Gone with the Vindaloo

by Vikram Nair

Genres: General Fiction; Cultural Heritage; Family Life

Synopsis

`Vikram Nair?s novel is a lunatic romp that begins as a colonial adventure and ends with the conquest of the West by Indian fast food. Like a runaway food processor, it rounds up pink colonial sahibs, ambitious wogs, pedigreed bawarchis, gross desi public-school boys, a Russian heroine called Svetlana, godmen and Woodstock, and purées them into a lavatorial epic. If you want to read funny foodie fiction that takes the pleasures of the flesh seriously, this is your novel.?? MUKUL KESAVAN Kalaam, by caste a spinner of yarns, discovers by delicious accident that he has a God-given flair for concocting the most delectable recipes ? a gift that he passes through his son Param to his grandson Pakwaan, the true inheritor of his passion and talent. It is Pakwaan?s signature Vindaloo, tempered to mouth-watering perfection, that catches the fancy of everyone who tastes it, including Svetlana, a nirvana-seeking Russo-American who is convinced that this dish (and its very exotic creator) is the answer to the Western world?s craving for all things exotic. But what adventures await the starry-eyed Pakwaan in America, the promised land of possibilities? A rollicking ride through a century?s worth of history, Gone with the Vindaloo follows the lives, times and exploits of three generations in a family of cooks. Delightfully subversive and consistently irreverent, this many-layered debut serves up imperialism, consumerism, packaged food ? and the very art of storytelling ? in a flavour all its own.'

Release date: February 5, 2014

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 248

Sample

Dream Sequence

DINNER had been simple vegetarian fare, the once-a-week-every-Tuesday convention in the Mahadev household. Simple baingan ka bharta – aubergines, plump and purple, roasted over the fire and skinned, the smoky flesh sautéed lightly with onions and tomatoes – and urad ki daal, fluffy and moist, equal portions of the lentil and water pressure-cooked till soft and tempered with ginger, onions and tomatoes. For the greens there was palak paneer – a purée of dark green spinach flavoured with cumin, or jeera, and saunf, anise, and flecked with the brilliant gold-white of cottage cheese. All of it served with crisp, flaky parantha sprinkled generously with the roasted tartness of carom seeds, or ajwain. Surprisingly, the children, devoted carnivores, loved the meal and complimented Pakwaan, the passionate cook, blessed with flair and able assistant to his father, Param.

Pakwaan bathed as soon as he had finished cleaning the kitchen, scrubbing off the sticky humidity from his skin, luxuriating in the freedom that comes from wearing only a lungi at the end of the day. He felt the cool breeze blow past his legs as he scratched his balls, pinched, squeezed and stretched his foreskin. Then he slept and dreamt magnificently.

Full orchestra! Kha-chaang! Kha-chaang! Clashing of glittering cymbals – their metallic thinness echoing into space. Thousands of violins tucked under chins, faces rapt, eyes closed, heads and bodies vigorously swaying, engrossed in making melodious music. Highways, caressed by white billowy clouds, floated across a clear blue sky. Sensuous nymphs in sheer Banarsi brocades wafted by, flashing their breasts and deliciously flared hips. Pakwaan felt a flutter of excitement, the beginning of a glorious erection.

A tall and massive man dressed in a shimmering robe, flowing and fabulous, now filled his dream. A Rajasthani saafa, six yards of beautiful bandhani fabric, was tied around his head, the fabric stretched, flat and broad on one side and, on the other, lovingly coiled like sensuous snakes.

‘I am the God of Magic and in my hand I hold a pen, a most important discovery, for it will improve both the memory and the wisdom of people who will use it,’ said the shiny figure in a loud and important voice.

The figure shrank suddenly, receding, allowing space for a familiar character.

Enter Kalaam, Pakwaan’s grandfather, wearing a dhoti, his torso draped in a crisp, clean gumchha.

‘O God of Magic, Paragon of Inventors, Father of Writing, you are mistaken,’ he said gravely, shaking his head, looking sorry for the showy giant of a man. ‘You have attributed to this pen quite the opposite of its real function. Those who acquire it will cease to exercise their memory and become forgetful; they will rely on external signs instead of using their internal resources. What you have discovered is a receipt for recollection, not for memory. And, as for wisdom, your pupils will have the reputation for it without the reality. They will receive an overload of information without proper instruction and will be thought of as knowledgeable when they are, for the most part, quite ignorant. And because they will be filled with the conceit of wisdom, instead of real wisdom they will be a burden to society.’

On hearing this, the shiny giant was lum-late – passed out, horizontal – stunned, the pen still in his hand. The nymphs floated back into Pakwaan’s dream, clapping, celebrating his grandfather’s words. But in a flash the giant was up, his eyes full of venom, his mouth twisted into a vicious sneer. ‘You bloody dhoti-gumchhawalla, what do you know?’

Then came a storm of great ferocity. A terrible tornado that brought whooshing whirlpools of wind, ripping the giant’s saafa from his head, the robe from his body, sucking his body out of the dream. A moment of pitch-black emptiness was replaced by the gushing waters of the seven seas sloshing inside a massive cauldron, a ship stuffed with spices sailing effortlessly across the waves.

‘Land ahoy!’ a sailor yelled and a gust of wind carried chillies red and green, cloves and cardamoms, onions, cinnamon and cumin, coriander seeds and turmeric, garlic and ginger and black pepper, and meat, fat, juicy and pink from the legs of a young pig – ingredients for the salivating spiciness and tart hotness of delicious Vindaloo. People poured out of their homes, women with flowers in their hair, men with their musical instruments, excited, chattering children in tow. Pakwaan saw himself in the dream, leading the way.

The marination began. Pyramids of chillies, cardamom, cloves, peppercorns, whole cumin and coriander were ground in toddy vinegar under Pakwaan’s enthusiastic supervision, and kept aside. The marinade was then worked into the mounds of juicy pink pork. Pakwaan showed the crowd the way, his fingers kneading in the paste so that each piece was soaked completely in spicy tartness. Onions were fried till golden, tossed with turmeric, garlic and ginger, and the marinated meat, red and full of hot promise, was thrown into the cauldron and left to simmer till the meat was cooked.

‘VINDALOO!’ The crowds happily announced and the tasting began. Taste buds exploded in congratulatory applause, curry dribbled down the chins of the greedy, and the etiquette-wallas pat-patted their napkins on their lips. At this point, from the ocean, a woman emerged, her top clinging to her sinewy, shining white body. She ran towards the cauldron and dipped her hand into the Vindaloo, sensuously licking the curry from her fingers, astonished by its taste. Her eyes sought out Pakwaan, who was standing at the front of the crowd, and she embraced him, caressing his body greedily. Pakwaan experienced full-full arousal, his huge straining erection anticipating joys of entry. Kha-chaang! Kha-chaang! The cymbals clashed amidst the thrusting and thrashing of their bodies, and in the end there was a volcanic, splotchy release. He felt a warm, sticky wetness and woke, startled by his dream.

Hey Bhagwaan! What a dream, he thought, as he changed into a fresh lungi and walked out of his room, looking up at the sky. He could sense the beginnings of a coastal monsoon. Raising his arms skyward, he thanked God for blessing him with an instinctive, primal passion for cooking and a natural flair for proportion, taste and texture.



Since Pakwaan could remember, his father’s kitchen was a magical place. Mouth-watering smells surrounded him, and the sight of curries on a simmer, gently bubbling, enthralled. His father chopping onions, holding one end firmly with the tips of his fingers, exposing just enough so that very thin slices could be cut. Schlick, schlick, schlick, the knife moving in a blur, and in an instant it was done. Spices being roasted, cumin seeds popping on hot tawas, paneer and mushroom being diced, fresh meats marinated in yogurt and spices, the marination worked in with the hands. Ah! For him it was an indescribably sensuous feeling. And the transformation – the food changing colour and texture over heat – the gobi just the right golden-yellow, the chicken and mutton the desired rich dark brown. All this achieved without written recipes, without a reminder from wound-up clocks that time was up. Just smell, feel and texture to determine the doneness of a particular dish.

‘Beta,’ his father used to tell him, ‘from Mother Earth sprang herbs, from herbs came food, from food seed and from seed man. Man thus consists of the essence of food – from food are all creatures produced and by food do they grow. And placed in the centre of all this is the cook, solely responsible for the taste of food. Ah, food! Made well, it can be the start of contented conversations; badly made, it can lead to disgruntled hunger. Appreciative wah-wahs after meals are heady for the cook but bad meals leave diners with silent hostilities. Yes, cooking can be as cruel as it can be enchanting. Spices have to be tempered and balanced so that taste buds enjoy the right kind of titillation, the kind that pleasantly fires the edges of the tongue and spreads a delicious warmth over the scalp and ears.’

His father’s repertoire was vast. Dosas and marchwangans, idlis and tamatar gosht, dhokla and machher jhol, biryanis and pulaos, and sarson ka saag and Kerala chemmeen. Pakwaan was a passionate learner, absorbing, sponge-like, his father’s experience. Impressed by his son’s passion, Param too poured out his knowledge, and by the end of Pakwaan’s eighteenth year, exquisite badam pasandas came off his chulhas, crisp paranthas spun off his tawas and flaky lachchedaar rotis rolled off his belan. Confident of Pakwaan’s capabilities, Param gently supervised, calming the boy’s restless excitement, reminding him about the hazards of over-enthusiasm. When the food was ready, Pakwaan always asked his father for his opinion. The ritual remained his most nervous moment – a shishya asking for the guru’s approval.

‘Shabash, beta,’ Param would say, and hug him. The compliment always thrilled Pakwaan.

It was the day of the marchwangan korma, the first time his father had allowed him to make a dish from start to finish. Pakwaan was thrilled at the privilege, at his father’s admission that he had finally come of age. Whole, wrinkled red chillies lay soaking in warm water, moments away from being ground into a rich red paste. The spices were laid out on a plate – little heaps of saunf and saunth, the sweet-sour chutney made from dried ginger and tamarind, a sprinkling of green cardamom and cloves, a pinch of cinnamon and a bowl of perfectly set yogurt. In another ceramic bowl, blood-red food colouring dissolved in two tablespoons of water waited for its moment. He would never forget the flawless white of the yogurt, the blood-red food colour, the greenish-brown saunf and saunth, the brownish-rust of the well-used cooking utensils, and his father telling him, ‘The essence of the korma is dalchini, fragrant cinnamon. Put in just a bit too much’ – his thumb and forefinger pressed lightly together for emphasis – ‘and mouths will burn.’

Such precision, so vast a repertoire and his father’s quotes from old religious texts suggested great and ancient cooking repasts. While Pakwaan tap-tapped two spoonfuls of desi ghee into the kadhai and watched it slide down the sides, gently melting across the bottom of the kadhai like golden honey, his mind sped off, conjuring images of much ancientness. He imagined his ancestors being rewarded with rare and expensive gifts by a Mughal badshah, as an expression of appreciation for a marchwangan korma stupendously made.

The ghee, like his imagination, was hot now. It was time to plop in the yogurt. Cool yogurt hitting hot ghee – a delicious hissing sound at the moment of impact. Pakwaan’s imagination, already in full flow, catapulted him further backward to visions of more ancient ancestors who had served as heads of kitchens supervising delicacies for maharajas, rajas and an assortment of powerful nobles who waited gratefully for the food cooked by their magical hands.

Thoughts of such a glorious past convinced him that he could do no wrong. He moved the ladle vigorously, and with reckless flourish threw in that extra bit of cinnamon and red chillies. As he removed the korma from the fire, he asked, ‘Baba, how old is the cooking tradition in our family?’

‘Beta, you are just the third generation. Your grandfather was the first for whom cooking was a profession. We are, traditionally, Kathuas.’

Three short sentences, and Pakwaan’s flights of culinary fancy into ancient times simply crash-landed. Kathua – slang, generally derogatory, for the circumcised members of ‘a certain minority community’, as the newspapers would describe. He covered his face with his hands, and moved dejectedly to the far end of the kitchen. He was lucky that the button fly was the common closure in those days, so he had no problem in sliding his thumb and forefinger between the buttons and reassuringly pulling at his fleshy protrusion.

Pakwaan did not have a problem being Muslim. He had heard much from his father about their culinary skills. In fact, marchwangan korma was from their traditions. Besides, there were seekh kebabs and kakori kebabs, tamatar goshts, ishtoos, biryanis with their regional variations, roomali rotis, khameeris and bakarkhanis – the list was endless. But he knew, too, of the rumblings within the nation. The khaki-pant movement was marching ahead. Mosques had not been demolished yet and the movement was still to be jaundiced into starker saffron, but Pakwaan had the foresight – and, indeed, the foreskin – to see the dangers that loomed ahead.

‘M’ for Muslim – the letter M, the thirteenth letter in a language made of only twenty-six letters, right in the centre of the near-universal language of the powerful, the language of thought, history and commerce. There, right in the middle, hounded by twenty-five others – what temptation it provided to twist myths into reality and reality into myths. What power it possessed to disguise, what power to mystify. Imagine histories read and written from right to left instead of left to right – handle-ghumanewallas, historians, scholars and students, zindabad, zindabad!

He looked at his father, astonished by the irony (and the humour) of the moment. He was a Kathua with foreskin intact, but with his fabulously imagined culinary heredity drastically circumcised! He began to laugh – a slow, rumbling laugh that soon became a loud hysterical cackle. Param, father of his only son, knew instinctively the reason for this sudden expression of his disappointment. Damn itihaas, he fleetingly thought. But dinner had to be served and explanations could wait. Yet, the more Param tried to calm his son, the more hysterical the boy became, till his father had no option – he swung his arm, and phattack! And even before four crimson fingers could leave their mark on Pakwaan’s cheek, there was absolute silence. In the midst of all the commotion, the ritual of son asking father to taste was forgotten. The marchwangan korma left the kitchen dangerously spicy and a touch raw.

The Happy and Not SoSmall Mahadev Parivar

‘FULL plate in the centre, quarter plate to the left, full plate in the centre, quarter plate to the left,’ Pakwaan muttered to himself as he went about laying the dinner table. It was the first time his father had smacked him. He rushed through his task, placing knives, forks and spoons, and quickly placed the mats for the serving vessels for the marchwangan, daal, rice and vegetables. There was a hint of desperation as he went about setting the table, imagining his own embarrassment if the family, especially the children, saw the four red fingers on his cheek.

Mahadev, translated literally as Great God, was the head of the household. He was born at a time when the land and the minds of the subcontinent were being fertilized and cultivated under the colonial yoke, and the Indian Civil Services, or simply the ICS, was one of the most important torchbearers of the fertilization flame.

The civil servants were extraordinary. Vilayat-educated, suited-booted, living in big bungalows with orderlies, khidmatgars, hookabardars, bawarchis and syces, they were, despite their colour, almost as important as the rulers themselves. Their powers fascinated him. And so from village primaries to suburban secondaries and on to urban universities, Mahadev made his determined way to join this educated elite who exercised such enormous clout. In 1949, two years after the country was partitioned, he found that a slice of history had been thrust upon him! He was a member of the desi elite, the Indian Administrative Services, or simply (and quite powerfully) the IAS. His was the second batch, almost at the head of the vanguard of fulfilment, his young shoulders carrying a noble and heavy burden.

There were only a few bureaucrats of his vintage in Bhubaneswar, the movers and shakers who could shape the destiny of the masses. As he sat in his room, the Burra Sahib with his chhota peg, Mahadev reminisced about his day. He had lost count of the number of obsequious people who had flattered him to curry favours that he could easily grant. As he sipped his second chhota, his being was filled with the warm glow of self-importance. He looked forward to dinner.

The rest of the family was getting dressed for dinner, too. Freshening up before meals was the convention laid down by Mahadev for his household. He loved the idea of a warm, loving home and mementoes of his two favourite homilies were displayed in all the houses he had stayed in. The first, ‘A house is made of bricks and stones, but a home is made of love alone’ in white lettering on four black metal strips encircled by small copper leaves, found its place at the entrance to the house, and the second, ‘The family that together eats and prays, together forever always stays’, occupied a prominent place in the dining room.

His wife, Jhelum, beautiful, milk-white fair, was the youngest of six brothers and sisters. With the passage of time, coastal colour had crept into her cheeks and facial freckles stayed as reminders of childbirth. While the Great God sipped his chhota, she sat facing the mirror in her bedroom, patting powder on her face to restore the freshness that might have been lost between Mahadev arriving from work and dinner being served.

With her freshness patted back on, Jhelum made her way to the kitchen to check the dinner bandobast. It was a formality. Param hated supervision; in fact, he discouraged any interference in his kitchen. But he made an exception for Jhelum because she had added an angrez dimension to his formidable skills. She had introduced him to the refined and dainty art of baking. For her it had been an added qualification for matrimony and a coming closer to memsahibdom; for him it was a unique addition to his culinary talents. The varieties of cakes, scones, buns, puffs, sweets and spongy soufflés that could be baked were a revelation for Param, and with his natural feel for taste and texture his skills had soon matched those of his tutor.

Tuesday was baking day in Jhelum’s household, and every Tuesday, Dadu, the gentle old ex-Chief Secretary of the state (and retired ICS) ambled his way to the house to sample the day’s fresh baking. Post retirement, Dadu lived in Bhubaneswar and had developed a great fondness for Jhelum – the fondness of an old father for his youngest child. And there was Uncle Chuk, also a senior IAS officer and still in service, his rotund, balding, thinning hair brilliantly Brylcreemed and his bushy moustache peppered by age. He would announce his arrival by hauntingly whistling ‘Que Sera, Sera’ as he walked across the polished red cement floor of the veranda. ‘Jhaay-lum,’ he would call, stretching her name affectionately. ‘My coffee and your baking.’

And so, the Great God was doubly blessed. He was a Burra Sahib and also the undisputed head of a household that was recognized for its kitchen. The taste of power and the power of taste! What a heady combination!

Mahadev was the eldest son in a family of five. His selection in the IAS had been a great source of pride for his family. In fact, with Mahadev’s selection, their cup overflowed with joy, for only a few months before Mahadev’s entry into the elite bureaucracy his younger brother had been selected for the Indian Railways. Their family’s status in the small town they lived in assumed gigantic proportions. Imagine, two sons, both ‘prestigiously posted’ – like two rare invaluable stamps. They were matrimonial medals waiting to be worn. Missives and messengers were sent to mothers and matchmakers for suitable spouses. Jhelum was identified as a suitable life-partner for the Railways man and Mahadev, being older, was deputed to conduct the once-over, the dekho, for pyari Jhelum. Jhelum’s family loved the idea of a life partnership with the Railways. ‘Imagine,’ they said, ‘free railway passes for our Jhelum to come home whenever she wishes.’ But kismet, ah kismet, was about to switch the tracks to take her on a different journey. Mahadev arrived at Jhelum’s house and was received warmly by the family. While Jhelum made tea and sandwiches in the kitchen, they indulged in polite chit-chat, and Jhelum’s eldest brother quickly realized that Mahadev’s placement was more prestigious than the prospective groom’s. The demure damsel entered with a tea tray, followed by a servant carrying the sandwiches covered with a doily with colourful beads sewn on its edges. Jhelum, head bowed in shyness, placed the tea tray on the table and as the servant did likewise with the plate of sandwiches, Jhelum removed the doily, Mahadev looked up at her and kismet intruded. Struck by her beauty, he decided to marry her. The odds were stacked in Mahadev’s favour – he was older and his posting more prestigious. Both families readily agreed, and immediately after Mahadev’s short and concentrated training in the art of running an independent nation barely two years old was complete, the Great God and Jhelum were wed.

Tek Ram was the eldest of their children. Govinda, their second child, was three years younger – the correct gap between siblings for the mother to remain healthy. Gauri was the youngest. Only eleven months (‘Legs, Number 11,’ as the compere would announce at tambola sessions) separated Govinda from Gauri. Gauri was a mother’s wish for a daughter finally fulfilled, an accident of passion born at a time when a two-child family was about to become the national norm.

‘We are the first country in the world to have a family planning programme,’ Mahadev would proudly remind his family as he ticked off his own achievements as well as those of the IAS for a newly independent India in all sorts of throes. Family planning was national priority – sizes of families had to be rationalized, awareness of birth-control methods had to be spread, condoms had to be worn, and passion, in general, kept in check. The fresh, young batch of administrative gladiators moved with firm resolve to ensure success in these endeavours and Mahadev himself was involved in policy at the highest levels. He was Collector of Sundergarh at the time and determined that his collectorate should be the finest example of population control.

The Centre had decided that the best way to spread the message would be via giant billboards displayed across the state. The message would have to be short, have a ring of divinity and, if possible, rhyme. And so the slogan was coined:

‘Great Mother Orissa beckons us all

To keep our families happy and small.

So come, let us all check the population wave,

Chief minister, health minister and Mahadev.’

Below this bouncy ditty was the drawing of a family showing a father holding his daughter and a mother with her son, and below it the message, ‘A small family is a happy family. Ek ya do, bas!’, followed by ‘Use Nirodh (Made by the Govt of India)’. It was another matter that Nirodh, which meant to stop, control, block, had been a popular enough boy’s name till the campaign began, but after the name became synonymous with ‘condom’ in India, all the boys named Nirodh became Niraad, the Nirudhs became Anirudhs and the name dropped off the lexicon of good Hindu names for boys.

Mahadev’s campaign was ready, the billboards mounted across roads and busy intersections, the posters typeset, the copy read and corrected, all set to go to the press. The use of Mahadev was not an attempt at self-glorification on his part (though it was, no doubt, an added benefit). It rhymed with ‘wave’ and called on the blessings of Shiva, the most popular god of the Hindu triumvirate, giving the message a ring of divinity. Mother Orissa beckoning, the chief minister and health minister sanctioning, Great God willing, the campaign was success guaranteed!

But kismet, an unpredictable, never-to-be-taken-for-granted force, willed it otherwise.

With Govinda’s delivery a few months away, Jhelum had left with Tek Ram for her maikaa. It was customary for the sisters to go home to roost and this time she had company as her older sister, also pregnant, was there as well. They spent more time at their maikaa than usual and by the time Jhelum arrived in Sundergarh, the Collector, her husband, in the prime of his youth, had missed her intensely and she him.

The sun had set and a cool coastal breeze blew, lush with passion. Their bodies touched, skin on skin. Feeling-fooling, kissing-shissing, feeling-fondling followed. The condoms be hanged, control be damned, and Mother Orissa looked the other way. Jhelum was into her third month when the doctor confirmed she was pregnant and advised against abortion. Mahadev was stunned, embarrassed – the passionate pillar of population control, now guilty of having one child over the about-to-be prescribed norm.

The Centre was informed, and the chief minister and health minister did not miss the irony. A guilty Mahadev suggested the last two lines of the slogan be expunged from the ditty, but they insisted it was too late. ‘Mahadev’ implied cosmic connotations necessary to control the overactive libidos of the superstitious masses. And if babudom wills it, babudom gets it – jahan Michael hai wahan cycle hai. So the ditty remained as is, but the slogan was changed – from ‘Ek ya do, bas!’ to ‘Do ya teen, bas!’ The drawing of the family remained the same – two kids were still the ideal, but if push came to passionate shove, a third was permitted. Everything was perfect – the baby grew in Jhelum’s womb, having allowed masses of families an extra child.

Today Gauri was restless. Bhubaneswar, with its open spaces, cool sea breeze from the coast, its brigh. . .