dahi-bhindi-roti, always ready to torture my mother with my picky eating. There are some tastes that immediately transport you back to childhood, to particular locations, and to particular memories. That hint of kalonji with pumpkin is one such special taste for me.

In Andrea’s recipe book in Avon Lake, Ohio, kalonji dana was mentioned as onion seeds, and until a year ago I was under the impression that they were onion seeds! However, as my mother enlightened me, kalonji dana is used in orthodox marwari homes that do not allow onion and garlic in the kitchen. So although they resemble seeds of onions, kalonji are actually the seeds of a pale blue or white flowering plant. Perhaps orthodox marwari households began using hing (asafoetida) and kalonji (nigella seeds) in their cooking, since the combination of these spices conjures up the tastes of onion and garlic without cultural and religious blasphemy.

15 years after being reintroduced to these tiny slate-black specs at a kitchen in Ohio, I use kalonji dana often in my cooking. Especially for traditional marwari dishes such as keri ki launji (instant raw mango pickle gravy), and kadu ki sabji (pumpkin gravy).

This seed also is part of the mythic “panch puran”, which many Bengalis will wax eloquent about. The Bengali 5 spice combination has methi dana (fenugreek seeds), rai (mustard seeds), sauf (fennel), jeera (cumin) and kalonji dana (nigella seeds). Perhaps the marwaris in Kolkata, formerly the heart of British Raj, were influenced by the local Bengalis and these beautiful seeds crept into our cuisine. From Kolkata to Rajasthan to Ohio to Haverford to Bangalore - kalonji dana is definitely a quiet globe trotter.

Image 1: Kalonji Flower Skyler Ewing ( Pexels)
Image 2: Eva Elijas (Pexels)
Image 3: Kalonji seeds Mockupo (Unsplash)

Aromatics, Herbs, Spices Series 7
kalonji/Nigella sativa/black caraway/nigella/onion seeds/ roman coriander

30/07/2021

Mustard seeds produce a sharp, tangy, pungent oil when crushed. It's spicy taste reminds me of Japanese wasabi paste or horseradish sauce. Both wasabi and horseradish are cousins of the mustard seed plant and belong to the same family.

The first time I encountered the taste of raw mustard oil was in Imphal, Manipur in 2008. The mother in my host family - Inema, would cut onions and soak them in water for fifteen minutes. Then for dinner, these onions along with cut cucumbers would be decorated on a plate, and mustard oil generously dabbled over them, along with a sprinkle of salt.

The memory of that first taste of mustard oil still lingers. Twelve years later, I still clearly picture us sitting and eating on the floor with that salad plate, boiled rice, and kangsoi - the manipuri vegetable stew. Perhaps due to the state’s proximity to Bangladesh and West Bengal- which are also big patrons of mustard oil, this oil found favour in Manipur. After the stay in Manipur, mustard oil has become a standard in my kitchen pantry.

When in the U.S., I was introduced to mustard sauce. Not that artificial, yellowish goop that is squeezed out of bottles across numerous American diners, which stands innocuous next to it's fraternal twin - the generic tomato ketchup sauce. No, this mustard sauce was grainy, brownish-black, with a lot of texture and tang. I would love to spread it across freshly toasted, slightly sour, rye bread with some cheese, sliced cucumbers and tomatoes. Everytime I took a bite of that home-made sandwich with mustard sauce, I was reminded of the strong flavours of home.

Back home in India, a field of bright yellow delicate mustard flowers in full bloom have inspired many a Bollywood scene including films such as Rang de Basanti, Veer Zaara, Karan Arjun and Mausuam. My favourite and most memorable of course has to be the reunion of Raj and Simran in the iconic 1995 Bollywood superhit Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge (DDLJ). In Punjab, sarson ke kheth (the fields of mustard flowers) are an emotion. I cannot wait to taste sarson ka saag and makki ki roti in a punjabi dhaba once we can travel again.

Do you prefer a smooth or grainy mustard sauce?
Whats your favourite Bollywood movie featuring sarson ke kheth (mustard fields)?

Image Credits: Mustard Flower: Akshay Patial
Mustard Sauce: Elevate (Unsplash)

28/07/2021

Mustard Seeds and Spice Olympics

If there was ever to be a “Spice Olympics”, I am sure that the tiny, black mustard seeds would be the most popular and multifaceted athletes at the meet. Almost all of them would eagerly look forward to the tempering: the tadka, the vaghrane, the baghar, the chowk, the blooming. When that oil or ghee would become really hot in the kadai, they would be ready to dive in like expert swimmers. Then the seeds would transform into fantastic high-jumpers, embarrassing the most talented Olympic gold medalists. They would start flying out with joy to reach monumental heights. Often, I have been stung by their unbridled enthusiasm for jumping, and have been left with a little burn-tattoo on my hand.

Mustard seeds also possess phenomenal tumbling skills. They put the greatest Russian Olympic gymnasts to shame, with the speed at which they scurry into the corners of my kitchen counter. I sometimes suspect that these spice athletes are doubling up as secret agents, as they like to congregate behind the mixie or under the gas stove. In these dark corners, they discuss their espionage strategies before the conscientious sponge police come to wipe them away.

Not only are they athletic and speedy, but they are musically talented too. Their sharp crackling sounds during tempering mimic the exuberant afro-Brazillian drums during a samba celebration. My mother-in-law has patiently taught me to add the rest of the spices and vegetables into the oil, only after the mustard seeds complete their musical performance. I used to interrupt their percussion playing midway, leaving them to taste raw in the finished dish. If I appreciate their talented beats, then they reward me with a nice crunch when I eat the salads or raitas which have been tempered with mustard seeds.

They are healers as well, and could join a physio-therapy support team at the Olympics. When you crush mustard seeds into a paste, and apply this paste on aching knees, ankles or backs, they magically suck out the pain. They spread their inherent heat through the throbbing muscles and provide relief.

25/07/2021

Food Categories
Yayavr
by Pankhuri Agrawal

How would you categorize cooked food?

Yesterday I attended a food writing workshop with food chronicler Rushina Munshaw Ghildiyal. She spoke about the different types of food writing, such as memoirs, recipes, interviews, and reviews amongst others. It got me thinking about what type of categories for cooked food could we come up with? And how would these categories influence the way food is spoken and written about? Here are my initial thoughts:

Public food - that which we consume in the public realm and which we pay to eat. Think about restaurants, bars and cafes, but also street carts (bhel, pani puri and butta), dhabas, toddy shops and chayakaddas.

Private food - that which is prepared and consumed in homes and made with (mostly) unpaid labour. The daily daal-chawal and rasam-annamu, which we considered “boring” and monotonous growing up, and which is suddenly finding it's spotlight in the visual ‘public’ realm thanks to cooking shows such as MasterChef and social media platforms such as Instagram.

Sometimes, what is available in the public realm to eat, is completely at odds with what is available in the public realm of imagination. When I decided to study in Manipal for two years, I thought I would be subsumed daily in my beloved filter coffee, crisp masala dosas, and steaming idlis.

“Udupi” restaurants are famous the world over and have been written about in numerous books (see Shoba Narayan's “Food and Faith: A Pilgrim’s Journey Through India and “Curried Cultures” edited by Krishnendu Ray and Tulasi Srinivas). But in my two years at the college town of Manipal, which was a ten minute drive from the famed Udupi temple town, I was hard pressed to find a hot cup of soothing filter coffee, and fresh, fluffy idlis. Instead I scored heavenly deep fried goli bhajjis and airy, slightly sweet mangalore buns studded with jeera in Udupi and Manipal.

What have been your experiences with ‘private’ and ‘public’ food? How would you complicate these categories?

Photo Credits
Pakoda : sudarshan poojary ( Unsplash)
Corn: Ravi Sharma (Unsplash)
Kerala Street Food: Swami Bhadraanand (Unsplash)

23/07/2021

Chaat nights at my parent’s home were those rare occasions when the coriander leaf became the lead actress. She took center stage in my mother’s incomparable hari chutney. Spicy, tangy, salty, delicious.

Along with her co-star, the maroonish sweet and sour tamarind chutney, this duet of hari and lal chutneys would float happily on top of kachoris, pani puris, dahi batata puris, and of course the mouth watering ragda patties.

Recently I tried to replicate my mother’s ragda patties and got exhausted by the time I had made the ragda itself. Forget about chutneys, I could not even garner the strength to make the simple aalo tikkis to accompany the spicy ragda.

Deflated, I served the ragda with bread (oh the shame!) to my family and fondly remembered my mother’s chutney. I have no idea how she would whip up enough chaat to feed a herd of hungry teenagers, when we were in school. We took her skill, patience and tireless effort for granted.

I will never again take a bowl of hari dhaniya chutney for granted again.

Kothmiri/ Hara Dhaniya/ Coriander Leaves/ Cilantro
Aromatics, Herbs, Spices Series 5.2

Images: Anshu A (Unsplash) & Prachi Palwe (Unsplash)

21/07/2021

Layers of a Fluffy Omelette
by Pankhuri Agrawal

Today’s breakfast was an absolutely delicious, perfectly golden-brown fluffy omelette, made by me! For a moment, the mountains of dishes in the sink, the damp clothes waiting to be dried in the washing machine, and the landmine of tiny toys on the floor, disappeared. I bit into the crisped garlic chips, savoured the slightly sweet caramelised onions with the complementary sharp hints of manchego cheese, relished the spongy Spanish tortilla texture, and forgot about the chaos that clings to our mornings.

This omelette transported me to the many many kitchens I have been pampered in. To the many many home cooks who poured their love into humble eggs and fed me. My Coorgi neighbour Ashlesha’s mother was the first person that I saw crack an egg when I was ten. I grew up in a Marwari kitchen and had absolutely no exposure to eggs. She tapped the egg gently on the edge of the pan, and without a moment's hesitation, deftly poured out it's slimy contents into the hot oil. I was mesmerised!

My college mate Huma’s mother made us the most delicious sunny-side up eggs for breakfast. I stared aghast as her mother put half a stick of butter into the pan. My mother would always measure out oil with a teaspoon, since the day of my father’s cardiac surgery, and I had grown up eating food with very minimal oil. And here was Huma’s mother shallow-frying eggs in what seemed to me like a vat of fat. But what a divine difference that fat made. The eggs were transformed into crisp, fried, crunchy goodness.

This morning, I let the mint and coriander (cilantro) leaves wilt in olive oil, just as my mother-in-law does. I added a dash of milk to the egg batter, a tip my friend Britt had shown me in her sun-lit Brooklyn kitchen, and whisked the yolk and whites till tiny frothy bubbles greeted me. The omelette rose up slowly in the covered pan, and as I bit into its bronzed deliciousness, there was a fleeting respite from the domestic storm.

How do you like your eggs?

21/07/2021

Kothmiri/ Hara Dhaniya/ Coriander Leaves/ Cilantro

Isn’t it strange how a particular kitchen changes the way you name a leaf? Fresh coriander leaves become ‘kothmiri’ at home, ‘hara-dhaniya’ in my mother’s home and ‘cilantro’ with my American friends.

In my mother’s kitchen, hara dhaniya was predominantly used as a garnish. After she would finish cooking, there would be a little white plate on the counter with finely chopped coriander leaves. Just before laying the dal and sabzi on the dining table, my mother would generously sprinkle these bright green leaves on top of the food. Not only did they add a dash of colour and enhanced the presentation, but they also provided an additional texture while eating. I inherited this habit of hers and took it for granted. That is until I got married and realised that it was a very “north Indian” way of food presentation.

After getting married into a Telugu family, now ‘kothmiri’ is an indispensable part of our kitchen. I didn't even know the word ‘katta’ (bunch of fresh herbs) before entering marital bliss. Now every time I visit Alim’s cart to buy ‘soppu’ at the corner of Sahakarnagar, I invariably add a ‘katta of kothmiri’ to my request. There is something intoxicating and heady about the smell of fresh kothmiri. When I see those bright, tender, green leaves of the ‘natti’ variety I instinctively reach out for a large bunch of kothmiri.

Apart from teaching me her delicious kothmiri and coconut chutney which accompanies our daily dosa breakfast, my mother-in-law has taught me how to use these lovely leaves as an aromatic. Now without fail I add a few sprigs of kothmiri leaves to my mustard seeds and curry pata vaghrane, watch them magically wilt and release their aroma, and then combine this heavenly goodness to my cucumber and peanut salad.

Image: Tomasz Olszewski (Unsplash)

13/07/2021

Lavang / Cloves / Syzygium aromaticum
Aromatics, Herbs, Spices Series 2

A dried round bud set securely on it's four pronged short stem. It is the melancholy brown solitaire of spices, an engagement ring waiting to be presented. The bud has not been allowed to bloom. It was plucked and dried before it could become a flower. Like a Dickensian Miss Havisham of spices, it doesn’t let go of its potency. All the unrealised dreams, all the unfulfilled adventures packed tightly into the small bud release when you open a bottle of cloves and inhale its heady, musty and pungent aroma. This aroma travels through the food, and your mouth is filled with its sweet, cooling yet spicy flavour.

Marwari women of a certain generation would invariably have a few pieces of cloves lying around their almariahs. Their sarees and their handkerchiefs would bear the scent of lavang. They would keep the keys to their cupboards in a characteristic ‘gucha’ which jangled at their waists, safely attached to their saree petticoats. This band of women united by the aroma of cloves would carefully bundle their money into their handkerchiefs and then tuck the currency inside their blouses. So in these households and the nearby marketplaces, the currency notes, removed unashamedly from their blouses, given to the dhobis and the fruit and vegetable vendors would also have a faint smell of cloves. The fragrance of the tiny clove buds brings me back to my roots, and unites me with the many marwari women who came before me.

Somewhere in the haze of nostalgia, for me, cloves are also associated with dental care. You can chew on a clove to ease your toothache. I remember for some part of my early childhood, my grandfather would use tooth powder instead of paste. The red and white flatish cylindrical tin of colgate tooth powder had a small round cap that you had to twist to open, and it would lie on his bathroom shelf.

Colgate claimed to use “herbal” ingredients such as cloves and cinnamon in their proprietary mix.

Even the ‘Vicco Vajradanti’ advertisements of our childhood asserted the use of ayurvedic herbs and roots in their concoctions. However in our misplaced notions of globalism of the early 90’s, many teenagers of my generation used to look down on ‘ayurvedic’ products. Many of us would prefer the so-called opulent soaps such as ‘Lux’ marketed by glamorous film stars, rather than the humble neem-based ‘hamam’ soaps used by our mothers and aunts. In contrast, today there is a pronounced movement to return to plant-based foods and cosmetics. Our spice cupboards are now an invaluable starting point for these earth-friendly brews.The meek clove may as well rise to new heights in the search for home-made toothpastes and powders.

Since cloves are such a powerful spice, my mother uses them sparingly in her cooking. Often she adds only one or two pieces of cloves in a big pot of dal. One of my most favorite recipes with cloves is her moong ki dal palak (split green moong beans with spinach). I did not realise the secret ingredient to that distinctive taste is a piece of clove. Only when I attempted to make her dal myself and failed miserably a couple of times, I realised that i) she uses ghee and not oil for the vaghar, ii) she adds a pinch of haldi to the vaghar to enrich the colour of the dal and iii) most importantly she puts only one clove in the hot ghee. As usual, I had to extract this information from her over numerous phone calls and failed attempts, since the original recipe that she gave me did not mention any of these three key points! The only way to actually learn my mother’s recipes is to attempt to cook them numerous times.

When my son was a baby, I would lovingly make him yellow-moong dal khichadi in a tiny pressure cooker which I bought just for his food (I was such an enthusiastic new mother!). As if on cue, he would promptly reject my offering, refusing to even open his mouth and would vehemently turn his head away from the extended spoon. So you can imagine my surprise when he gulped down a bowl of the same khichadi in my mother’s house! I tried again and again to replicate her recipe in my kitchen, but failed to get my son’s approval.

Then one evening, I decided to spy on my mother while she was cooking. Into the pressure cooker went that naughty little piece of clove, swimming happily in a generous dollop of ghee. She also added heaps of her grandmotherly love and stirred the rice and dal calmly and with utmost tenderness. Before serving my son the khichadi, she made sure to remove the incriminatory piece of clove, so that it would not come in his mouth and startle him with it's spiciness. In contrast to her measured cooking, I would rush to make my son’s khichadi, hassled by his hungry cries, and the mounting loads of laundry and dishes waiting for me. I would put too much pressure on myself to get it ‘right’ and feel so disappointed when he would reject my food. That evening in my mother’s kitchen, the humble and quiet clove bud taught me the importance of cooking with calmness, tenderness, patience and love.

Images courtesy Unsplash
Image 1 Jaspreet Kalsi
Image 2 K15 Photos

Do you use whole or powdered cloves? What is your favorite sweet or savoury dish that highlights the magic of cloves?

06/07/2021

Pickle Series # 6
Chunda and khanu nu bag

The one constant throughout the frenetic two month, thirteen city, classical Manipuri dance tour across the United States was the “khanu nu bag” (the food bag). This bag contained not only the almost biblical chunda pickle (made with sun-dried grated raw mangoes steeped in a perfectly balanced sweet and spicy sugar preserve), but other home-made Gujarati goodies like soft, thin thepalas as well.

In the fall of 2007, I had the incredible opportunity to accompany my dance guru Padmashri Darshana Jhaveri on her performance tour across the country. In addition to dancing, I was the stage manager, light and sound technician and tour manager all rolled into one. Between the five of us in the troupe, we had 15 pieces of luggage that had to be meticulously unpacked and packed after every performance, and closely accounted for during innumerable flights and road trips. And every time we boarded a plane, bus, car or cab, my dance teacher did not fail to ask me if the food bag was with us.

By the end of the two months, I detested that food bag. I had enough on my plate (with flight delays, a damaged drum, publicity materials, sound checks and swollen knees), to have to worry about pickles and snacks packed in a bag. In my half-formed view of the world, I did not understand my guru’s attachment to that food bag. We were touring through the U.S. after all, not trekking through Rajasthan’s Thar desert.

Looking back now, I realise that the food bag was so much more than food. The chunda pickle specifically represented her sister (Ranjana ben’s) love and care. It was a piece of my guru’s homeland, a slice of her culinary, familial and cultural heritage that she could carry across strange cities. It perhaps gave her a sense of reassurance in trying times. Chunda was a way to ingest comfort both physically and emotionally during unknown times and in unfamiliar spaces. Perhaps that khanu nu bag and the memories of pickles from my youth are reverberating so strongly within me at the moment, as I find myself along with many others swimming in the dark unknown.

Thank you so much Rushina Munshaw for sharing your chunda pics for this post, and I look forward to trying out your nani's recipe.

Manipuri Photo Credit: Steve Weinik

Have you ever carried pickle while travelling?

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