Opinion Avial on the Atlantic

It wasn’t like now — as the Lady of the House described the denizens of a North American metro in one of her poetic Gujarati language licence moments as “Panchrangi Praja”. In our days,if you were brown,yellow or black,you knew so. In the best colleges,it didn’t matter — for the political space was being constructed. (We paid the price for you,Mr President.) But everywhere else,you were not kosher.

But getting back to food. North American food was not known for its cooking. But the quality of the meat (preferably bloody) and vegetables,juicy and good,was such that you got addicted to it — particularly when fed with love by the family of a native friend whose ancestors were at the Boston Tea Party.

Now,I was crossing the Atlantic on an American airline,and after a glass of wine was looking forward to some good food of the days of my youth. When the meal came,it was a yellow sticky boiled rice. It was Japanese rice with lemon (lemon bhaat?),it later turned out — a sticky,creamy mess with some veggies in it,and water with what smelt like a year old thick rancid sambhar powder and a soggy poppadum.

When I protested,I was told that my travel agent had listed me for a low-calorie meal. And being Asian,avial and lemon bhaat is what I got. I cursed my travel agent but the damage was done. The lady who was serving asked,”You don’t like Indian food?”

I muttered something about the divine food I ate of the same type because I had family with the Tullus in the hills off Mangalore from where I wrote a centrepiece for my newspaper on vanilla in Paddukal. I told her that in the temples of our South,sambhar was made with freshly ground spices every morning,and the care with which veggies were spiced,and the difference between green and dry spices,and that the bhaat was of three kinds. I also told her of the sweets made in coconut milk and jaggery,and you got your fill in banana plantain leaves after the gods had tasted the food — and after eating,you knew why the gods were happy.

She took pity on me and gave me a plate of non-veg sandwiches,before I went to sleep with nightmares of avial in sandwiches in my favorite Dakshin back home.

This time,I was flying down from a European country famous for its cuisine and again,after my appetizer and a starter,I was told the choice was a vegetarian meal with paneer butter masala or a chicken with curry sauce in it. Now,I am a Punjabi from the Salt Range in what is now Pakistan. My mother had a bit of a reputation as a cook and gets good billing from my buddies even today,even though she has not been there for over a decade. But I never ate a paneer butter masala. Yes,there was paneer subzi,alu paneer or matar paneer subzi,and of course,chicken of various kinds: bhuno’d,in biryani,in gravy. But never butter masala chicken or paneer.

The European gentleman sitting next to me wanted me to explain the choice of India dishes to him,which I did. He had a smug,contented look on his face (for,his holiday had begun) and dived into the paneer butter masala. Also,vegetables were all right before Copenhagen,and anyway he was going to Rishikesh.

Fearfully,I asked the hostess as to why the European selection was off the list. For one,she said,the chicken with a curry sauce was a European dish,for it was not a chicken curry. No,I said,I like my sauces with butter and wine and not even the nouvelle cuisine,forget about curry in the sauce. She looked pityingly at me and said the only people who could fly in large numbers were Chinese and Indians for they had taken away all the jobs. The marketing people knew which way the chicken was buttered and spiced. Hadn’t I read the Goldman Sachs story of the BRICS?

They are bankrupt,I told her. And Roopa Purushottam has left them.

And then,very moodily,separated the curry sauce and plunged my fork into the chicken. The next time I will take my tiffin with me,or better still get the Italian restaurant in Ahmedabad to pack a meal for me. Jai Ho.