October Outpourings 

 

 After a very long time, we seem to be in the midst of Acche din  again. By 'we' of course I mean the infamous Lutyens gang, which visits Khan market and its salubrious public spaces, from different parts of the National Capital Region. Acche din have come this year, despite the highest court in the land pushing for green crackers and sanctioning their use for specific hours over two days. Of course, ours is not to reason that crackers can  never be green but to bemoan the fact that no curbs or restraints can ever be put in place in the Delhi NCR, the original urban naxal city, where orders will be blatantly overlooked or flouted. 

 Some of us, academics, who got jobs when acche din were prominent at Delhi University in the previous century, lived through hardworked Septembers, even when teaching was in annual mode, because lecture rooms were filled with students, who were curious and eager to learn and explore everything that the university stood for. They came from different parts of the country, spoke various languages, found points of commonality among classmates after starting out as strangers, and began to engage with the processes of studying at the university.

 Along with personal time and training provided through lectures/tutorials/practicals, teachers guided students to text books and reference books, mentoring  them in the the art of self-study,  thinking, reflection, dialogue, debate and writing so important for the growth and development  of the mind.  By end September, these interactions were usually peaking, since  term began in  mid-July and well over two months plus of serious teaching/ learning had been put in place. Student admissions were usually completed by the first of July, making it easy for them to get to colleges and settle in  over the long fortnight.

 At the end of September, the University shut down for a fortnight, and students went home for a break, as did the teachers. Sometimes, it corresponded  with Navratri and Durga pooja, and  sometimes it didn't,  because the university followed the Gregorian calendar while our festivals followed the lunisolar version, but dissenting and freethinking, we all basked in the belief that celebrating Gandhiji's and Shastriji's birthdays during the break was a great reminder that  the university system  promoted commitment, honesty and integrity by allowing us to imbue the values represented by these iconic leaders. 

 October 2 is now co-opted as Cleanliness Day and continues to diminish both Gandhiji and Shastriji  because the litter on our street, the systemic relocating of rubble and garbage,  the polluted air and water and the routine chopping down of trees continues unabated, while tokensim is the order of the day. However, after a thirteen year vanvas, this year we have been given a nine-day break, so from the 18th of October to the 26th of October, it is vacation time for teachers and students at Delhi University. 

 An old friend and I met up, where else but in Lutyens Delhi, and strolled through Lodhi gardens, one of Delhi's beautiful green spaces which will hopefully be left alone in the years to come.

 Lodhi gardens is verdant and has lots of quiet little green alcoves,  such as the old Glasshouse and the herb garden  which offset its imposing cenotaphs, and we wandered around marvelling at the shape of the Bael and the Philkan tree, while the flowers of the Silk Floss, forming a floral pink pattern on the grass, invited us to pause awhile. 

 Walking on well laid paths, unfortunately not as well swept,  we walked past people seated on benches or in solitary communion,  charmed by the florescent pink bougainvillea, and flanked by the ornamental palms that lorded over us. We went past the  herbal garden and spotted the Mimosa pudica that we  had studied  about first in our middle school text book. A flowering perennial, this small shrub/plant  has leaves that when touched, droop and fold up, causing it to shrink.  Our Science teacher  showed us the plant in an open patch in the school grounds.

  In Mimosa pudica, the Latin name, 'Mimosa', comes from mimos or actor, ('a' shifts the gender) and 'Pudica' means bashful or shrinking. This plant although not native to India, has been  valued for its medicinal properties in practices other than allopathy.  Although it was formally identified by Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus in 1753, its use as medicine all over the world reveals that it has been around for a very long time, and may have reached us by way of ancient trade routes. It is pantropical and is found all over India, as evinced by the various names for it in all our languages.

 It is  referred to as Lajjalu  in Sanskrit, (one with modesty, shame, humility) and  Chui mui in Hindi (sensitive, easily hurt) Lajwanti in  Punjabi and many other Indian languages and  Lojjawoti in Bengali; It is fascinating that across cultures where this plant was located, different groups  of humans made more or less the same connections with the plant,  giving it  names in different tongues that  shared the same meaning, thereby  reiterating a shared commonality between human beings that stretches beyond  regional and national borders. 

Mimosa pudica  in all these languages I have mentioned so far,  is identified as feminine and the traits of lajja or pudica become a pattern of behaviour associated with the female gender. Lajjawati is  a woman endowed with shyness or laaj, who can be easily discomfited or embarassed. In Tamil, it is known as totta-shurungi which translates into English as that which would shrink upon touch.

 The characteristics of the plant became qualities equatable  with humans  and  the rhetorical  question on the tongues of aunts and grandmothers: Nee ennai  tottashurungi aa?( Are you a totta-shurungi) was addressed to young cousins, who at the end of a scrap  nursed injured feelings and lived in cold war conditions during summer vacations shared by the extended families. Trained to believe that the human species was  more evolved, every young person, snapped out of  feelings of low-self worth or rage. Escalating conditions were diffused and normalcy returned. No one wanted to be classified as a  tottashrungi personality, suggesting an easily hurt/offended temperament.  

 Arguably, in the Tamil language, the  totta-shurungi  transcends the gender that was ascribed to it by the namers in most languages, reiterating yet again that  an understanding of gender cannot always be rooted  in biology, but  must grow out of cultural practices. The totta-shurungi punctured sets of binaries and taught us to work our way out of being tongue-tied, embrace fluidity and adapt. 

 In its own way, this 'modest' shrub has been a gamechanger. It has defied  expcctation, since this shrinking plant is a hardy perennial with charming flowers, despite its delicate fern-like bipinnate leaves on long stalks.  The Mimosa pudica is regarded as a high-value  medical plant for various disorders such as cancer, diabetes, skin ailments. UTIs,  and obesity, that it  helps to alleviate, while  reminding us that the human species are connected to other living forms and occupy a symbiotic  universe.  It must be embraced as a significant symbol for the plural, multilingual and multi-hued world that seems to be receding with each passing day.

Something about Aubergines

 https://www.independentink.in/post/the-eggplant-tempura

I wrote this piece on the delectable eggplant and  Amit Sengupta an old friend published it in  his recent news portal Independent Ink.. a labour of love and commitment  that has really taken off and provide access to wonderful, intutive writing and reporting.

Hardnews Media  is also carrying my story , acknowledging that  Independent  Ink  carried the story first.

In the menatime American kahani is also carrying my aubergine story at

https://americankahani.com/perspectives/of-birbal-and-brinjal-the-story-of-indias-indigenous-vegetable-that-traversed-from-draupadis-kitchen-to-todays-international-platters/

 feeling very chuffed..i am trying to post these links on to my blog and hope that I can circulate other published pieces of writing

The Eggplant Tempura.

By Ratna Raman

In one of my favourite stories, Emperor Akbar sits down to a sumptuous lunch with his ministers and voices appreciation of the dish of eggplants that he is eating. As a modern chronicler of food, I continue to draw upon possibly apocryphal stories, that frame memorable windows to human taste and preference. Birbal concurs with Akbar on the deliciousness of the vegetable and draws attention to its shape, remarking that of all the vegetables, it is the brinjal alone that wears a crown.

 

Birbal was not really a trained botanist, else he would have known that many vegetables wear crowns of a sort, including the tomato and the capsicum, close botanical cousins of the vegetable in question, although the far more elaborate and sturdier crown sported by the brinjal mimics a well- wrought sequence of inverted petals.

 

Akbar (possibly both a foodie and a vegetarian), after a couple of days or so, the apocryphal story goes, complained about the terrible eggplant dish he has had to eat. A dexterous Birbal uses the elasticity that proficiency in our multiple languages gives us, and concurs with the emperor that the baingan, (Hindi) true to the meaning of its name is really beygun (which is how the eggplant is referred to in Bengali).

 

Beygun in Hindi means being ‘bereft of value’. It must be added here that acquaintance with the Hindi and Bengali lingo adds to an appreciation of Birbal’s witty punning.

 

Akbar is pleased with his minister’s ready wit, but an envious courtier accuses Birbal of being inconsistent, and as changeable as a weather vane. Birbal quickly responds that he serves at the pleasure of the emperor and therefore his deferential loyalty would always rest with the emperor, not with the vegetable in question.   

 

Since Birbal’s job demanded that he keep the emperor in good humour, he was able to give short shrift to the eggplant, if and when the occasion demanded it. Nevertheless, descendants of the eggplant that have travelled into 21st Century India, continue to be both desired and reviled by people who can voice their preferences for this specific vegetable without fear or favour. Six hundred odd years after Birbal’s times, responses to the aubergine/eggplant/brinjal/baingan/begun register across a varied spectrum.

The eggplant is given an exalted space in the Hindu religious tradition. Seen as an indigenous vegetable, it makes the rounds of annual shraads wherein dead ancestors are propitiated with special meals. Among the vegetables elected to be offered to the priest after a hiranyam shraad, (a shraad for which no cooking is required) the eggplant occupies pride of place along with the colocasia and the raw banana.

 

My grandmother recalled her travels with grandfather to Kashi and other pilgrim spots in modern India at a time when eating out was frowned upon and Vaishnav eateries were almost non-existent. She carried along small portions of rice, salt and tamarind, and into the heart of the makeshift fires upon which the rice was cooked, she would toss a biggish brinjal or two of medium size, purchased from a streetside vendor, allow for the vegetable to be roasted, peel the skin, add salt and tamarind, and mash it into a satisfying and tangy tohayel that could be mixed into accounts of her hot rice and eaten.

Grandmother’s account of her cooking adventures on the road enabled me to appreciate the eggplant’s distinctly adult flavour.

In my natal home, while the brinjal was cooked in several different ways, house rules about remaining seated and finishing all the food served on the plate, aided the eating process considerably. Thankfully, second helpings were never mandatory.

 

My brother disliked brinjals and broke out into hives whenever he ate any. He escaped into adolescence and adulthood without eating statutory portions of brinjal.

 

Try as I might, I was unable to accomplish any such manifestation and had to learn to like the flavour and texture of the brinjals cooked variously by my mother. As an adult, my palate now houses a cultivated preference for the brinjal.

 

At my conjugal home, the brinjal divide continued. The women in the house loved it and the men invariably loathed it. My father-in-law wouldn’t touch the stuff and my spouse ate it reluctantly.

When he came of age, my son stood behind me when vendors with laden vegetable carts called out in the street. When I queried if they had fresh brinjals, my son signaled to them to deny its very existence. I gave up trying to convince him to relish the brinjal after my unsuccessful botany lesson about the brinjal being part of the solanacea family of the potato, tomato and capsicum family. “Mumma”, said my son firmly, “I do not feel the same way about all the members in my father’s family. So why must I like eating brinjals because I enjoy eating tomatoes or potatoes?”  

 

Stumped by his response, I allowed him to gravitate towards a brinjal-free life.

 

A recent Whatsapp post had Shashi Tharoor pointing out that the word brinjal, Anglo-Indian in origin, is rarely used outside the Indian subcontinent. Perhaps a lot of the Anglo Indians had a fondness for this vegetable and gave it a new name; the aubergine.

 

The aubergine in India came in a range of colours, shapes and sizes, and a multiplicity of names in different Indian languages, such as kathrikkai in Tamil, badanei in Kannada, vankaya in Telegu and Vrithagam in Sanskrit.

 

The word ‘aubergine’ has been in circulation from the 18th century and has original influences going back to French, Catalan, Arabic, and even possibly Sanskrit. Eggplant is of more recent usage, particularly in America and Australia, and must have come into use possibly because many eggplant varieties are shaped like eggs, and those that are white to boot, do look rather like eggs arranged in a vendor’s basket. Larger and elongated eggplants can also recall morphed breasts and penises.

 

Eggplants can be a light shade of purple or a pale green. They are found in shades of plum, pastel green, streaked white and lavender, white and violet as well as green and purple. Bae is the name given to diminutive marble-sized brinjals that are grown in Sikkim, as well as in nature. A small farmer in Karnataka, showed me a wild brinjal plant with small fruit, about the size of the bae, explaining that upon it other varieties of brinjal are grafted, giving us so many variations.  This particular variety called pea brinjal can be ordered for consumption, online.

 

Eggplants can be cooked in several ways, each shape lending itself to a particular variation and each method provides a different eating experience with regard to texture and taste. Its complex texture makes for a delightful culinary experience. It has a yielding softness that is inviting and varied.

 

The pureed eggplant can be smooth or chunky while succulent pan fried or roasted brinjal slices remain moist and sumptuous with their succulent flesh kept in place by the thin outer skin of the vegetable. The variations in the cooked versions come from the range of spices and accessories that can be added on to the vegetable. Sponge like, it absorbs and becomes redolent with versatile flavours, providing a gourmet meal for a range of palates.

 

It can be eaten with its skin or without, shallow fried, deep fried, boiled, charred, grilled, sauteed, stewed or baked. It can also be cut into tiny pieces or stuffed whole with spices.

 

Eggplants continue to be consumed abundantly in a variety of cuisines all over the world. Eggplants do well with curd, cheese, potatoes, rice, lentil flour, lentil and tamarind, and are also made into delicious pickles. The Americans love their eggplant while the French and the Italians swear by their aubergine with olive oil and parmesan.

 

Aloo and baingan make for a satisfying combination, green brinjals with onions and tomatoes stimulate tastebuds, while aubergines and radish offer a fluid freshness that remains unmatched, although eggplant does very well in a splinter group of onions, tomatoes and capsicum too.

 

The baingan ka bharta in which eggplant, roasted on an open flame, is peeled and mashed and stirred into a tangy mix of caramelized onions and tomato, with or without peas, is a popular food in North India. It goes back in antiquity to the Mahabharata. 

 

Draupadi’s culinary life (when her five husbands are disguised as mendicants) begins when she cooks her first meal in her conjugal home. The vegetable dish that she turns out is the delectable baingan ka bharta, delighting Ma Kunti and her five sons.

Baingan Bharta: Courtesy Wikipedia.

 Baingan ka bhartha continues to be a popular dish all over North India, at roadside dhabas, local eateries, private clubs and starred hotels, as well as in home dining.  With the coming of the cold season, hot baingan bharta studded with fresh green peas and crisp bajra, or wheat roti, makes for a delectable experience. Variations of this bharta travel all the way up to central Asia, swerving towards Europe, West Asia, Greece and much of Africa.

 

A contemporary literary reference is found in Perumal Murugan’s book where the hero grows brinjals shaped like the head of a cat, which his wife cooks with great pleasure, allowing his mother to marvel at the delectable dishes her daughter-in -law churns out by changing the combination of spices, or with the addition of a dollop of ghee.

 

The brinjal is celebrated all over South India. Goddesses are adorned with brinjals on special festive occasions and mention must be made now of the tohayal from Tamil Nadu that  incorporates a mashed brinjal, tempered with garnish of mustard seeds and karipaata and channa dal.  

Variations on the tohayal are the chaukha in Bihar, Bengal and Uttar Pradesh where the vegetable is fire-charred, peeled and mashed with salt, green chillies and chopped coriander, and topped with a dollop of kacchi ghani mustard oil.  

 

The bhartha is a cosmopolitan North Indian version of the thohayal wherein the aubergine can both be grilled or steamed.

 

Garlic crushed into roasted brinjal flesh with salt, onions, cilantro, freshly ground pepper, lemon juice and olive oil complete this accompaniment, popular with Greek bread.   Baba Ganoush (roasted aubergine with tahini and green herbs), favoured in the Middle East, Egypt and Lebanon, has now made its way onto international platters, pleasing modern metrosexual palates and dazzling urban kitchens.

 

The baigun-bhaja of Bengal is usually egg-plant cut into roundels, marinated for a while with tamarind, three or four drops of sugar and salt, smeared with mustard oil, or, mainly, pan-fried or deep fried with mustard oil, and devoured. Large, oblong eggplant, cut into halves tastes delicious when deep fried in mustard oil. 

In South India, Bajji is an eggplant variant made by frying brinjal roundels dipped in chickpea and rice batter. Garnished with asafoetida, curry leaves, chilly powder and salt, these thin flat fritters, remain tiffin and tea-time favourites, travelling incessantly down gullets when washed down with hot coffee.

 

The Beguni, with a coat of besan, and salt, tamarind and chilli powder, deep fried in mustard oil, is sold cheap and hugely sought after, with evening tea, in street-side joints in Bengal. Along with vegetable chops and cutlets of all kinds, it makes a formidable combination. The evening tiffin, hence, is most welcome.

 

At a Conference in New Orleans, having opted for a vegetarian meal, I waited until one of the hosts on an erratic shuttle service brought me a special dish of whole eggplant and garbanzo peas in a thin gravy. The flavours were delicate and the chickpea was delicious, recalling for me Tamil Nadu’s famous Rasavangi (which translates as juicy brinjal), and is a fragrant sambar made with brinjals, ground coconut, pigeon pea and garbanzo beans that grandmothers on both the maternal and paternal style served on special occasions.

 

There is also the kutta kathrika koyambu (short brinjal stew), an all-time Chidambaram speciality, made entirely with brinjals and chickpeas in a tamarind and coconut gravy, and both these variations upstage the New Orleans version in my opinion, possibly because the texture and flavour is enhanced by the addition of coconut and tamarind alongside a deep well of memories. 

 

Another savoury southern favourite is Vangi Baath, rice made with spiced eggplants and served with a delicious raita of curd and cucumber along with flour crisps and roasted potatoes. The only time this combination can be challenged is when coconut rice is served along with an ennai kari (vegetables cooked in extra oil) of diced eggplants roasted in oil and a side dish of papadams and thick buttermilk. 

 

Both options serve as   mini-feasts for emperors and contemporary citizens alike.

In Bengal and in Tamil Nadu, curd often is the stage upon which mashed roasted baingan excels in performance.  

 

Jaggery, the stage prompter in the scrumptious Tamil version is replaced by honey in the lip-smacking Bengali version. Both variations, to my mind, are show-stoppers.

 

While the Tamil version makes for an excellent hors d'oeuvre, the Bengali variant can double up as dessert and signal closure to a sumptuous meal.

 

Meanwhile, news from the world of nature cures suggests that consuming aubergine is a great way to lower cholesterol and aid heart health. Indeed, one more feather in its crown for the vibrant and unassuming eggplant!

 

Ratna Raman is Professor, English Department, Sri Venkateswara College, Delhi University.