Memoir: Adventure, Liquor & Rustic Menus at Diverse Places

Soumya relives the adventure of travelling and eating at remote places, Ranthambore, Jona, Kashmir, and Delhi. The common thread between these was the elevated spiritual state. An exclusive for Different Truths.  

I am a foodie.  My girth gives credence to the fact. But when I try to remember specific feasts, it is not the quality of the meals. And definitely not the quantity. But the associated memories, the ambience, the locale, the company. And the circumstances in which they were enjoyed make them memorable.

Often it was poor fare by any gourmet standards or any standards at all. But the enjoyment derived beats Michelin rated chefs hollow. Not that I usually dine in that style but had the good fortune of sampling a few.

Enough of this preamble.

Listed are some meals I vividly remember, despite being in an elevated spiritual plane when partaking in them.

In no particular order.

Dal-Bati and Chach – Ranthambore, 1983

Venue: A remote hamlet near Ranthambore, in Rajasthan.

Ambience: Squatting on the mud floor, being served by giggling veiled women

Company: Three more backpackers, from Shillong, Mumbai and Australia respectively.

Hosts: A bevy of Rajasthani belles, wives and daughters of illegal wood gatherers and herdsmen. They were giggling behind their veils and conversing through sign language. And an incomprehensible dialect.

Menu: Lumps of dough made of Bajra roasted directly on wood fire, crumbled with homemade ghee, and some sort of lentil. This is Dal-bati, a rural Rajasthani staple, one helping of which is enough to bloat a city dweller. This is washed down with buttermilk or chach in huge brass tumblers. Even the chillum enhanced appetite wasn’t sufficient to consume more.

Charges: Free.

This was during a backpacking trip in Rajasthan. We were denied legal entry in the Tiger Reserve and given shelter by complete strangers in a nearby hamlet. The ladies fed us, found our demeanour and appetites hilarious, when we showed helplessness in having more than one helping.

Purdah was maintained by them staying just indoors and roaring with laughter from behind ghunghats (veils). We were referred to as ‘Bawre’ – the crazy ones. We slept in their courtyard, and later entered the forest illegally with their men folk. We carried a packed lunch of chana and gur, or as the Aussi called it, nuts, and sugar. Suggestions of reimbursement of costs was considered extreme bad manners as we were guests.

Fish Crab and Unknown Bird, Roasted on Open Fire. And River-chilled Mahua – Jona, Jharkhand, 2002

Venue: Open air among rocks and roaring water, at the Jona falls, near Ranchi.

Ambience: Bathing in the falls, deserted thanks to fear of Maoists. The lone tribal man fishing and trapping in the river turned out not to be a terrorist but a gracious villager. He offered to share his meal.

Menu: Freshly caught fish and crab, gutted, stuck on sticks, and roasted on an open fire. Ditto small bird trapped or shot with sling. Served on leaves. Washed down with Mahua, the delicious elixir made from the red flowering tree. It intoxicates elephants, bears, deer, monkey, and birds, from old beer bottles, cooled in the rushing stream.

Company: My colleague from Ranchi who knew of this place, and the suspected red menace.

Having a day to kill after a business trip to Ranchi got over early. We visited the now deserted Jona falls and had this memorable experience, which made me miss the flight back. Our tribal host was happy with whatever we offered him. He didn’t ask, nor demur, nor bargain, merely gravely accepted whatever was offered.

Nun Cha, and Mathi – Kashmir, 2013

Venue: A Kashmiri wooden house in a village, somewhere on route Gulmarg.

Ambience: Squatting on a carpet in the central room of the traditional house. We were surrounded by a bevy of stunning women. Please note no burqa or veil. All relatives of our driver, being quizzed as the first outsiders or Indians as they called us, to ever visit their home.

Menu: Salt tea or Nun cha, a Kashmiri staple not available in shops. It involves night-long soaking and hours of boiling. And is more like soup. And Mathi, or home baked salted pastries.

It happened by chance, when stopping for Kava after a Wazwan at well-known eateries on route Gulmarg. Our driver, whom my wife suspected of being a terrorist, confided on quizzing that this isn’t what they have at home. When I wanted to sample home fare, he invited us home.

Leaving the main road, and finally the car, we walked down narrow lanes to the wooden house. Our host answering every villager’s question on the way. His sister hosted the tea party. And everyone posed for photographs. Other than security forces on search operations, we were the first outsiders in their village, in three decades

Venue: My barsati bachelor pad in Delhi

Ambience: Impromptu potluck party, which was also my wedding feast.

Company: My new bride and a whole bunch of disreputable friends.

Menu: Being potluck, everyone brought something to ensure high spirits, whether liquid solid or whatever. But no one remembered food.  A sober neighbour went out and got a lot of eggs, sausages, bread-and-butter and that was the meal that cheered everyone but my wife.

Being a sudden decision and being broke, my post elopement party went like this. We left a room and terrace full of comatose people and went to face my unsuspecting parents and furious in-laws

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