My dada’s love for kantola and other stories
My late grandfather’s finicky taste for Gujarati food still holds me in good stead
‘Aav re varsaad, dhebariyo parsad, uni uni rotli ne Karela nu shaak…’
‘Come, oh rain, with bountiful delicacies, steaming soft rotlis and a bitter gourd sabji…’
As filmmaker Nihar Desai’s mother narrates this poem in the trailer of ‘Aav Re Varsaad’, a new, seven-part documentary series on Gujarati food, the distant echo of my dada’s (grandfather) voice floods my mind.
During the monsoon, when dark clouds cast shadows in our living room by noon, he’d sit by the window with a beedi between his fingers and recite this poem to me.
On cue, my mother would serve his favourite monsoon vegetable — kantola (spiny gourd), a close cousin of the bitter gourd. She’d cut them in roundels and stir-fry till crisp with chana no lot (gram flour), dhana jeeru (coriander-cumin powder) and lal marchu (red chilli powder). He’d have it with piping hot chapatis.
If Instagram existed back then, my grandfather could have single-handedly trended the hashtag ‘flame to plate’ because he refused to even touch a cooked dish that had been cooled down to room temperature. “Garam garam khaay toh loi thaay (‘hot food forms blood cells directly’),” he’d say, cajoling me to bite into his beloved snack kand ni puri — thick slices of purple yam dipped in besan, flecked with whole coriander seeds and deep-fried — so hot that steam would escape from my mouth.
Sometimes, irritated by his request to reheat kadhi or vaal ni dal (field beans curry) before every helping, I would retort, “Why don’t you just sit on the gas and eat?” He would take my comment in his stride, smiling.
Every episode of Aav Re Varsaad brings back memories of dada, each incidentally related to food. My earliest memory with him is visiting Rama Krishna, a restaurant in our resident suburb of Vile Parle, Mumbai. He’d drive me down in his white Fiat 1100 and we’d relish a sada dosa together.
While the docu-series focuses on the Desai kitchen, it is filled with universal truths about Gujaratis and their obsession with food. As Desai’s mother points out, even a fast in their household involves the preparation of different dishes and eating till full.
My grandfather, who grew up in Amdavad (Ahmedabad, if you will) with familial ties to Surat, was no different. For him, fasting days were an excuse to feast on sabudana khichdi, rajgira (amaranth) puris, ghee-laced chunks of suran (elephant foot yam) and dahi kela nu raitu (banana raita).
He couldn’t stand bland food and required each dish to have a fine balance of sweet, sour and spice. So, even a simple moraiyo — a porridge of barnyard millet — would be tempered with lots of cumin and ginger.
When my sister and I would abstain from salt for an annual, five-day fast in monsoon, colloquially called ‘aluna’, he’d ask my mother to make bhajiyas of moras bhaji since the sea purslane’s inherent salty taste would please our palates. Though this request was made on our behalf, he’d be the one relishing these fritters the most, his eyes glinting with joy.
My dada lived to eat and cherished every meal. He’d place a teapoy by the window, adjust his chair to face it and eat mindfully, without watching television or any other distraction. It’s a habit my sister and I have cultivated too.
If he enjoyed the act of eating solo, he loved sharing food and feeding others in equal measure. His mental map of Mumbai was dotted with restaurants and food stores as landmarks that came to his rescue on any occasion or outing.
No visit to our family doctor in Andheri West was complete without bringing home mawa cakes and chocolate rolls from Merwans Cake Shop. On Janmashtami eve, he would accompany my father’s friends to Dadar flower market to pick up fist-sized batata vadas from the iconic Maharashtrian eatery, Mama Kane’s. If he sniffed a new food store opening in Vile Parle, he’d be among the first to queue up and parcel fare for us to try.
I never saw my grandfather cook but he pampered me by waking up before dawn and making kadak cha as I studied for Class 10 exams. Used to this habit, I still can’t get myself to make tea every morning. If I do, I tip in an extra spoonful of tea leaves so that it resembles the cider hue of his cha.
Seasonal eats governed my dada’s palate. No summer was complete without a meal of ras and turiya patra (colocasia leaf rolls cooked with ridge gourd). During winters, he’d either bring ponkh (fresh sorghum) neatly wrapped in muslin from Surat or get it from a local market in Mumbai so that we could enjoy it at least once in the season, with limbu-mari ni sev (lime and pepper sev), green garlic chutney et al.
While Gujarati food dominated his palate, after migrating to Mumbai in the 1960s and once my sister and I came into the picture in the ’90s, he began savouring an array of eats, from manchurian to masala pav, enchiladas and his favourite dessert, the sizzling brownie.
“Na nai padvani. Badhu try karvanu (Don’t say no. One should try everything),” he’d say, teaching me one of my biggest life lessons.
Meanwhile, years of catering to his finicky taste for Gujarati food ensured that our kitchen retains the original flavours that he liked, even 11 years after his sudden death.
The undhiyu, for example, is prepared only when our trusted vegetable seller gets his stock of green garlic and papdi (broad beans) from Surat. The handvo doesn’t pass the test unless it has an evenly charred crust, following the recipe of his sister who resided in Ahmedabad. And I crave ponkh every winter.
Away on the night he died, I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. But through these practices, I cling on to the fatherly bond I shared with him. They also hold me in good stead on days I don’t feel a sense of belonging to Mumbai, which has been my home since birth.
Looking back, I wish I had prodded him more about his childhood in Ahmedabad.
Though aware of my career choice of journalism, he left before I found food writing as my calling. I know he would have gladly accompanied me for restaurant reviews and shared a drink with me too. It would have been our special secret.
My biggest regret is never having cooked a meal for him. I seek refuge in his spirit instead, trying to channel it when perfecting the balance of masalas just the way he’d have liked, cooking seasonal food, eating mindfully and trying out different cuisines.
The kantola, however, has vanished from our monsoon menu. My mother fears it will not taste the same without him.
