Nostalgia. And Family Picnics

Lime rice

So a slightly lighter post today. Maybe. More on the social than the linguistic aspect of sociolinguistics.

Nostalgia.

Rainy days during childhood. Family playing cards in the living room, electricity out, candles lit. The only game I know how to play (even today) – rummy. My dad breaking into song – Karnatic classical, Raga Desh (/d̪eːʃ/), and a particular song, thunbam nergaiyil (/t̪ʊnbʌm neːɾgqjɪl/; to listen to a lovely version of this song, click here.) To this day, these are my favorite raga and song because of the memories they bring back.  And that wonderful smell of rain on hot earth. Petrichor. What a lovely word. If someone bottled that smell, I’d wear it every single day.

 And of course, because it is raining, bajjis (bʌddʒɪ/; sliced veg coated with chickpea batter and fried) frying in the kitchen. For me, nostalgia always seems to involve food. Rain means a fried snack. Still. A fried snack at home, or street vendor corn-on-the cob, butta (/bʊʈʈɑ/). Sneaking out to look for a butta wallah when the rain abates (parents hate the thought of us going out even if there is a hint of rain; you’ll catch cold, they rant). The smell of coals mixing with the smells of mud, the light drizzle, roasting corn, the spicy chutney that goes on the corn. I frequently make butta at home, but it never tastes the same.

Another nostalgia-inducing thing – a train journey. The family is down in India from Yemen for the summer vacation, the yearly pilgrimage to see everyone in the family spread all across the south of India. This means lots of overnight train trips. Comics bought from a book vendor on the railway platform. My brother and I arguing over who would take the middle bunk, and who would take the upper bunk. There are 6 berths in a sleeper car. The family has four – two lowers for my parents, and a middle and an upper. This means two strangers in the car with us. Who always quickly become a part of the family, specially if they are women traveling alone – because their families make sure they are in a compartment with a nice family. Please look after my daughter/daughter-in-law/mother/sister.  And this means a shared meal. 

And the meal of choice (brought from home, of course)? Lime rice (or tamarind rice) and yoghurt rice, thair shadam (/t̪ɑjɪɾ ɕɑːd̪ʌm/) in Tamil. In a five-tier tiffin carrier. And maybe, if the kids are lucky, a bag of chips bought on the platform. The meal is shared with our carriage compatriots, who, invariably, have their own lime rice and thair shadam in their smaller tiffin carrier. Always slightly different. It is said, and I might have mentioned this before, that language in India changes every 100 miles, and food changes every 10 miles. I think it changes slightly with every household.

Lime rice and thair shadam were also a thing of the beloved family picnic. Family going out somewhere, finding a bit of shade, spreading out an old bedsheet to sit on, adults relaxing and talking, kids running around playing with whatever sticks and stones they could. Just taking time to smell the roses, both metaphorical and real.   And lime rice or tamarind rice and yoghurt rice. Not again, ma, the kids would protest. But so it was. And as with the train meals, picnics invariably were shared with whoever happened to be around. More different lime rices. And varieties of thair shadam. Simplicity at its best.

I learned recently about a company in Bengaluru that caters picnics. Yes, you read right. Caters picnics: identifies spots that are deemed picnic-worthy; lays out the requisite checked tablecloths on wooden crates used as tables – to provide the requisite rusticity; supplies mouth-watering fare in, again, the requisite wicker baskets. With, of course, matching cutlery, crockery, the whole nine yards. And what of the actual picnic fare? Oh a four-course tapas-style Mediterranean menu (or kebabs for people who prefer Indian fare, the company adds). Accompanied by a four-course price tag.

I think I am still processing how I feel about what I learned that morning: initial wonder,  appreciation, even excitement, for the ingeniousness of the idea on the part of the company: they identified a want, a niche, a clientele willing to pay big bucks for said want to be satisfied; and they satisfy the want. Hats off to them, I hope they succeed.

And then sadness, at the loss of simplicity, of the food, but also of the experience; indignation, perhaps, at the redefinition? reinterpretation? of what a picnic is; incredulity at the idea that such a clientele exists. Disappointment at the fact that of course, they…er…we (?) do exist. Do we really need someone to show us how to smell the roses? To find the roses for us? Disillusionment at this being yet another sign of the ever-widening gap between the haves and the have-nots.

And maybe finally, resignation. At the utter inevitability of it all.

I swore to myself when I started working on this post that I wouldn’t succumb to the “when we were young, we used to trek over stones barefoot to school” kind of stories typically associated with nostalgia. But it seems I can’t not. Maybe it isn’t possible not to. Nostalgia is a feeling for something gone, right?

Now are there still people in India who experience my lime rice/thair shadam picnic? For sure. But they are much fewer and further between. The times are very rapidly a-changin’. And heading in a very specific direction.

Today, I do give you the recipe for what I have talked about – lime rice, or elimichamparam shadam (/elɪmɪccçʌmbʌɻʌm ɕaːd̪ʌm/), in Tamil. Thair shadam will come later – and don’t balk. Yoghurt rice, prepared with a few ingredients in addition to just yoghurt and rice, is a thing of absolute beauty – both for the eyes and the palate.

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Lime Rice

Ingredients (serves 4; vegetarian; vegan)

1.     1 cup raw (uncooked) rice

2.     2 Tbsp oil – vegetable, sunflower, safflower, or any other neutral oil

3.     1 tsp mustard seeds

4.     1 Tbsp urad dhal

5.     1 Tbsp channa dhal

6.     1 cup raw peanuts; if you don’t have raw peanuts, use roasted peanuts, but skip a step in the cooking process. If you use roasted and salted peanuts, reduce the salt in the dish by ¼ tsp. I add a lot of peanuts into this dish to up the protein level of an otherwise carb-heavy dish. If you prefer fewer peanuts, reduce the quantity to ½ or ¾ a cup.

7.     1 Tbsp finely chopped/grated ginger; if you use ground ginger, use ½ tsp

8.     2 green chilies/jalapeno (more or less according to how spicy you want it)

9.     2 sprigs curry leaves

10.  2 squeezes of asafoetida

11.  ½ tsp turmeric

12.  2 Tbsp fresh lime juice (if you use lemon juice, the result is still good, but different). But I implore you, don’t use the stuff in the jar that bears no resemblance whatsoever to lime juice.

13.  1½ tsp salt

14.  ½ cup fresh chopped cilantro – optional

Method

1.     Boil the rice with two cups of water and 1 tsp salt. Allow it to cool.

2.     Heat the oil in a skillet; when it is hot, add the mustard seeds.

3.     When the mustard seeds start popping, add the raw peanuts, urad dhal, and channa dhal. Cook these on low for about 4-5 minutes till the peanuts are roasted and the dhals are a pretty golden-brown. If you are using roasted peanuts, cook the two dhals together for about 2 minutes (as we have done in several previous recipes), till they turn a golden-brown, and then add the peanuts.

4.     Now add in the chopped chili, curry leaves, asafoetida, ginger, and turmeric. It should smell absolutely amazing.

5.     Stir this all together for about 1 minute and turn off the heat.

6.     Add the cooked rice, the remaining ½ tsp of salt, and mix well.

7.     Now add the lime juice, stir, and add in the cilantro if you are using it.

8.     So far, I’ve asked you to serve the dishes immediately. With lime rice, I prefer serving it after about an hour – so the rice has a chance to absorb the flavors, and to allow the channa dhal to soften a bit. It can be eaten at room temperature or be re-heated a bit just before you serve it.

I made lime rice last night, I served it with two veggies – a beetroot curry and a snake gourd curry. Leave the beetroot out (a western vegetable), and even my Tamil Brahmin grandfather would have approved!