Grandma’s Desi Ghee Laddoos
An Epic Journey
“Many a hands have rolled me into life, folding me with their own legends to tell. Each pair of hands tries to recreate the same magic touch of their ancestors; they hushed into my ears a little heirloom secret. Some said, “My mama told me to wait for your substance to envelop the whole house in its earthy aroma before embellishing you with cardamom, sugar and nuts. Some told me how the cracks to my spell can be found in pure, unadulterated ghee and dollops of love, of course. Some hands held me unsteadily, not knowing how to bind me intact. Some trembled with a pallor, when I failed to emit that matronly glow that is oh-so-inviting. The hands that held me most steadily were the ones that were creased with the warmth of a million lines. These lines mapped the journey of a seed sown with love, laughter and care blossoming into memories that lasted a lifetime. And these memories live on in me with each pair of hands molding me into their own happy place…into their own blessed childhood.”
It’s the season of festivities and as it goes with all celebrations, it begins with the rolling of magic in your kitchen, doesn’t it? Let’s face it. As moms, we’re just expected to pouf out floaty meringues and perfect parfaits and al dente gulabjamuns and flawless what nots! So God help me… For Janmashtmi and the upcoming Ganesh utsav, I was consumed by an overwhelming nostalgia that got me attempting the un-attemptable. Making besan laddoos. I know I exaggerate a little. But with good reason. You see, I never quite crossed over completely to the other side to switch places with my mum and mum-in-law and grandmum. It just felt like such a sacred, high-pedestaled spot. Ah, the pressure of creating a memorable laddoo! What if it turned rock-hard and my daughter tossed it around in play instead? What if it crumbled to bits before she could put it in her mouth? It’d be as terrifying as watching an avalanche, I think. I could easily be the mom who created laddoos that should be tucked in a handbag along with pepper spray as defense weapons. So no! I didn’t want to be on the other side of life stirring a slotted spoon vigorously into a mountain of besan in a bronze-enameled pan, knowing exactly when to turn the heat off. Come to think of it, it was also my unusual way of remaining a kid.
Despite all that, I found myself struggling to untether away from the desire to add the epic to the epicurean laddoos, rolling slickly from generation to generation. We also fondly know them as dadima ke laddoo. Surely, everyone in a desi home would remember stuffing their face to the point of misery with these cheery little balls lodged up in glass burnees, way ahead of festivals. Some households have besan laddoos all year round with a generous dose of dry fruits. They say it serves as an antidote to every ail that dares to afflict a family with kids. My husband told me a story of how he and his cousins vacationed together every summer. Before they went out to play, their grandma would catch them by surprise at the door by unexpectedly popping laddoos into each one’s mouth. And I found that so endearing in a comical sort of way. Of course, his grandma’s laddoos were melt-in-your-mouth, roasted-to-perfection delights that would hardly meet with any resistance. She happened to be famous in every neighborhood that she went to for that reason and people waited for her in gleeful anticipation when she traveled to other cities.
So considering how much of an emotional pull this plump confection carries, I just had to get on the phone with my guide and mentor, my mum-in-law, to unravel its mystery. As always, she made it sound incredibly simple and inspired me into my very first attempt. (Well, first attempt that I’d like documented. Hee hee!) It sounded suspiciously easy-peasy to me. Anyway, I collected all the core ingredients, pulsed the sugar crystals into a fine powder, crushed cardamom pods into it and then ran assorted dry fruits separately through the same grinder. And then I began roasting besan in my holiday-food, giant-sized aluminium pan. I checked my whatsapp in between. I checked on Saanvi. I resisted the urge of capturing the steps leading up to its epic-ness on my phone camera. I complained of heat. Maybe, I should have donned a flimsier tee for this task. And then I thought about women from other generations who did the same thing in a much-larger proportion…I mean did they get distracted and impatient like me too?
And while I was doing that daunting task of roasting besan in ghee that had now begun annoyingly lumping around my spoon, I was, rather abruptly, shoved inside another time capsule. (Yea, I do that a lot.)
It was mid-afternoon in a seemingly old house with a terracotta roof. It was of staggering breadths (and not just by Mumbai standards). Its vast rooms were decorated with ornate furniture and crotia table tops here and there. The women sat in a courtyard surrounded by potted plants — the presence of which helped in bringing down the villainy of afternoon heat some notches. The courtyard gave a view of the kitchen on one side, the lavatories on the opposite. The rooms were towards the other end and they also connected to the living room through an alleyway around the courtyard. The women sat in a circle near the kitchen. Three generations of women immersed in their share of tasks for the day. One sifted flour by vigorously tossing it in the air. Another crushed cardamoms and dry fruits in turn in a large mortar. Another lady in her late-forties carved out symmetrical shapes out of dense, caramelized coconut in syrupy-goodness spread out on a large thali. They worked closely with the head of the family, a grey-haired woman working in the kitchen. She was emitting beads of sweat, while engrossed in a swift, graceful rhythm of roasting every granule of a large mound of gramflour in a colossal bronze pan. They were all dressed in light cotton sarees, with their pallas cinched at the waist tight, neatly tucked out of their way for maximum productivity. The kids ran about the courtyard and their mums fussed over their near-accidents every now and then. At first, nobody spoke. But soon began a spurt of stories from reminiscences of bygone eras, to the sky-rocketing price of dry fruits, to period stains, to scandals in the neighborhood. Every now and then, a glint of mischief passed through the grey-haired lady’s eyes, who was now evidently flushed from the heat. I don’t know much about these women. I don’t know if they had aspirations to retire for an afternoon siesta instead or merely read a book in their pjs by themselves. I don’t know if they were consumed by any other higher ideals of finding themselves that directly conflicted with their mundane life. But looking at them from a distance, I thought that that these ladies, with #no make-up and hair spruced up in awkward buns or #messybraids, were in their prime element here. They seemed most uninhibited in each other’s company; perhaps the boundaries of rank melted when they worked together this way. They were happy.
And it occurred to me, that if there’s anything missing in the so-called mythical quality of my desi ghee laddoo, it is this magic ingredient. Undoubtedly, our modern lives are getting faster and more cramped with virtual distractions. Our city-dwelling families are shrinking in size. This ghost of an era haunts us with a lesson that the joy of familial cooking was in teamwork and in the innocent pleasure of companionship. It was in putting down our phones and being there in the moment with everybody else. Making the perfect laddoos has never really been JUST about getting the exact measures or making huge commitments of time and energy to give them an irresistible sheen of golden-brown. It’s about the buildup to the laddoo. It’s about the whole atmosphere of connecting with our primal senses and of the boisterous hustle-bustle of a family gearing up for festivities. Of stealing them before they can be offered as prasad and then feeling awfully guilty about it. Of sitting round the courtyard in a large family gathering waiting for your turn to be served.
It’s no wonder then that I felt the immense pressure of recreating these memories. And while my culinary frenzy pitched high enough for me to create decent laddoos, it goes without saying that they were not quite the same.
But I take it in a bowl to my daughter anyway. And I hope that three decades from now, when she eats one of these, they’d be memorable enough for her to be involuntarily whisked away into a magical place of her own. For now, all she does is squeal “laddoo” before stuffing it in her mouth whole.
And that’s a pretty good starting point if you ask me…
