A Palate Trail- From Awadh to Rajasthan By Archana Kumari Singh
It was over an intimate family lunch after our long drawn out wedding celebrations that I was jolted from my complete fixation with the ghee- laced-chili-paste-smeared ‘batias’ with my father-in-law’s question, “Why is there no rice for Archana?” And in my complete engagement with the true-blue Rajasthani fare, I had not even noticed the absence of rice, which is a must on an Awadh dastarkhwan. But the very mention opened the floodgates of memories of long grained rice, wafting with fragrance, each grain pristine and jewel like, enveloped gently in its own steam. The morsels of perfection that defined comfort, so sublime! Served with ladles of yellow ‘tadka’ dal (another staple), cooked with slivers of tangy raw mangoes on summer afternoons…always the befitting finale to every meal. Day after day.
It, however, came as a surprise to learn that in Rajasthan, rice was cooked only on customary occasions or for guests. And it was never ever served plain but tempered or spiced or mixed with other accouterments to make it special. Since rice was not indigenous to the arid terrain, it was scarce and had to be treated with more respect. This was my first lesson of unlearning and relearning that I would have to train my palette to find its comfort away from the zone of staples it took delight in, rice being the very first!
Belonging from Pratapgarh, an erstwhile principality of Awadh and married in Badnore, which bore allegiance to Mewar in Rajasthan, I was well acquainted with the full-bodied flavours that are favoured in the desert state and marveled at the ingenious use of just a few grains to compensate for the lack of green vegetables. Wheat, bajra (pearl millets), corn, moong dal and gramflour are the basics that can stir up a storm at every meal. Food here is entirely from ingredients that are locally grown as opposed to Awadh where Asian influences have shaped the myriad delicacies. From Persia came the more refined use of spices, delicate and aromatic, their use measured so as to control each distinct flavour and make them sing.
Growing up in a home where food was a sensory experience and savoured with sight and smell as well, my palette was trained to relish the subtle hints of cardamom, saffron, kewra, white cumin, asafetida and caramelized onions used generously for garnish.
In Rajasthan however, local produce is used prudently to nourish and give strength to the warrior clan. Red chilies and garlic, used in great abundance were meant to create the heat and keep up the do-or-die adrenaline rush while cumin acted as the coolant for balance and also controlled gut irregularities, if any, caused by the fiery chili garlic combination. Definitely not for the meek, this deliciously buoyant food requires a more resilient palette. While the food that I was used to, played out gently on the taste buds like a well-orchestrated symphony, with all ingredients in cohesion. I wondered then if my preference would ever do a 180 degree turnaround. But today, my capacity to take in chilies has well surpassed that of my husband’s who is to the desert born.
Kakori Kebabs
In Awadh, cooking was an elevated art form and the cooks or bawarchis took immense pride in producing versions of the kababs, qorma, pulao and rotis. It is believed that one such cook presented a dish, which when cut open, had a sparrow fly out of it! And when a toothless Nawab could not chew the seekh kabab, it was refined further into the kakori kabab with a melt-in-the-mouth consistency of the mince; an exotic dessert lab-e-mashooq (Lips of the beloved) was made with thickened milk and almonds with crushed rubies to give it the sensual red colour; Jahangir’s favourite ‘khichdi’ had seven versions with the most unique being one with slivers of almonds and pistachios instead of rice and lentils!
The qorma or curry was made with small quantities of meat and freshly ground spices that were filtered through a muslin bag, which was never used twice. Kewra, malai, curd and saffron were added at different stages to lend an exceptional touch. From Uzbekistan came the pulao or pilaf where careful balance between the seven components of onions, meat, carrots, rice, salt, oil and water was maintained. Altering the ratio of mutton and rice could easily tip the balance of flavours, so strict vigil had to be maintained; chilies were never ever added to pulao and considered pedestrian and lentils were tempered using a gold coin or `asharfee’ as it was believed the metal was of therapeutic worth! Almost every dish was made extraordinaire with either specially carved dry fruits or the rich `warq’ (beaten sheets of silver or gold) as decoration, while techniques of marinade to tenderize the meat and allow all flavours to seep in and `Dum’ or sealed and slow cooking enabled the flavours to mature gently. The breads in Awadh were as varied as the kababs, each one with its own tenderness, crispness and layers.
Awadh cuisine placed great emphasis on quality over quantity, theatrics over the banal and finesse, over all. Rich, exultant and inspired, this was food fit for memories and kings.
On the extreme end of the spectrum is Rajasthan’s pragmatic play with basics, where food is for sustenance and made from what grows on their soil, for the men of the soil. It reflects its people, their lifestyle and is laden with a romance of valour, of battle cries, of pride and honour, of colour and resilience. But with my heartstrings tied still to the rose petals of Awadh kheer and velvety textures of mutton kababs, I looked for the refined and found instead the wholesome with largely coarse grains that were de rigueur in the absence of any other form of roughage.
Bajra rotis or the doughy batias (thicker version of rotis) that soak in the ghee deep to make them finger licking delicious are the counterpart to the delectable sheermaal or baqarkhani rotis back home. When I searched for the array of kababs, I found the sula where slices of boneless mutton are marinated in spices and kachri (a free growing local fruit from the melon family that acts a tenderizer and also gives a tart flavour) and skewered on open fire. Believed to have been brought in from Afghanistan, much like the seekh kababs that came in with the Pathans, Persians and Turki warriors, and underwent tremendous inspirational modifications, the Sula for centuries has remained unaltered yet exceedingly aspirational. My quest for pulao ofcourse remains unsatiated.
Bajre Ka Soyeta
The Soyeta made of bajra or corn is on offer as an unassuming substitute. Made with ground grains, cooked with mutton in the usual spices it is combined with kadhi or the ubiquitous Laal Maas, Rajasthan’s humble qorma, trending on the world stage! The technique of cooking in khad or a pit is Rajasthan’s bucolic parallel to the elevated dum of Awadh. Cooking on the go for the soldiers was imperative where meat was wrapped and roasted covered in a pit to produce characteristic flavours. This very rustic technique now produces Khad Murg worthy of a fine dining spread. The abundant use of ghee in awadh may have been for enhancing flavours but in Rajasthan it was used to cut the pungency of chilies. Buttermilk replaced the thick curds in cooking as the churning separated the butter, which had its own use. Because it was diluted, it also conserved water while adding the required acidity to the dish. Scarcity of essentials in Rajasthan made life more challenging and hence everything was about conserving. Food imitated life and the feisty people of the dessert till date celebrate it with abundant colours and a balance of the basics, used in excess.
And while my love and longing for the Ganga Jamni Tahzeeb, with its mélange of cultural nuances, Awadh cuisine with its exalted subtleties and heightened drama of presentation is ever alive and seeking, I bow in deep reverence to the food of Rajasthan, its origins and the fact that it has held its own and will continue to do so because its roots are its own.
