A Voyage through the Belly to the Soul
A twelve hour long and particularly uncomfortable bus journey with was totally worth the experience of being subjected to royalty, witnessing the rituals associated with Muharram and satisfying my stomach and soul with mouth-watering Awadhi cuisine.
Mahmudabad is a small town very close to the city of nawabs, Lucknow in the state of Uttar Pradesh. The Mahmudabad Estate, founded in 1677 by a descendant of the first caliph of Islam, is a 20-acre complex which typically gives the feel of a Mughal palace. With huge courtyards and rooms surrounding them, a grand entrance, beautiful windows, elaborate balconies and mesmerizingly pretty mirrors and lamps, there was no reason to feel less royal in this Kothi. Post a warm welcome, we were invited for breakfast. That is exactly what my protesting stomach was demanding for. Here, began the recurring saga of saliva-droopingly waiting for the food to be laid out, awkwardly hoping for your neighbour to start serving themselves and finally letting the strong aroma of food take over the initial hesitation. The dining room didn’t fail to fascinate me meal after meal. The table allowed all twenty-five of us to sit restfully and enjoy the food along with enriching conversations on Islam and Muharram. White cutlery was set for us in perfect symmetry. On a table in the corner of the dining hall was kept a huge decorated utensil containing green neem leaves and a jug full of water for cleaning hands. Although the breakfast was very English — toast and omelette, fruits and boiled potatoes, it was concluded by a perfect cup of chai — milky, sweet, filled to the brim and so hot that it infused a pinch of energy into every cell of my body.
Post breakfast, all us changed into dark and sombre clothes and proceeded to attend a Majlis at a neighbour’s place where the Nawab of Mahmudabad recited poetry and mourned the death of martyrs on a day that marked the anniversary of the Battle of Karbala. While the presenter invoked emotions of woe from the audience, it would be followed by the other way round. Although none of my colleagues could personally relate to those around us, the environment smelled of sorrow. This is also known as Aza-e Husayn, which is marked by mourning congregations and lamentations to express the emotions of grief. Once the Majlis was over, we were offered snacks and cold drink. Plates full of Chiwda (poha) mixed with peanuts and seviyan, boiled eggs with pepper sprinkled on it and Khakhra were emptied slowly as all of intermingled with the women of the house.
It was, yet again, time for the next meal. We sat like obedient kids on the dining table, with bibs in place, waiting for the house-keeping staff of the palace to present the food. The first dish to be kept on the table was Chicken Khorma. I could smell the curry as soon as it left the kitchen. With a layer of oil separately floating in the bowl, I couldn’t let the hesitation and fear of being judged discontinue my journey towards the utensil. I jumped towards the bowl and took a considerably big serving. I spent the next few seconds deciding if I should have a Khameeri Roti (a soft bread made by using yeast) or Sheermal (saffron flavoured sweet flat bread). Spicy chicken gravy with a pinch of sweet bread in my mouth seemed like the seamless soul-satiating recipe. The Biryani which was surprisingly, white and not orange, was delusional as it seemed like it wasn’t well-cooked. However, it melted with the meat in my mouth. The thought of mixing yogurt, which is traditionally savoured with biryani didn’t even cross my mind. On one plate the non-vegetarians couldn’t decide the starting and ending point of the meal, on the other plate the vegetarians relished the Masoor Daal (pink lentils) and Lauki (bottle gourd) Kebabs. Once the desserts were brought in the dining hall, my mental capabilities failed me in keeping a mental note of all the dishes. The Shahi Tukda (bread pudding) was so pure and soft that no one could ever tell it was made of bread. The richness of the Awadhi cuisines lies in the Mughal cooking style and sumptuous dishes enriched by the melody of spices.
It was rightly pointed out by our hosts that one could only relish real Awadhi food when it is home-cooked and not when it is served commercially. But he forgot to caution us that no matter how long back you have surpassed the boundaries of your appetite, you can’t help but crave for more.
- Priyasha Chawla
