Introspection
Saambaar Powder
A bit of a stream-of-consciousness post today. Ideas that need further thought and development, but are where they are for the moment. I’ve always been told that writing is a great way to find out about oneself. While this has become very clear to me the past year since I’ve been working on these posts, today’s has taken me down some pretty interesting rabbit holes, some darker than others.
I don’t know when I first realized my dad’s dislike for Hindi, and, by extension, for the Hindi-speaking population of India. For as long as I can remember, he has ranted (still does) against both the language and the people. Now this is certainly not to say he hasn’t had Hindi-speaking colleagues and friends – plenty of them, many of whom he does respect – but his general attitude toward the north Indians is one of some disdain. When we were young children, his rants greatly amused my brother and me – his abilities in Hindi seemed to extend (and I base this on his only vocalizations to describe a Hindi speaker’s linguistic abilities (or any other abilities, come to think of it) to “yeh kutta hai”, and “yeh kapda hai” – which translate to “this is a dog” and “this is cloth” – now why dog and cloth, I’ll never know.
And I remember when in the early 2000s, my parents and I visited the Taj Mahal for the first time, my dad’s astonishment at my comfort with basic, conversational Hindi. There was a sweet old man at one of the numerous ticket checking gates of the Taj, with whom I exchanged pleasantries. And my dad, open-mouthed, asked how on earth I had learned so much. There is a word in Tamil he used to describe the flowing of the language out of my mouth – a lovely word, and utterly untranslatable.
As I grew up, my amusement at his rants was replaced by confusion – he was/is a linguist. How could he have such hatred for a linguistic system? Particularly since he is, in all other respects, an incredibly tolerant human being. And then, of course, I learned about his hatred of Hindi because of what it represented to him – a language that was thrust upon him and south India in general, while no north Indian is required to learn any Dravidian language – and about this, I have written in a previous post.
Hindi was never thrust upon me. I learned it incidentally, mainly by exposure. And about this, I have also written previously.
And in the days of my youth, I realized that intolerance of Hindi and North Indians was probably due to a lot more than their language being thrust upon him and his. One source of anger seemed obvious: their ignorance of Dravidian languages, and their indifference towards them; their (seeming) inability to pronounce even simple south Indian words. No north Indian we knew spoke any of the Dravidian languages. And they butchered simple Tamil or Kannada words – specifically, I remember many of my dad’s colleagues’ pronunciation of saambaar as saambur. This irked my dad to no extent. And even in those days, I understood why. I mean…the long /a:/ isn’t exactly a foreign sound to a Hindi speaker. It is the second letter of the Devanagari script. And… they managed it perfectly fine in the first syllable of the word, didn’t they?
And then there was their attitude toward south Indians. We were always the Other. We are all always portrayed as dark-skinned people eating little other than idly and saambaar…er…saambur. Dark-skinned, oily-haired people with the requisite large smears of viboothi (sacred ash) smeared on our foreheads. Oh, and we’re all from Madras. All south Indians are Madrasis. Stereotypes that continue today. (And yes, South Indians, in general, are darker-skinned than our Indo Aryan compatriots in the north).
The very young kids laughing at our dad’s angry “yeh kutta hai” couldn’t possibly have understood the source or depth of our dad’s feelings. But a slightly older girl realized that the north’s portrayal of south Indians was just the surface manifestation of a much more deep-seated problem; racism in India is deeply intertwined with language, color, caste, politics. A belief in the superiority of both the race and their Indo-Aryan linguistic systems.
How then, I wondered even then (and still do), did all this affect my dad all those decades ago. Was he ill-treated because of the color of his skin? Was he less respected as a linguist among his north Indian colleagues? Did he have problems dealing with the backlash against Brahmins? Hmmm…but there are plenty of northern Brahmins. Any other reasons? I have never learned. And if I were to ask him, I would probably be met, even today, with a typical “nothing at all.” My dad has never been one to process feelings through others. Or to air his possible sources of hurt. And maybe he is stronger for that. I don’t know.
I am slowly learning not to be like him in this respect.
But lest you think this post is just a southern Indian’s diatribe against the north, it isn’t.
My mum spent all her childhood being compared – negatively - to her younger and fairer-skinned sister. My grandmother was unusually fair for a south Indian, and my mother wasn’t “fortunate” enough to inherit Ajji’s skin color. And my mother still hasn’t gotten over that.
We dish out what we dislike being dished out. And we fail to recognize our part in perpetuating a status-quo, while happily blaming the other. Or another.
And on that note, I must turn to food. Today, logically, I turn to saambaar. This is a lentil-based dish, cooked with a vegetable or a combination of vegetables. Can be eaten with rice, idlies, dosas, or simply consumed as a soup. There are as many versions of saambaar in south India as there are households, and even today, I’d wager that ever south Indian household has, in their spice cabinet, a jar of saambaar powder – the spice blend that allows one to quickly make a saambaar. Now my grandmothers probably scoffed at the idea of having a previously prepared spice blend, preferring, instead, to freshly grind all the ingredients every time they wanted to make a saambaar. More power to them (and yes, a saambaar made of freshly-ground ingredients does taste amazing), but that ain’t happening no more. Particularly when the average south Indian household probably makes saambaar at least twice a week.
So today, I give you my mum’s version of saambaar powder. When I first left home, she’d never let me leave without a package of the spice blend (and several others), which I’d savor in Alabama, or Arizona, or Florida, or wherever I happened to be. Now, I am happy to say that our roles have somewhat reversed – whenever I visit my parents, I try and take them packages of the spice blends I make at home. And the fact that my dad tolerates, even likes, them says my versions are not bad…pretty good, even.
And I must say, that in addition to making a lovely saambaar (a recipe for which you will get in a few weeks), this spice blend, given that is a lovely combination of roasted lentils, coconut, and spices, is incredibly versatile. Mix it with a bit of oil and salt, smear the paste on a meat of your choice before you grill it. Or sprinkle some on a grilled cheese sandwich. Or simply use it on a sautéed veg - like a curry powder. Endless possibilities.
Saambaar Powder
Ingredients
1. ¼ cup channa dhal
2. ¼ cup urad dhal
3. ½ Tbsp fenugreek seeds
4. 15 or so dried red chillies – and here’s where you have control of the heat level. Use whatever dried red chilli you like or have on hand. I use something like cayenne – which is pretty hot. If you want something milder, get dried Kashmiri chillies – the resultant saambaar powder will be a fantastic reddish-orange with little heat. Or you can use a combination. Don’t, however, use a variety of dried chilli with a distinct flavor – like many Mexican chillies. You certainly don’t want the flavor of an ancho pepper or a chipotle pepper in your saambaar powder.
5. 1 Tbsp black peppercorn
6. ½ cup coriander seeds
7. ½ cup desiccated coconut
8. 4 sprigs of curry leaves
Method
1. Heat a heavy-bottomed pan on the stove. Start by slow roasting the channa and urad dhals. Frequently stirring, roast them on low for about 5 minutes to give them a head start.
2. After about 5 minutes, add all the other ingredients except for the coconut. Continue to slow roast everything together, frequently stirring, for about 20 minutes – till the mixture is incredibly fragrant, and the dhals are a lovely golden brown. The curry leaves should be dry and crunchy. This needs to be done on low heat – to toast everything gently and prevent anything from burning.
3. Turn off the heat and add the coconut. The residual heat is sufficient to heat the coconut through and just lightly toast it.
4. Allow the mixture to cool completely, and then grind everything to a coarse-ish powder in a spice grinder.
5. Store in an airtight jar – the powder can easily last a month or two, and if stored in the refrigerator, even longer.
6. Enjoy in a saambaar, or as a spice blend for anything else! And if you’re still wondering how toasted lentils make for a good spice blend, trust me?
