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Bhopali batua
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Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Aru: Kashmiri khander (wedding) and the wazwan
Aru is a charming
pocket-size hamlet close to Pahalgham. We are on a day-trip here and have
footed around it, admired its beauteous sights and squinting green meadows,
plucked apples off trees, done the pony rides, got an enthusiastic update on
the list of movies shot here and are about to head back to base when we ask our
cabbie Khursheed if there is something very typical to the village we can see.
He mulls over for a bit before hesitatingly asking if we would be keen in
seeing a typical Kashmiri village khander (wedding). Could we have asked for
anything better!
The next
moment we are being welcomed at the bride's sprawling home. It is the wedding
of Shaheena. Her groom has arrived from a few villages away and is shyly
sitting with the boys. Maqbool Hasan, the bride's father, is playing the
gracious host and immediately comes forward to greet us. As pleasantries are
being exchanged we witness a flurry of activity. The wazwan has been announced.
We ask Hasan if we can stay on for a while and take a look at the proceedings.
"Surely! I invite you to partake of the wazwan with us," he says
hospitably.
In a
Kashmiri wedding, the wazwan, a multi-course feast, is the epitome of
celebrations and the most important person after the couple is the vasta waza,
or head chef. It's not unusual for parents to postpone the marriage if the
waza of their choice is not available on the chosen day! Hasan triumphantly
says he was lucky to have booked the waza in time as autumn is the season for
weddings. He marches us to the spot where the backroom boys, the junior wazas,
are getting ready to present the fare with a flourish.
Preparation
for the wazwan had begun the night before when the vasta waza had arrived with
his band of wazas. Usually their number is anywhere between 15 to 50, depending
on the size of the gathering. The term wazwan means 'cook's shop’, which was
until the contemporary world gave the expression a whole new twist of
a sensory experience, which it definitely is.
Behind the scene
The pots
are bubbling with all that’s to be served in a while and there is a heady mix
of aromas. "The preparation is exacting and every step is done at the
venue, from grinding of spices to pounding of meat. Each ingredient has to
be fresh; the concept of something coming out of the cold storage is
non-existent," a waza tells us. An emulsion of onion-garlic-pran (shallots),
whole spices and moval or dried cockscomb for colouring are some of the basic
ingredients in the Muslim style of cooking. The Pandits prefer using crushed
spices, asafoetida and red chillies. Mustard oil, saunf (aniseed), saunth
(ginger powder) and saffron remain common to both. With the Valley reaping a
bountiful harvest of fruit, dried as well as fresh fruits are also tossed into
dishes.
The
wazwan is cooked traditionally in a veurabal or an open-air kitchen, in large
round-bottomed, small-necked copper pots and on wood-fire. A customised
fireplace, about 12' -15' long and around 1.5' high, is created for the
purpose. "This arrangement is known as veura,"
Hasan enlightens us, adding, "In Kashmiri cooking ingredients
are added at regular intervals and need to be stirred constantly. The
convenient height and length of the veura facilitates that. Customarily, ours
is slow cooking—the culinary art having travelled here from Persia centuries
ago—and the regulated heat of firewood is ideal for that." I compliment
Hasan on his almost-academic style of explanation at which he laughs heartily
and says, "We are all passionate about food. We don't like our flavours
messed up (read fusion). A dish should taste as it always has. We may eat
little but we will have only the best!"
The
gathering is settling down for the wazwan and we do not want to intrude right
away. Moreover, we are keen to meet the bride. Hasan readily agrees and yells
out to his wife. She leads us upstairs to an unadorned room where sits Shaheena
attired in radiant red, looking pretty in her simplicity. She is surrounded by
a crowd of aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews. Her marriage rituals are yet to
take place and she has an anxious expression. Someone teases her on that and
she breaks into a smile. We chat with her for a while and intrigue her with our
status: women of all ages from one family. As we are about to leave, almost
instantly and true to tradition, we dip into our wallets and present her shagun
(token). She is initially reluctant to take it but when the eldest among us
says it is dua (blessing) she smilingly agrees. Seated next to Shaheena is her
brother making a note of all she’s been receiving. He asks his mother how he
should put down our token. "From mas (maternal aunts) and beni
(sisters)," she smiles, immediately forging a bond the way only Indians
can!
The Feast
Wedding
guests are sprawled all over the garden and a few men have taken their place on
the dastarkhawan (floor-covering) as they await the servers to come around with
the first course of the wazwan. We are lead to the shamiyana (ceremonial
tent) meant for women, who are sitting huddled on the ground and happily
chatting. Looking at them is like seeing a sea of luminous faces sans any
adornment, dressed in bright pherans and colourful head-scarves. What beauty!
If there is one aspect that has refreshingly stood out in this village wedding
it is the lack of extravagance. It is a cosy affair; a sharp contrast to
ostentatious city weddings.
The arrival of an attendant carrying a tash-t-nari, the traditional jug and basin meant for washing hands at your individual place, signals the start of the service. It is truly a page out of old-world hospitality, decadent to say the least. Next follows the all-important trami or large nickle-plated copper platter laden with fragrant steamed rice (it’s a locally grown variety) topped with a long seek kebab (skewered mutton) running the length of the dish, and two servings of methi maz (mutton cooked with fenugreek) on either side. Each trami, about 18" in diameter, is shared by four persons and the methi maaz in a way demarcates boundaries as guests tunnel their way through the rice with their hands—cutlery is a no-no—to savour the first course, which is a sort of mezze. The next item is two large pieces of tabak maaz (ribs marinated in curd and pan-fried) and kokar (chicken in gravy). There is complete silence in the shamiyana as the ladies are all engrossed in the food. The servers are the only ones rushing in and out with big pots.
The
second course follows soon and the first to be served is rista (mutton
balls in reddish gravy), and in sequence comes daniwala qorma (mixed meat
curry), ruvangan chaman (cottage cheese in tomato gravy) and ab gosht (meat
prepared in milk). Each dish has a distinct lip-smacking flavour and colour. An
assortment of tangy chutneys made with walnut and radish are the
accompaniments as are small bowls of sweetened curd, the sweetness subtly
blunting the salt-spice and adding to the enhancement of flavours. The final
dish of the feast is gustaba (mutton balls in silken textured curd gravy). It's
a large ball and only one piece is served per trami; and in a way it’s the
full-stop to a wazwan. A round of firni (rice pudding) and many rounds of
kehva (cardamom flavoured green tea served with slivers of almond), however,
follow.
"The
wazwan in a big city like Srinagar will have many more servings per course. A
lot of it goes waste. Around 1.5 kg to 2 kg assorted meat per trami is more
than sufficient. In the villages we believe in delighting our guests but not
going overboard."Hasan tells us. While my family has enjoyed eating from a
trami, being a vegetarian I relished just a bit of the food; but what an
experience it has been. A wazwan is truly a culinary celebration! Aru will
always remain special on that account.
Getting there:Srinagar-Pahalgam is 4.5 hrs by road. Pahalgam to
Aru is 12 km.
Published Jetwings May 2016
Friday, April 15, 2016
Vintage lithographed tins
The heirloom
Wide canvas: Idyllic landscapes, town scenes, paintings, floral designs or happy baby faces were used generously to woo the target buyer pic: Brinda Suri
Vintage lithographed tin boxes are little time machines, bringing you the charming kitsch of the late 19th century
It was in grandpa’s wardrobe for as long as I had known. A slim tin box with a removable lid featuring a bonny blue-eyed girl holding a snowy dog. It was a gift for his sons, and once its contents were over, grandma had decided it was perfect to store grandpa’s pocket squares. And quite a collection he had of jewel-tones in silk and satin. Grandpa was a stickler for discipline, so it was a treat for us grandkids to be allowed to open this box, select a piece that matched with the tie and turban.
Grandpa passed away a few years ago at the ripe age of 90. His box, however, continues to be at the same spot in his wardrobe, and opening it now is like unlocking a treasure trove of memories, with each kerchief bringing alive a story, some that go back to his newly-married days in Rawalpindi. All these years it was the inside, rather than the box itself, which had held a charm. That was until recently when, by accident, I came across the vintage section of an e-commerce site selling a box similar to the one in grandpa’s cupboard. I nearly fell off the chair when I noticed it had a price tag of $51 or Rs 3,400 approximately. The seller’s description read ‘Morton Pure Confectioner litho tin box with girl and dog picture’.
I immediately reached out for grandpa’s box. On flipping it over, as in the online image, I found Morton written in small golden letters. It was a toffee box, from a brand set up in 1849 by JT Morton in Aberdeen, Scotland. The firm later became C&E Morton, which had commercial interests in India and, in 1928, a local magnate bought its rights. The Morton brand was registered here in 1947 and is now owned by Oudh Sugar Mills Ltd. A simple tin box had opened up chapters of a remarkable legacy, hidden away from the limelight.
Morton was among the few early-20th century companies that had opted to package its confectionery items in lithographed tin boxes. Today, like a lot else, these have far outlived their original purpose to become collectors’ items and there’s a whole legion of enthusiasts out there in the cyber world sharing their collection and tales of what those boxes held: from chessmen to toy train sets to sewing essentials, laces, locks and a lot more.
Lithographed tin boxes, the kind we’re familiar with now, emerged on the shelves in 1882 when chromolithography was invented. A series of colour plates were used for the process, as a result of which multi-colour tin-sheets could be produced. By 1890, embossing was also introduced in the design and brand names began appearing in relief, often in an attractive gold finish.
The birth of the tin can, the predecessor to the box, however, goes back to 1810 when British merchant Peter Durand was issued a patent for his idea of “preserving food in an iron can coated with tin”. The early 19th century saw the rapid growth of industrialisation and cooking food out of a tin, as opposed to preparing fresh food, became a status symbol. By 1820, tinned food was being widely sold across England, France and the US.
The early cans/boxes had paper labels on them. The first lithographed tin box, not multi-colour till then, with removable or hinged lid, is said to have been commissioned in 1868 by British biscuit manufacturers Huntley & Palmers. As the popularity of their decorated containers grew worldwide, litho tins were renamed biscuit tins and, soon, other confectioners followed suit, offering cakes, toffees and later chocolates. Idyllic landscapes, picturesque town scenes, famous paintings, exquisite regal settings, floral designs or happy baby faces were used generously in an effort to woo the target buyer — women and children. Christmas, coronation and royal births saw limited-edition theme boxes.
Litho tins arrived in India at the beginning of the 20th century and became fashionable soon enough. Till a few decades after the Partition, most tins were decorated with European themes. Mid-Sixties onward, the Indian sensibility crept in and, alongside Victorian patterns, calendar art gods-goddesses, mythological tales, protagonists of folk legends, grand palaces, national symbols such as the tiger, lotus and the Tricolour graced tin boxes of companies like Nutrine and Parle as well as a host of mithai and confectioner shops throughout the country. Unlike today, when brand names are splashed boldly across a product, the images did the talking while the trade name stayed almost hidden, usually on the rear or the sides in small font.
Over the centuries, the charming patterns and shapes were what appealed to buyers, who would put the boxes to good use long after the goodies inside had been polished off. While tin boxes were being lovingly preserved and recycled in homes across the world, who could have thought these would become collector items some day.
Published in BL ink, Business Line
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Lucknow
 |
Brinda Suri
Rumi Darwaza, an iconic structure, commissioned in 1784.
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Travelling back in time
The writer takes a walk right into the history of the magical kingdom of Awadh, its nawabs, architecture, and graceful culture. Winter is the season — and the reason — to put on your walking shoes and step out into Lucknow’s streets.
Ye Lakhnau ki sarzameen... ye rang, roop ka chaman… Mohd Rafi’s captivating voice gave musical soul to the Guru Dutt classic Chaudavi ka Chand. But on this balmy morning, his rich voice is filling the air at Lucknow’s ‘Jarnail wali Kothi’ and recreating the splendour of Awadh of the past, when it was a jewel in the crown of Hindustan.
Awadh has been romanticised down the centuries. It’s often used as a backdrop in popular cinema, feted by wordsmiths, and endlessly hailed by connoisseurs of fine things and good food. How was Awadh born? The term Nawab (from the Persian ‘naib,’ meaning ‘deputy’) was originally used for a provincial governor under the Mughals and his primary duty was to uphold the sovereignty of the Emperor. The decline of the later Mughals saw the rise of the nawabs. One of these was Nawab Saadat Khan, who established the state of Awadh in 1722, which remained a force to reckon with till the First War of Independence in 1857.
The Awadh dynasty traced its lineage back to Neyshabur north-eastern Persia (Iran). The nawabs of Awadh were a feisty and arty lot who, during their reign, seamlessly wove Persian sensibilities into the local milieu: the Persian language flowered; buildings were commissioned; poetry, music and dance resounded; able jurists, architects, scholars and not to forget shahi khansamas (royal chefs) visited regularly.
It’s this history I’m exploring during a conducted walk through Lucknow’s Qaiserbagh. The heritage district is almost an open-air museum, unravelling splendid structures and delicious stories at every step. The spirited team of Itihaas, led by raconteur Smita Vats is taking us around and magically bringing alive the past with music, visuals and even fragrances. A little attar is dabbed on our wrists. The scent is unmistakably gulab. “It’s not just any fragrance,” says Vats, “this was Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s favourite. It's
said when the plucky Nawab met the wily British he hugged them and
it's believed they would say, 'we reek of his smell
for days!'."
The nawabs freely borrowed architectural genres, giving birth to the Awadh style. Chhattar Manzil a palace built between
1798-1814 AD in Mughal-French-Awadhi vocabulary remained the
seat of power of the Nawabs till 1847 AD. On the banks of the Gomti, it has an astutely designed ‘taikhana’ (basement) that was used in the searing summer. As I head towards the spectacular Lal Baradari or Coronation Hall, constructed during the reign of Nawab Saadat Ali Khan II (1798 -1814), Vats points out to the road we crossed to get here. “This was laid by the British; it was earlier a sprawling royal neighbourhood filled with gardens and fountains. The road sliced and divided the complex, a method typical of the British to establish their supremacy.”
Fiercely protective of their people and kingdom, the Nawabs did pander to British interests but resisted too (the third nawab Shuja-ud-Daula lost the Battle of Buxar in 1773, leading to a British Resident being placed in the kingdom, and the last nawab, Wajid Ali Shah, being banished to Calcutta in 1856.) Indeed, the British tried every trick to dull the shine of Awadh. They succeeded in making the Nawabs puppets but they couldn’t suppress the spirit of the land. It’s no wonder then that the annexation of Awadh was the last and most difficult hurdle the British had to cross to become masters of India. It is said that when Wajid Ali Shah faced the ignominy of exile, he told the British: “Taj (crown), takht (throne) le sakte ho, dastakht (signature) nahin”. Ironically, the takeover misfired as Awadh avenged its ruler’s insult and whole-heartedly participated in the Revolt of 1857; and a distance away, The Residency, which bore the brunt, stands mute witness to the uprising.
The walk concludes at Wajid Ali Shah’s Qaiserbagh, which has fantastical structures like the Parikhana, Marmari Bridge and Safed Baradari. What’s striking is the ornate Lakhi Darwaza, the west gate, built in 1850 and so named because it cost Rs. 1 lakh. It’s engraved with the Awadh insignia of twin fishes, an emblem adopted now by the U.P. government. This is an emblem I notice on all the buildings of those times, and it has a legend too: the first Nawab Saadat Khan, while still a Mughal governor, was crossing a river on his way to Lucknow when two fishes leapt into his lap. The locals aboard saw it as an auspicious sign and soon, Awadh was established. The nawab eagerly incorporated the fish into his kingdom’s emblems. The fish is part of Persian customs too, so I’m sure the insignia has another fish-tale. The twin fishes are now part of the UP government seal.
Later, the fish motif grabs attention when I visit the fourth nawab Asaf-ud-Daula’s iconic structures commissioned in 1784: Bara (or Asafi) Imambara and Rumi Darwaza. Interestingly, the design for the imambara was selected through a process of competition. The winner was Delhi architect Kifayatullah, who legend says so impressed with the design that he was rewarded with a burial place alongside the nawab inside the imambara. The imambara is among the largest arched structures in the world to have no beams supporting the ceiling. It also has a Bhulbhuliya or labyrinth on the periphery of the first floor that’s interconnected through identical 489 doorways, which were meant to confuse an invader. In today’s times, it’s visitors who get lost and can’t find the exit. True to tradition, my group got separated from the rest and we had to rely on cellular network to trace our way out of this quirky passage of history.
The cultural legacy of Awadh is connected to a great extent with Nawab Wajid Ali Shah. And the reasons are clear. How many kings have been not just patrons of the performing arts but proficient in them too? The Nawab was gifted musically; his thumri in Raag Bhairavi, Babul Mora Naihar Chhooto Hi Jaaye, is sheer genius. He composed poetry, under the pseudonym Akhtarpiya while his pen-name was, well, Qaiser; the dance form of Kathak was revived by him and elevated to the level of a classic; and theatre was encouraged. He gave form to a unified dress code, the Awadhi angrakha (a front overlapping kurta) and dupali topi (cap), as well as the greeting of ‘adaab’ (which simply means ‘I bow to you with respect’). The now famous ‘chikankari’ (or the Persian embroidery form of chakeen, which essentially means passing thread through white cloth to embellish it) also took root here.
The Awadhi ‘dastarkhawan’ (or tablecloth but, metaphorically, meaning fine dining) evolved and ‘dum pukht’ (or the Persian style of slow cooking) reached culinary heights. During the trip, I met the engrossing royal scion Nawab Jafar Mir Abdullah, a personification of Awadhi culture and a gourmet, who highlighted the nuances of its cooking. “Awadhi cuisine is about zaika (taste), khushbu (aroma),peshkari (presentation) and most importantly the jod (balance),” he explained in mellifluous Urdu, adding, “The disguise of a dish was at its zenith in Awadh. A sweet could be presented in the shape of a sour dish and vice-versa. The guest had to deduce what he or she was about to taste. Innovation was in vogue as today’s guest was tomorrow’s host. So chefs were always trying to outdo each other.” As I discovered, present-day Lucknow’s famous Tunde ke Kebab or Idris ki Biryani is just a drop in the vast ocean of this gastronomy.
History books do teach us about Awadh, but nothing I saw today could have prepared me for this history lesson — both tangible and intangible.
Edited version published in The Hindu
Edited version published in The Hindu
http://www.thehindu.com/features/magazine/brinda-suri-on-travelling-back-in-time-in- awadh/article8202874.ece#comments
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