ODE TO DELHI’S CUISINE
Sadia Dehlvi’s superb book brings alive the saalans and mehmannawazi of Delhi
Cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, coriander seeds. With military precision, I lay out the spices. And immediately run into my first hurdle: I have no clue what javitri looks like and need to Google this before I can begin today’s mission in the kitchen. It’s a sunny Sunday and I am trying out a recipe from Sadia Dehlvi’s new book, Jasmine and Jinns: Memories and Recipes of My Delhi. I start off with the qorma, the deceptively easylooking dish that is, in fact, very hard to nail. Since nobody wants to waste good mutton on a novice, I’m trying out this recipe with chicken. My grandmother, one of those with haath mien lazzat, as Dehlvi’s mother would say, could make a mean qorma. The run-up to the actual dish would involve frying onions till they were crispy golden brown and spices ground fine in her marbled imamdasta or mortar and pestle. But while I want to replicate the taste, the temptations to use short-cuts is strong. So my fried onions come out of a packet and a pressure cooker replaces the deghchi.
In equal parts a family history, a recipe book, chronicle of a community and a photo album, Jasmine and Jinns is a rather delicious entry into the world of saalans, meh
mannawazi and jinn stories that define Delhi. Dehlvi closely describes the life and traditions of Punjabi saudagaran, a business community of Khatri Hindus who embraced Islam at the hands of Sufi cleric Hazrat Shamsuddin. In 1657, after a plague ravaged Shahjahan’s Delhi, a caravan of saudagaran families migrated to the city from Pakistan’s Punjab on the emperor’s invitation. The writer, whose grandfather Hafiz Yusuf adopted the sobriquet ‘Dehlvi’ to honour his beloved city, locates this part memoir, part cookbook in Delhi’s food history. Early chapters touch on the spreads at Mughal dastarkhwans as well as current famous eateries such as Chainaram and Natraj Dahi Bhalle Wale that has long passed into legend. But the book is also an intimate look at Old Delhi’s Muslim culture, much of which can still be found in its gali mohallas. Elders in the house constantly talk of how food affects the body, some things have garam taseer and produce heat while others have thandi taseer and cool it down. The terms badey ka gosht and chotey ka gosht to refer to beef and mutton are common parlance, so is the utter Delhi-bred scorn for bhed ka gosht or lamb meat. Nihari is now standard fare, but it was once considered a poor man’s food and was only eaten nahar munh or on an empty stomach for breakfast. Aaloo gosht or saalan, a dish I have only seen in Muslim homes, is still considered a taboo in weddings as it is funeral food.
Dehlvi’s chronicle is timely. Some of the food and culture she mentions is already on the wane. Sweet, thick milk in earthen kulhads is not available at every nukkad, butchers have switched to machines to mince meat, qalaigars, who polish copper utensils, are a rare sight. And just like the fried onions now available in sealed packets, there are changes in the heart of the old city. Corner shops sell chicken tikkas with mayonnaise, local joints deliver halal pizzas, and you are likely to find a stall selling (largely unedible) momos right next to a kebab shop.
The jasmine and jinns of the title come from Dehlvi’s account of growing up in Shama Kothi, named after the popular Urdu literary and film magazine founded by her grandfather and edited by her father. Most Urdu-speakers are familiar with Shama, or its sister publications, Khilona, a children’s magazine, and Bano, for women readers, which was edited by Dehlvi’s mother. Shama was wildly popular, and hosted the star-studded Shama Film Awards attended by big names like Rajesh Khanna, Dimple Kapadia, Nargis, Rakhee and Gulzar. Shama Kothi at 11, Sardar Patel Marg comes alive in these pages as a rambunctious open house, teeming with guests and Dehlvi’s cousins. Sunday brunches meant an assortment of nihari and Nagpuri oranges, while vacations are packed with ice cream sojourns to India Gate. This was a time when every household had its own stories. In Shama Kothi, these are recounted by Amma, Dehlvi’s grandmother and Apa Saeeda, the family retainer who brought up the writer and her siblings. Amma placed small bunches of jasmine on the charpai of elders. “These were taboo for us young girls. She warned that jinns are attracted to the fragrance of jasmine and if they smelled it on an unmarried girl, they could become her aashiq, possessive lover,” writes Dehalvi. The writer’s close bond with Apa Saeeda, to whom the book is dedicated, reverberates through the book. Apa Saeeda wears many hats, teaching Dehlvi to cook, turning shadows on the walls into bedtime stories, and becoming so indispensable that a threat that she would go to her native Baghpat would bring the house to a standstill. The decline in Urdu readership meant a decline in Shama’s fortunes. One by one, the magazines closed down. Shama Kothi was sold off in 2002. The jinns seemed to have packed up their bags and left. The city is changing, and Dehlvi’s book will be of interest to anyone who is fascinated by Delhi’s culture. The writing is simple, and Urdu words or phrases are explained. If you are looking for a detailed recipe book for beginners, this is not a step-by-step manual. What it does do is share jealously-guarded family recipes. Only your haath ki lazzat, though, will determine if the qorma you make smells of Purani Dilli.