As the rain poured down, my three-year-old nephew ran into the kitchen and tugged at my dupatta. “Madi, patode,” he said with a lisp, moving his plump hands in the air.
Amused, I asked, “You want pakoras because it’s raining?”
He nodded.
“I will make them for you in minutes. Do you want potato pakoras?”
“Yes!” he said and pranced in joy as I set about making the golden pakoras, also known as bhajiyas. I give him a plate with a paper napkin to soak the excess oil. As the aroma of fried food filled the air, it took me back to my childhood days.
Making pakora was a tradition in every Punjabi home at least until recently. It was an evening snack to be served with tea. On rainy days, there were special requests.
Ours was a nuclear family — Dad, Mom, my two sisters, and a brother. Whenever it rained, my mother would fry pakoras for us and make it a fun-filled event.
Out came the kadai (wok) which was filled with oil and placed on an ember-red coal chulah (later replaced by the kerosene stove). What made the event memorable was the excitement my mother generated as she announced, “Chalo bachchon, aayo pakode banaye.” (Come children, let us fry some pakoras).
That was enough to energise us into helping her as instructions flew thick and fast.
“Bring the besan.”
“Go bring the potatoes and one onion.”
“Bring half a glass of water. Don’t spill it.”
To my youngest sibling, tiny but keen to assist, she would say, “Bring your plate and sit here with me but away from the chulah. “
We were willing participants as she gave us the feeling that the pakoras would not get done without our help. A born leader, I think now, and smile.
As she would take out the first batch of crispy golden-brown pakoras from the wok, we would eye it greedily. She would say, “Get a newspaper to soak the excessive oil.”
“Bring some toothpicks to cool your pakoras and eat them without burning your fingers or mouth.” We darted back and forth, following her orders.
Dad drove in from work punctually at 5.30 p.m. He loved crispy fried onion rings, but his favourite was the chilli pakora. He would take out four or five long green chillies from the fridge and give them to my mom, and with sparkly eyes, say, “Please fry these for me!”
It was a delight to watch him eat the chilli pakoras with a leftover roti. He relished the pakoras even as the heat of the chillies left him teary-eyed and hopping around the room.
Pakora-frying was a team work. Through that and every other event, Mom helped us bond. While frying the pakoras, she was a sutradhar (narrator) who, in her inimitable style, described how her mother and our grandmother fried pakoras for her children and grandchildren, keeping us spellbound and glued to her side. “There were no toothpicks then; so we used to wash and use broom sticks,” she would say. Through her stories, she would capture the changing generations, each linked to this golden-brown delicacy.
Batch after batch, pakoras flew off the plate, mother would tell us. We were like that too. The appetite for hot pakoras with sour-sweet tamarind chutney remained unsatiated then, and it remains unsatiated till today.
Mom used to cook extremely well and passed on the love for not just frying pakoras, but cooking in general to each one of us, including my brother. Through that, she also developed among us, a lasting fondness for each other.
ceogiit@gmail.com
