Grant Road’s Bhaji galli will be endlessly fascinating for anyone even slightly interested in food. It is also a reminder that the traditional Indian diet is seasonal, local, minimal in its environmental impact and above all, striking in its immense variety. When I went there on a cool morning, little hillocks of pearly ponkh were being stacked at my feet. Big jute sacks, plump with onions, were being emptied onto raised platforms. Sweet-fleshed yams were being rolled onto colourful plastic crates. Cardboard boxes were being prised open to reveal ruby-hued strawberries and tangy star fruit.
Bhaji galli has a fairly old pedigree, originally named for Jagannath Shankarsheth (Jagannath Lane). Its colloquial appellation comes from the vegetable vendors from Vasai who used to unload fresh vegetables that they got from Vasai’s weekly market, in the compound of the nearby Balchandra building. The number of vendors then slowly swelled, until the entire lane was overwhelmed by a flood of fruit and vegetable sellers.
Today, the lane hums with a steady stream of Mumbaikars, some from as far away as Powai and Borivali. Bhaji galli is dotted with vendors on both sides, many specialising in certain kinds of produce: root veggies, kanda batata, fruits, or ‘foreign’ vegetables. I am drawn to a stall selling a bewildering array of wintry tubers and greens for undhiyu: green Surti papdi, baby eggplants, purple kand, sweet and regular potato, seedless (ariya) kakdi, Rajagiri bananas and fenugreek. The lady next to me is buying up several packets of these. “I come from Borivali once a month to Bhaji galli,” she explains as I gawk at the quantity of vegetables she is buying. “I have to buy enough undhiyu samaan to last my family that long.” But why come all the way here, I persist? She gave me a long, cold look and then she smiled gently. She spoke in a soft voice, as if to an insane person. “Bhaji galli has the best quality vegetables,” she said, enunciating each word.
I slink away to the next vendor, who has heaped posies of mogri or rat-tail radish pods, both green and purple. Oddly, for someone who isn’t too fond of radish, I can’t get enough of mogri, which I mostly eat raw. But this time, I stir fry them lightly at home with some chopped garlic and salt. They are still delicious, but seem to have lost their sharp flavour and their glorious crunch, having turned a bit fibrous.
I move down the lane to Chacha’s stall, one frequented by my mum for years. We have never been able to find out his real name, “You call me chacha only.” But we do know that he sometimes keeps amba haldi (mango ginger), another winter favourite. Amba haldi looks almost exactly like regular ginger, tastes a little like green mango with an acerbic aftertaste, but is an obscure relative of the turmeric family. The mango ginger is ripe for pickling with just a little salt water and lime juice and is eaten with every meal to ward off winter infections. But you could also lace your curry with a few slivers, to give it a sour-sharp tang. It’s widely used to perk up South Indian, Rajasthani and Gujarati dishes.
A little further into the lane, I spot an enormous heap of fresh, leafy vegetables in every possible shade of green. Behind the pile presides a dignified old lady.
There is sarson or mustard greens, the main ingredient in the hearty Punjabi winter staple, sarson da saag. There are bunches of spinach and bathua, both of which make first-rate pakodas; I find bathua’s bitterness too acrid to consume except when shrouded by a shell of deep-fried dough. But in Jiggs Kalra and Pushpesh Pant’s Classic Cooking of Punjab , bathua sits comfortably with sarson, spinach and moolipatta (radish leaf) in the aforementioned sarson da saag. This time, I will try and stuff it into a paratha. I also buy the dill, parsley, tender green garlic, pudina and spring onions, ready to be transformed into osh, the warming, nutritious stew that is much loved by Iranians. The lady also has baby methi and gongura; the latter I am going to try and cook with shrimp, Andhra-style.
While the lady is rootling around in her tin box for change, I spot a vendor surrounded by a swathe of carrots, both the orange ‘English’ carrots and the red-hued Indian carrots. The red carrots are more intensely-flavoured and carrotier than their compatriots. I will add them to green peas for a delicious gajar matar sabzi and if some are left over, I will try to cadge the century-old recipe of vegetable achaar from my Punjabi friend. Into her pickle go gobi, shalgam, gajar tempered with salt, chilli, mustard seeds and oil with a little jaggery. It is a delectable winter tradition.
A market is an excellent way to get under the skin of a place, and Bhaji galli is a true reflection of Mumbai. The soft drink crates and plastic trays overflowing with international produce reflect the city’s growing omnivorousness. Here, a tray heaving with snowy daikon radish. There, a crowd of avocados balanced precariously on a rickety wooden stand. Naturally, the radish and avocados make their way into my shopping bag.
What else do I bring home? A perfectly spherical white gourd, which I will stuff with mincemeat as soon as I finish writing this story. Little fronds of fennel which I happily eat raw in salads, but also braised and served on a bed of white fish. Postbox-red chillies. Tart gooseberries or amla. (Amla juice is the elixir I should absorb but amla murabba is what I will actually eat, with stacks of thepla). And finally, green gram, nestled within their pods (a proper pain to shell). Fried or roasted with a light sprinkle of salt and chilli together with a squeeze of lime, they make for the most satisfying winter evening snack.
The author is a freelance writer and editor
