Srinagar

They would say the pink and yellow lotuses of the Dal now wore shades of red. The blooms weren’t blushing. They were merely reflecting the colour running riot in its waters and over the land.




We chose Dreamboat. The name seemed just so apt. We had after all come to relive a dream story. His story, with beginnings here. For long years he had courted grandma, at times braving miles on horseback from the North West Frontier Province to meet her wherever she be. Serenading her in a shikara on the Dal made it seem all worth it.
When they tied the knot, with his shy bride beside him Srinagar felt double paradise. Theirs were days of perfect bliss. Long walks on rustling chinar leaves, romping through strawberry fields, hot cups of kahva, fresh lotus-badam, spotless blue skies and nights under golden stars at touching distance.
Kashmir remained their favourite haunt. On many a work trip to the town sans her, grandpa would recollect times spent here. And dream of her? But of course, he would tell us, continuing on with his bedtime tales unmindful of our bashful giggles. At some point of time we would drift into our own world of dreams. He always knew when and the next night the tale would carry on from where it left off. Somehow it always found a route back to 1937 and the song of the shikara.
Come 1947, and Srinagar became a place of refuge. Paradise got blemished. Earthly misgiving couldn’t, however, destroy a mould so perfect and soon once again it was back to heavenly tenor. But somewhere something had cracked in those gory times. It had left its scar which deepened over the years. Paradise actually began to seem of another realm. Out of bounds. Beyond dreams. Blue skies domed bleakness. They would say the pink and yellow lotuses of the Dal now wore shades of red. The blooms weren’t blushing. They were merely reflecting the colour running riot in its waters and over the land.


Guns and Roses
We had been cautioned against the trip. But preferred throwing caution to the winds. Having grown up in cantonments, olive green was all over our landscape and the colour always instilled a sense of security. At first instance, Srinagar seemed an extension of that terrain. Stray conversations peeled the veneer and then eeriness gripped. That’s when Nabi Rasool lead us away from trepidations, as soon as we stepped on to his houseboat.
A genial boatman who had seen generations go by, he cut through the layers of fear taking us to the core. To the heart of real Kashmiryat—of poetry and passion, of lyrical voices, of cuisine that’s as ceremonious in preparing as it’s in partaking, of long starry nights spent listening to strains of the soulful rabab. It was Paradise! Maybe not the way grandpa had viewed it. The refractions were different but the prism had its band of colours intact. The bullet couldn’t kill that.


On the Dal
The Dal is definitely Srinagar’s main attraction. Hugged by snow-capped peaks of the Outer Himalayan range and fringed by graceful chinars, poplars and sprays of happy daises, its mirror-like waters look pristine. Activities are played out on it at all times: honeymooners enjoying a ride, fishing nets being cast, cruises through floating vegetable gardens and past villages with wooden houses, shikaras brimming with multihued flowers on sale. You needn’t move. Life moves around you.
The dawn-dusk luminosity makes it even more hauntingly beautiful; the mellow glow adding an ethereal dimension to the stunning landscape. As night sets in, the waters reflect Srinagar twinkling at different heights. If you are trigger-happy (camera, of course) and even if you are not trigger-happy, it’s advisable to keep few rolls of film handy or an extra GB card. Each moment is so spectacularly perfect, chances are you’ll run out of those extras too.
The finest way to get a feel of the Dal is by booking a houseboat—legacy of the British who weren’t allowed to buy property here. You can’t have gone to Srinagar and not stayed on a houseboat. It’s an affair one lives to tell. The stationary floats, with fanciful names, Anarkali, Jaan-e-mun, Noor-e-Jehan… are dressed in traditional aesthetics, replete with carved wooden panels and furniture, Kashmiri carpets and namdas (rugs), gold-painted papier-mâché embellishments… it’s luxury at every step. Like hotels, houseboats are available in all categories from luxe to budget and during season prior booking is necessary. Generally the boatman’s clan resides in one room and treats guests as part of the family, taking care of all needs—from arranging shikara rides to cooking dishes of the wazwan (banquet prepared by waza or cook). It’s a captivating slice of local existence and it’s as close as you can get of living and observing the Kashmiri way of life. We experienced it through Nabi saheb on Dreamboat.


Gardens and Gushtaba
Srinagar stands on the Dal and on both banks of river Jhelum over which are built seven cantilever bridges. The waters do have their share of dirt and grouse floating around but it’s best to overlook it. I guess being a few-day resident let’s you do that more easily.
The town has mixed inheritance, having been governed by diverse forces, from the Afghans and Mughals to Dogras and British. Its unique character is visible in the structures that dot it. Like the Khanqah of Shah Hamadan, who arrived here from Persia in the 13th century to spread Islam. Said to be the first mosque built in Srinagar, it’s a sort-of pagoda style wooden structure. Various edifices portray Kashmir’s secular ethos, that comes to the fore on Hari Parbat, which has a fort and several places of worship like Sharika Devi temple, Makhdoom Sahib dargah and Chatti Padshahi gurdwara dedicated to the sixth Sikh guru.
Besides architectural beauty, Srinagar has beautifully landscaped gardens overlooking the lakes, a bequest of whom else but the Mughals. Shalimar Bagh is definitely the pick among the three terraced gardens, the others being Chesma Shahi and Nishat. They also created Char Chinari, an island in the Dal with four chinar trees now reduced to three. Shikaras row you there to enjoy another panoramic view.
The road lining Dal, the Boulevard as it’s referred to, is where touristy activity is frenzy paced. The best hotels are on this stretch; scores of Bollywood shootings have taken place around here and local guides point out various spots associated with various films. There are also rows of shops selling exquisite handicraft: papier-mâché, pashmina shawls, hand-woven carpets, baskets, stone jewellery. Every original has a duplicate and only a discerning eye can pick the best. Negotiations are in order. Sometimes the reference to “aapka India” as another country can bother; it’s wise to ignore such talk.
Traditional tastes are best savoured at restaurants like Mughal Darbar, Anarkali (popular name here) and Adoos, which serves excellent gushtaba—meatballs in yogurt—with aromatic sticky white rice. There are a number of bakeries offering a variety of Kashmiri breads rarely seen outside the state, like sheermal, baqerkhani—akin to a puff pastry, tsot and tsochvoru that are buns topped with poppy and sesame seeds.
Local transport of all shapes and sizes, from flashy auto-rickshaws to packed mini buses ferry you around town. Were you to ask me, I’ll say the best way to see Srinagar is by shikara. It needs time and comes at a price. But what’s a little price for paradise. Thanks, grandpa.

Published in Jetwings

Kite Runners

They were flying high—specks of green, red, pink, black, blue—brightening up a lazy blue sky. At ground level, spirited Afghani men in Pathani suits were tugging and spooling kite strings adeptly. Battle lines were soon drawn. Other Afghan men fervently began following conquests happening in the sky. Wild cheers and jeers did the rounds. In a while the coloured specks faded till only two remained. The Green and the Yellow. Tension gripped, brows creased, necks stiffened. The crowd grew silent. Passerbys paused. Two paper squares in the sky held control. Tug, lift, jerk, snap. Suddenly the Yellow nosedived and jubilant cries in Pashto rent the air. The victor was hailed by his supporters. And as his winning Green mascot soared higher, somewhere from among the Pathani-clad men a group of kite runners emerged and ran for the trophy—the vanquished Yellow.

I was watching this engrossing action at the Maidan in Calcutta on a ceremonial Sunday afternoon. It could well have been a page out of Khaled Hosseni’s The Kite Runner being played out in front of me. Such was the similarity in spirit and portrayal at this gathering of Afghans in Calcutta, their adopted home, miles away from their homeland.

Every Sunday, and most visibly during the days of the Eid and Navroz or new year, Calcutta’s Afghan settlers gather at the Maidan and live a little bit of Kabul, Kandahar, Jalalabad…entertaining themselves with traditional passions…kite flying, anda kushti (hard-boiled egg fights) and performing the Attan. It’s a custom that’s been followed for close to a century, from the time the first Afghans began coming to Calcutta to seize opportunities of commerce.

Amongst the earliest sub-continental voyagers, these rugged men would travel the lengths of Afghanistan, Pakistan and Gangetic India to reach Calcutta. Here, as elsewhere across Indian cities, they would go door to door selling bags full of Afghan flavours and fragrances—dry fruits, spices and ittar; translating the capital earned from its sale into money-lending business. Their place of origin and typical dress code—Pathani shalwar kameez, keffiyeh and turban—earned them their brand name: Kabuliwala. Which though a little romanticised, a little enigmatic is an identity that has stuck on till today.

The Kabuliwalas assembled at the Maidan that day were among the close to 2,000 Afghans settled in Calcutta. Most of them still continue to be moneylenders, though many have diversified into other small trades. “Whatever occupation we may do on six days of the week, on the seventh day we Afghans have to picnic,” septuagenarian dry fruit trader Hafeez Muhamud tells me. “We need an excuse to party, feast and dance. You can call it our favourite pastime,” his grandson chips in. While in Kabul they have baghs and cooler mountain regions of Paghman or Salang in the Hindu Kush to let their hair down, in Calcutta, its green lung remains their chosen ground.

The Sunday I was there was a day after Eid-ul-Fitr, and celebration on such festive occasions generally becomes a daylong affair. Conversation was flowing in Pashto and Dari. A lot of catching up was taking place. A visitor from Kabul wearing the pukhool (round woolen cap) and another in a beige turban were holding court. A customary feast of pilau, naan, qorma, boulanee, watermelons and of course a lot of dry fruit, had been spread out on dastarkhwans and groups of men were tucking in. Throughout the various sessions, Afghan chai was doing brisk sales. Quite similar in taste to kahva, local tea vendors by now are adept at making the beverage and prefer calling it lal chai owing to the colour of the cinnamon-flavoured concoction.

On the fringes sporting activity continued. A few boys displayed their volleyball skills, while others preferred playing football. Some avidly watched the blade of the willow hit a cracker of a shot by one of the many teams playing weekly cricket at the Maidan. In one corner empty trays of eggs and coloured egg shells lay as reminders of a passion for traditional games played on Eid like aanda kushti, which essentially is two contestants trying to crack each other’s hard-boiled eggs, which are painstakingly painted in bright colours after being boiled to perfection. Dozens of trays get used up, the winner being the one who manages to have maximum eggs intact. “The boiled eggs are eventually used for the community dinner or given away in charity,” burly Khomein explained, counting the number of eggs he had managed to save.

Around late afternoon, the two drummers who had been providing a background score, increased the tempo and as if on cue a group of men took centerstage and began performing Attan, the Afghan/Pakhtoon dance that has origins in the southern provinces of Afghanistan where every celebration culminated with it. Its beat is the traditional Mogholi, said to be a creation of the Mughal dynasty. A huge circle was created and performers from the crowd followed each other going round and round in a circle to the beat. Their Attan was a blend of three steps: wardaki (lots of twists and turns), logari (clapping and turns) and khosti (snapping of head from side to side). As the rhythm and beats began to get fast, participants who couldn’t keep pace dropped out and others joined in…and the Attan went on till after sundown.

“We like to stick to traditions,” a youth who held an Indian election card told me. Yes, the conservative Afghans sure do stick to tradition. Except for the little girl in a pretty pink salwar kameez, their women were missing from the gathering.

Published Outlook Traveller

Balo

She wouldn’t get on board. She stepped in and then stepped back. Beads of cold sweat appeared on her forehead. She was clearly petrified. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “It’s too long,” she replied. “What is long?” “The bus,” she complained. “Where’s the bus?” I asked perplexed. We were both standing on the platform of Udhampur station. For miles around me were rolling hills; and closer were dozens of security personnel, many passengers, no drinking water and immaculate rail tracks. I couldn’t see a bus though. “This is the bus,” she told me, pointing to the ochre-coloured DMU (diesel multi-purpose unit). “That’s the train we’re going to board for Jammu,” I chuckled. She didn’t agree.“

She would recognise a train, if she’d seen one,” boomed a voice behind me. A young Gujjar, clad in a chadar-kurti, clutching three milk cans, stood grinning. “She’s my sister. I’m taking her for a ride on the train. I know all about it, I’ve travelled by it a few times,” he pronounced authoritatively, ordering her to get in.

Balo, the Gujjar girl, who eventually made it inside the compartment, was not the only first-timer on board. The Jammu-Udhampur section has been operational for two years (on completion the 342km rail line will extend to Katra, Qazigund, Srinagar and Baramulla), but the train that runs its tracks is only eye candy for most. Like the post-graduate Dogra youth sitting beside me, who had come to Jammu for a job interview and decided to take the train on the return journey.

As for me, I had time on hand one afternoon while in Jammu, so instead of browsing through the bazaar near Raghunath Mandir for the nth time, looking at reams of Kashmiri embroidery, line-ups of cricket bats, piles of imported blankets and putting on calories tasting walnuts at every third shop, I found myself queuing up for a ticket on the 1.10pm Intercity. The 55km journey cost me a grand sum of Rs 11. The bus fare would have set me back by Rs 30, besides adding 64km to the journey. A kilo of the ‘finest quality’ shelled walnuts would have cost me Rs 320 at bargain price.

The train passes through Jammu city and the route is a virtual tour of the area’s tourist attractions like the Bahu Fort, Mubarak Mandi, Peer Kho, Har ki Pauri, Maha-Maya Mandir, Trikuta peak (Vaishno Devi), all of which come up in quick succession. The tranquil Tawi river gives the train company as it meanders in and out of tunnels, over suspension bridges, through barley fields, past meadows with grazing horses, alongside waterfalls and small brooks. The sky is a clear blue, and the journey is exhilarating. I catch fleeting glimpses of the snow-clad peaks of the Pir Panjal range. Some day soon a train will run in their shadows.

The only sign of activity during the one-and-a-half hour journey is when the train halts at four picturesque stations—Bajalta, Sangar, Manwal and Ramnagar—so squeaky clean that they seem like stage sets. Looking part of a different set are the armed security men who line the entire route and parade up and down the train. Try pulling your camera out and chances are that they’ll pounce on you.The train does the Jammu-Udhampur return journey thrice a day. It’s packed to capacity with Gujjars—for whom selling milk and ghee in the region has become less tedious now (as Balo’s brother explained); mothers visiting married daughters; students; army personnel; and joy riders like me.

During the return journey from Udhampur I tried talking to Balo but she seemed anxious, and remained reticent. The relief on her face was unmistakable as the train chugged to a final stop at Jammu Tawi station and the crowds rose to disembark. “Did you enjoy the journey?” I asked her. She wavered, smiling bashfully, nodding a no, but then changing her mind to conclude with a yes. “What was the best part?” I prodded. For the first time she seemed excited, “When night would fall all of a sudden and then the day would begin once again.” She was referring to the 20 tunnels we had crossed en route (number 7 at 2.4km being the longest).

We’re aiming for Mission Moon. At the moment though, Mission Train seems to be just about getting on track in large parts of the country. Balo will vouch for that.

There are two trains running on this route. The DMU departs Jammu at 7.45am, 1.10pm and 5.20pm and leaves from Udhampur at 10.30am and 2.40pm. The 2445 Uttar Sakranti Express leaves New Delhi at 8.35pm and gets to Udhampur the next day at 7.45am.

Published Outlook Traveller

Rupa

Sometimes the middle of nowhere can spring culinary surprises. I experienced it at a freezing mountain pass in Arunachal

No one serves it better than Rupa. Steaming hot with a dash of lemon. It’s a simple noodle-soup with even simpler ingredients. But when it’s freezing cold in the world outside her little tenement at 13,700 feet, it tantalises the taste buds exotically and is succour for weary, weather-beaten souls traversing the mountains tracks of awesome Arunachal Pradesh.

Tawang, near the Indo-Tibet border, was our destination for the day. Our quartet, that’s a group of four adventurous women between 30 and 70 years, was geared up for the geographical assault we had been warned about. But nothing could have prepared us for the vertical climb, when we had started off on the eight-hour journey from sunny Bomdila, in West Kameng district, early morn. Getting to Sela, the splendid snow-covered natural mountain pass -- second highest in the world, with the mirror-like Paradise lake -- is a test for the nerves, as you drive past stunning rocky topography that captivates and numbs at one go. And residing there…well, even lichens find it tough.

But not Rupa, or Rigu Renchu, as she is known on school certificates. She believes in living on the edge, literally. Her one-room shack, which doubles up as Hotel Tenzin is the lone dwelling at Sela, entry point to district Tawang. She has only the gods to keep her company… Lord Shiva resides in the temple opposite the road and so does Buddha. Sentinels at the Army post stand on guard too. But Rupa, she needs none. She’s a stocky, happy hill woman. Content with the way life has treated her. It’s the passerbys who are dependent on her. The Armymen, truckers, few and far between tourists and locals need to halt at her quaint abode while on their way up or down the treacherously-inviting terrain. It’s at her home-hotel you stop to refuel spirits and gather breath to do the breathtaking once again. And Rupa makes sure she pampers you thoroughly.

It was raining when we reached Sela. We bundled out of the gypsy shivering; shuddered a little more on viewing snow at a distance, got our feet wet with sleet and let the frosty breeze play pranks on the face. Hotel Tenzing seemed a non-descript address to halt. But then at those heights it’s heavenly to find an address. We lumbered inside the wood shack expecting… well, nothing too much. But ah! It was snug. The bukhari spreading the warmth, smiling Rupa the cheer as she welcomed us warmly, in her unmistakable lispy Hindi.

The little room is Rupa’s realm. One corner has her ‘shop’: racks of biscuits, bread, eggs, namkeen, sweets… the survival basics. The standard Bangladeshi and Chinese crockery is also up for sale. The other side has her bunk bed. A huge radio lies on a shelf above and Vividbharati is tuned into all day. In the middle of this all is the bukhari with a few chairs around it. That’s where we made ourselves comfortable and placed the order. A friend had told me about the delicious soup served here and one had to try that. The errand boy was instructed to pump the stove. Water was put to boil. And in 10 minutes flat the soup arrived. Garnished with sprigs of coriander. Were we impressed? We were flattered by the service! Hunger growled at us more ferociously, making us plunge the spoon into the soup. A mouthful went in. Ah! No exotic feast could match the culinary delight we were savouring at that moment. No fussy environs could make us feel more rejuvenated for the expedition ahead.

Sela was the highest point we hit during our week-long trip in Arunachal. In the course of the journey, cyclically we would touch heights between 8,000 ft to 12,000 ft and then come down to 4,000 ft as we crossed mountains and valleys to reach our destination, Tawang, birthplace of the sixth Dalai Lama. The contrast was such that if one moment there were evergreen semi-rain forests with the most incredible green vegetation, myriad-coloured orchids, ferns the size of date palm trees... the next hour we would be driving along barren brown and white mountains with mist moving in and out and dense fog enveloping the area making visibility a task. So if at a point of time were in light clothing, an hour later we’d be shivering despite being clad in layers of woolens.

Arunachal was all about coming face to face with the unexpected. As we did at Sela in Rupa’s little room. By the way the recipe: It’s a soup she innovates with your regular 2-minute Maggi packet. The noodles she boils appetizingly right and lets a little water stand (that’s the stock, people). Throws in a few flakes of chilies and a spoonful of onions. One more boil and the soup is ready. Quarter of a lemon is squeezed in to add the tang. But let me tell you… try making it at home and you’ll never get it right. It’s Rupa’s special. And no one serves it better than her.


Permit: Sela is the entry point to district Tawang.
For Tawang, an Inner Line Permit, is needed. Foreigners need to apply for special permit. At 13,700 feet, it is the second highest motorable pass.
It has the Army outpost, Shiv temple and lake. Rupa's Hotel Tenzin is the attraction though.Travel:By air:Kolkata-Guwahati has daily flightsKolkata-Tezpur twice a weekBy road:From Tezpur (Assam) you will have to take a taxi. It takes about 7-9 hours to Bomdila, where you should stop overnight. From there it will be another 8-10 hours to Tawang. The road is excellent and a pleasure to drive on. Shared taxis should be booked prior. State government buses also run.It is advisable to take a tour guide along, as there are many off-track sights the eyes might miss. Sanjoy Sengupta, a guide in love with Arunachal, is recommended. He provided us with a budgeted trip and made it breathtaking with his nuggets on the region.

Contact: Traveloagencies, Sanjoy Sengupta 212, R B Avenue, CD-47, 1st Floor Gariahat MarketKolkata - 700 029, West Bengal, Indiatel: (91)-(033)-24402767Accommodation:Bomdila and Tawang have a number hotels. Don't look for comfort. Try and book the circuit houses which are a delight to stay in.

Published DI

Billa and jaggery highways

The cauldron was gigantic. It was large enough to cook a spread to feed a village. Two men constantly stirred the content inside it, which boiled frantically letting off thick, sticky vapour. A posse of men in all sizes—from children to granddads—were busy in various related activity. The content continued to bubble and occasionally someone or the other would come by to take a look at it and announce a progress report.

After nearly two hours, the men in charge of stirring put their ladles aside. As if one cue, most business around came to a standstill. Everyone began crowding around the cauldron. Some watched, some participated as the vessel was hurriedly lifted off the fire and taken to a platform that held a large wooden tray. Within moments, a glowing golden-brown viscous liquid was speedily eased onto the tray. Almost immediately a young boy swung into action, giving the molten a vigorous final whisk to smoothen out any traces of unevenness. Following that it was allowed to firm up for a few minutes.

It was still hot and semi-solid when spoonfuls were scooped from the tray and placed on a dry slab. One of the men picked up a bite size and felt it in his hand before popping it in his mouth. He gave a thumbs-up sign. Smiles appeared on faces all around. Sweetly-delicious, melt-in-the-mouth gur or jaggery had just passed the perfection test. It was ready to be laid on sale. For the men, it was time to get back to work to prepare some more gur.

Drive down the highways of Punjab in winters and the picturesque pastoral vista gets an added aromatic dimension. Alongside canary-hued carpets of mustard fields, little straw sheds prop up, beneath which bucolic pace picks up a new velocity, as day-long a clique of skilled hands get busy in preparing that sweet something called gur. Its sharp, overpowering whiff fills the air and that’s enough to lift the foot off the accelerator and push the brake pedal. You can’t manoeuvre past fresh-off-the-fire gur and not pick up a few kilos. It’s just not done. The numbers of vehicles lined up at these roadside vends affirm that.

Jhanjheri village, en route Fatehgarh district in Punjab, is where I turned off the ignition. The scent of gur had played its part. It remains the best advert for its makers. Half-a dozen sheds stood alongside and I was among a host of others inspecting the gur on offer. We were being handed chunks of gur merely for taste. Remember this was Punjab, the land of the large-hearted. Here they don’t believe in pint size quantities in matters of food. They relish the fact that you have relished their fare. Whether you purchase or not is another story. By the time I reached the last shed I had tasted all sort of gur—plain, semi-molten, with masala (fennel seeds and spices), with dry fruits and as shakkar, its crystalline-grainy variant. They all seemed good except one that was a little dusty in taste.

What stationed me at Billa’s stall was the fact that his gur was just a few minutes away from being removed from the fire. I preferred buying fresh stock for people back home and for the many who would drop by and demand their share. Billa was all of 19 years but had been part of the gur business ever since he was a child. He proudly informed his gur was the best for miles. “My patrons will confirm that,” he beamed. Named Shakeel Mohammed by his parents, his friends and customers began identifying him as Billa or the cat-eyed one, a common moniker in this part of the country for anyone born with green eyes. The nickname has stuck on and “Billa’s gur” is hugely in demand in these parts of the state.

As is the tradition, his complete family is involved in gur making, which is a multi-layered process. Trucks loaded with sugarcane arrive every morning. Then begins the process of squeezing juice, which is set to boil in the cauldrons. While one group attends to the production and sales work, the backroom boys deal with leftover sugarcane which is spread out in fields to dry, to be later used as fuel to fire mud ovens that prepare gur.

Though it doesn’t look so on the face of it, jaggery units like that of Billa’s are an industry in themselves, with quite a turnover. Indulging in elementary arithmetic threw up some interesting figures. Around 5,000 kg or 50 quintal is approx the amount of sugarcane offloaded everyday at each of these sheds. About 1,000 kg juice is crushed out of the lot. As much as 100 kg is boiled at one go and it takes two hours to cook to perfection; to yield around 25 kg gur in one session which is sold at Rs 20 per kg. Nearly 10 such sessions are carried out from sunrise to sundown. This means 2,500 kg gur per day, per shed. Multiply that with a modest figure of 2,000 such sheds across the state and the amount of gur produced daily off the highways in Punjab would be a whooping 50,00,000 kg! And this is just a conservative estimate. The actual amount is anybody’s guess.

The status gur enjoys in Punjab is parallel only to Bengal where odes have been written in honour of the divinely delicious nolen/notun gur made from sap of the date palm. In Punjab the date-palm variety is unheard of and sugarcane rules the roost. Though unlike nolen gur which lends its delicate sweetness to a range of delectable mishti (sweetmeats) every winter, gur in Punjab is enjoyed in its robust form, at best finding itself in kheer (rice pudding), variety of chikki (winter snacks) or crushed and served on a roti (Indian wheat bread) with dollops of ghee. A favourite diet here is gur-channa (roasted black gram), believed to resist any season-related indisposition. Gur finds metaphoric reference in the region’s folktales and songs, and in recent years a top of the chart bhangra pop number, that had the nation swaying, was singer Malkit Singh’s version of ‘Gur nalon ishq mitha’ (Only love is sweeter than jaggery). That should explain it all.

Published in Jetwings