How to make dhokla

Author: Erica Murdoch

The last rays of a miserable winter sun touch the fence-top. This is the view from an attic bedroom above my brother-in-law’s shop. It’s hardly the stuff of a dream holiday — a duty visit to my husband’s family in Manchester. I know we owe it to them after all; we ran away and got married. I should want to be here, getting to know them, except the Australian accents coming from the latest episode of Home and Away are making me homesick. My sister-in-law calls out and I am summoned to the kitchen to make dhokla.

Kishor, my husband, and I have been living in our expat bubble in Hong Kong. Cushioned by distance and indifference, we never had to weather the storm that was caused by our marriage. However, cheap flights and his guilty conscience have now brought us here to England and here we are, driving up the M1 to a round of visits to my new relatives.

I am scared but also curious. We had married in an unorthodox fashion (registry office with ten guests) and not in the traditional way (Indian wedding with 500 guests) but, from his family’s standpoint, we are married. They are probably as scared and curious as I am.

‘When I come home I always stay where my mother is,’ Kishor had explained. He also told me that his mother lives between three different households. Three families share her care. Traditionally, a mother would live with her youngest son, but as we live in Hong Kong the burden falls on the next three brothers up the line. It is not the first time I have met her. Years earlier, we met at a share house in Portsmouth where she made a surprise visit. If she had wondered about the Australian girl sharing Kishor’s bedroom, she hadn’t let on at the time.

For months before our trip, I had read Teach yourself Gujarati and have learned that I will be called Nani. (Little Aunty) and Kishor is Nana (Little Uncle). I made him draw a family tree and quizzed him about family dynamics and what I should do when we reached England.

He had shrugged. ‘Let’s just let it happen.’

The homework I’ve done barely covers the language but not the culture and the thousand-and-one intricacies that make up the inner workings of an Indian family.

Day One

We stay with my brother-in-law, Anand. His red-brick corner shop brims with barely in-date groceries, piles of newspapers and boxes of cheap plastic toys. My sister-in-law, Vipula, eyes me up and down. She wears a white cardigan over her blue sari and tiny, silver heart-shaped earrings. She ushers me through the cluttered shop into the backroom where I stumble over a sack of rice.

The backroom serves as the living and dining room. Black-and-white photos of unsmiling ancestors line the walls. A Vikrama calendar hangs on the door leading to the kitchen where children’s toys and books lie on the floor. My mother-in-law, Ba, sits on the sofa playing with the remote control. She doesn’t get up when we enter the room. My husband kisses her withered cheek and takes a seat next to her. ‘Kem Chor — how are you?’ he asks.

I hover, unsure of what to do. We hadn’t discussed this part. I lean down and kiss her cheek. She twists her head and her eyes rivet on mine. She doesn’t move but mutters something to my husband. I curl up into myself and sit on one of the dining room chairs. It creaks and Vipula apologises, suggesting I sit on another chair.

Vipula brings snacks: crispy fried samosa, green coriander chutney and a bright yellow sponge cake that’s cut into diamond-shaped pieces. ‘Do you want chapatti or rice, later?’ she asks.

I am confused and turn to my husband.

Kishor explains, ‘Vipula is cooking dhal for dinner; we eat either chapatti or rice with it.’

I feel like this is like some kind of secret code that is not familiar to me, having been brought up by an Australian mother who cooked meat and three veg.

‘Chapatti, please.’ My hand hovers over the sponge cake, which is flecked with coriander. ‘What is this?’ I ask.

‘Dhokla,’ says Vipula. ‘Have you had it before? Try some.’

I bite into it, a savoury-sweet taste with a soft texture.

‘Have another,’ says Vipula.

Ba watches as I chomp my third piece. She mutters to Kishor and stretches out her arms.

He pauses, laughs and shrugs. ‘She says it looks like you like your food.’

Ba empties some of her tea into the saucer and blows on it.

‘Cools it down,’ says my husband. ‘Old Indian trick.’

Ba looks at him and says something. He translates.

‘She says all the women in this family make the tea too hot. She’s been telling them for years,’ he says.

Vipula laughs. ‘That’s just her opinion. I’m going to finish making dinner.’

I stand up to go with her but she pushes me back down. ‘Not tonight. You are the guest.’

The back door bursts open and our nephews come in from the park, bouncing a soccer ball and blowing on their fingers to keep warm. Kishor ruffles their heads and reaches into his pocket and gives them a five-pound note each. Ba’s face changes as she sees her grandsons.

I break off another piece of dhokla. It is my new comfort food though I don’t know it yet.

As we sit down for dinner Anand comes in from the shop. The conversation goes around me, half English and half Gujarati. A pile of light brown chapattis sit at the centre of the table. A platter of fried potatoes and cauliflower flecked with cumin seeds sits next to a carrot and onion salad. Vipula ladles some dhal onto my plate. I look down and realise there is no cutlery.

‘Do you want a spoon?’ asks Vipula. I have the feeling that all eyes are watching me. My nephew, Vijay, breaks off a piece of chapatti and scoops up some cauliflower. I do the same.

‘Take a bigger bit next time, Nani,’ instructs Vijay as he pops his food in his mouth. ‘Easier to hold the food that way.’

I nod, feeling grateful. Not so much of a sting when the instruction comes from a ten-year-old.

It is Day Four

I let out the belt buckle of my jeans. We have been doing the rounds for dinner, eating at a different family home every night. It is the chance for everyone to see us and for each family cook to shine. Kishor is rung every morning asking what he would like to eat that night. Tonight, it is Vipula’s turn. ‘But you have already cooked for us,’ I had protested.

‘Oh, that was just a simple meal,’ she had said. ‘And I’m going to do something different. You’re going to make the dhokla. I know how much you like it.’ She had beamed at me. I had nodded but groaned inwardly. My fourth night of dhokla.

Vipula pushes her hair off her face. Her eyes are curious and bright as she asks, ‘Has Kishor taught you how to make Indian food?’ She glances at Ba who is sitting on her usual spot on the sofa. The television volume softens and Ba sniffs. She pretends to concentrate on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.

‘Oh, we’re both so busy.’ I think back to solitary evenings where he was working late and I was immersed in nothing.

Ba says something in Gujarati and they laugh. I lower my head over the local paper, my face feels flushed and I re-read the editorial of The Tameside Advertiser.

‘She says that he should teach you as it will help him remember,’ says Vipula. ‘Just simple things like dhal and rice and chapatti.’

I nod. ‘We do eat Indian food at home as well as Australian food.’

A sniff comes from the sofa.

Really, I think. Does she ever move off that sofa? I scold myself. This is a seventy-year-old woman in a sari sitting on a sofa in Manchester. She is no threat to you.

Yet she is. The life of the family revolves around that sofa in the backroom of the shop on Oldham Road. She is the glue that holds everyone together. She is both the mother and father. Ba refused to speak English, so the grandchildren had to learn Gujarati. She is one of the last terrible old ladies who line the walls at family weddings.

I am not what she wanted for her youngest son. She desired a suitable girl — maybe from India. There he had been in his mid-twenties and not a girl in sight. She had put out feelers and talked to her cousins over endless cups of tea. If only he hadn’t gone to that university she had moaned. Next, he went to Australia and, several years later, we were married.

‘I’m going to make the dhokla in a different way,’ Vipula said. ‘A better way, not so much time to prepare. Come to the kitchen and we’ll start.’

I walk in with six-year-old Nesha, who has a habit of following me around and calling me Auntie Kangaroo. The children are my allies. Vipula gathers the ingredients on the scuffed orange counter top. She hands me a sifter and sprays a cake tin with oil. I sift. All eyes are on me. The children giggle as I spill some flour. We add the rest of the ingredients and I make a batter. Ba looks alert and calls out instructions in an urgent tone. The sofa faces the kitchen and she has an uninterrupted view.

‘She says don’t forget to add the Eno,’ says Kishor.

‘Do you mean the stuff you buy at the chemist for tummy upsets?’ I asked.

Kishor grinned and shrugged his shoulders, ‘Yes, that’s the one.’

His mother, who is sitting next to him, is enjoying the spectacle, nodding along.

‘She’s about to tell me to stir gently in one direction,’ says Vipula. ‘She tells me every time.’

A snort and a comment from the sofa.

‘Ba says she never does it right,’ Kishor says, munching on Bombay Mix. ‘She is tired of telling her and she should know by now.’

I look at Ba again. It almost seems that she understands, yet they all say she speaks no English.

Ba waves her hand and points to me. Oh god, what now?

Vipula hands me a spoon. ‘She wants you to stir.’

This is a test. I feel more nervous than I did during teaching rounds.

Outside, darkness has fallen. I can’t get used to these 4pm sunsets.

‘Hey, wake up,’ says Kishor. ‘Stir.’

I stir clockwise, counting to myself. Maybe it’s like rowing and you need to do a certain number of rotations per minute. I increase my pace.

‘No,’ Ba calls. She leans forward and motions with her arm. ‘Slow.’

I keep stirring and I watch Ba as she watches me.

‘Why don’t you rest?’ suggests Vipula. ‘I want to see if Kishor still knows how to cook.’

Kishor rolls up his sleeves and says, ‘I’ve got the toughest judge in the family.’ He nods towards Ba.

I protest, not wanting to look weak in front of the old lady. ‘I’m happy to keep going.’

‘The next stage is just steaming. After that, you can help with the topping,’ Vipula says. ‘It’s called rasa.’

There is a burst of Gujarati from the sofa and Ba gestures to Nesha.

My niece takes my hand. ‘Come and look at photos, you might see some of Nana.’

We go back into the living room. I can hear the soft tones of Anand and the ding of the door chime as someone enters the shop.

Nesha points to some photo albums on a coffee table. ‘Shall we start, Nani?’ she asks. She looks proud at the job she has been allocated and bites her lip in concentration. She selects an album and turns the page. There are grainy photos of 1970s England. Family groups stand at front gates on bleak streets, at the Blackpool seafront and outside a circus tent. I can see the younger versions of my brothers-in-law wearing thick ties and brown suits. ‘Look, it’s Nana.’ Nesha points to a photo of Kishor, wearing a school uniform and staring wide-eyed at the camera.

I giggle. ‘He looks terrified.’

‘I was,’ chimes in Kishor, who is stirring mustard seeds. I can hear the pop and the sizzle as he swooshes the pan. ‘Eight years old, no English.’

Ba gestures to Nesha and points upstairs. Nesha takes Ba’s arm and says, ‘Keep going, Nani.’

What was I doing when I was ten? My grandmother had lived with us but I don’t remember taking her to the toilet. That had been my mother’s job.

I turn the page in the photo album. A younger, thinner Ba stares at me but it’s not her youth and thinness that’s striking, it’s the spark of happiness and the sense of adventure that I see on her face.

Kishor calls out from the kitchen, ‘Do you want to see the dhokla?’

The creak of floorboards overhead means that Ba is on her way back downstairs.

I return to the kitchen and see the dhokla is yellow and fluffy like a sponge cake. Perhaps it is the best dhokla in the family.

I pour the fried spices over the steaming dhokla and sprinkle fresh coriander on top.

Kishor grins. ‘Hadn’t tasted this in years till the other night. I’ll have to write the recipe down.’

Ba lumbers back into the living room. She lowers herself onto the sofa, rubs her knee and grunts.

Vipula takes a knife and scores a diamond pattern into the dhokla. She cuts off several pieces and says to me, ‘Take it to Ba.’

As I set the plate of dhokla on the coffee table Ba looks up. She pats the couch beside her and I sit down. She points the remote control to the television and we sit and eat as the Neighbours theme blares out.

ERICA MURDOCH is a Melbourne freelance writer and reviewer. Erica has written for Fairfax, RMIT’s Catalyst and The Music, and reviews for Weekend notes. Erica blogs at the pelvicfloorcoffeeclub.com and has been a guest writer for The Urban Nest and Cross Pollinate blogs.