Jasmine and Jinns

by Sadia Dehlvi

  Nani was a strong independent woman and I enjoyed her humour, sarcasm and stories. While in Delhi, she divided her time between the families of her two daughters and two sons. Ammi worried as she often took off on her own, roaming the city using public transport. She would reassure Ammi, showing her the pudiya, small packet, of red chilli powder that she secretly carried under her white cotton burqa. She said if anyone dared harass her, they would be blinded with chillies! She even slept with red chilli powder under her pillow and advised me to do the same.

  Nani had a colourful vocabulary and used many old muhavarey, proverbs. She defined a sharp-tongued girl as a hari mirch, green chilli. If someone described a girl as simple and she thought otherwise, Nani would retort, ‘Jalebi ki tarha seedhi hai,’ meaning the girl was as straight as a jalebi! Describing someone’s luxurious life, Nani would say, ‘Paanchon ungliyan ghee mai, sar kadhai mai,’ the whole hand and head is dipped in ghee.

  Nani was generally distrustful of people and disapproved of the younger female domestic staff at home. She warned Ammi that with men in the house, this should be avoided. Girls with unconventional, sultry attractive features were described as namkeen chehra, salty face. Nani worried that one of these women was more than just attractive, describing her as namak ki bori, a sack of salt.

  Nani once tried to convince her young, handsome grandson to get married but he showed no interest. Having heard of his girlfriends, with a twinkle in her eye, Nani said, ‘Cut piece mil raha hai toh thaan kyoon khareedey ga,’ if cut pieces are available, why would you purchase whole yard of cloth! This expression became a favourite family joke. Bothered by my younger brother’s wild crop of hair and faded jeans, she would question his ‘Beetal aur huppy,’ Beatles and hippy look. Before I met Nani, I addressed my mother as ‘Mummy’. Offended, she made me say Ammi, because ‘mummy to Qahra key ajaib ghar mai hoti hai,’ mummies are in Cairo museum.

  Nani was rather eccentric, particularly when it came to food. We often joked about her peculiarities, but agreed that it rewarded her with a long and healthy life. She ate only vegetables that grew above the ground and not those that ripened under the soil. Nani also discouraged us from eating potatoes, turnip and arvi. She said they burdened the digestive system. Her diet consisted of vegetables, such as ghiya, turaiyan, bhindi and other greens. While cooking these vegetables with meat, Nani used spices in small quantities with abundant shorba. Health took priority over taste. All of Nani’s children, including my mother, became almost obsessed with health food. Ammi still prefers stir fried vegetable to biryani and qorma.

  Nani referred to baingan, brinjal, as begun, worthless. Some consider brinjal to be a rich source of iron, but not her. She never touched the vegetable saying, ‘Pet mai pada rahega,’ it stays in the stomach forever. Vegetables like baingan, kaddu and kathal are alien to our cooking.

  Nani did not enjoy mithai and would encourage her brood to eat fruits instead. Ammi did the same with us siblings. My health-conscious mother’s mantra remains ‘milk and fruit’. Even now, she mostly skips dinner and has a glass of hot milk with a spoonful of honey instead. As kids, snacking on parantha, samosa, chole bhature, tikki and golgappa remained taboo. So, I just never developed a taste for them.

  When in Delhi, Nani avoided drinking tap water. She was convinced that the Jamuna waters were polluted. To cater to the needs of a large family, a bore well had been dug at Shama Kothi. Nani drank water from this well and when staying elsewhere, carried water from our house.

  Nani always washed vegetables with potassium permanganate, oxidizing crystals that were called ‘pinky’ because of the pinkish colour they acquired on mixing with water. I recently read that health experts advise the same to get rid of pesticides and toxins. When I informed Ammi of this news, she said, ‘Well, my mother always knew that.’

  If someone fell sick, Nani had a home remedy for it. Those complaining of headaches were advised to sit in the morning sun and eat jalebi made in desi ghee. A running tummy could be cured with sabudana. This would be cooked with a tablespoon of milk to make it edible. Ammi and I use this remedy and it works like magic.At the end of each meal, Nani munched a few whole mint leaves saying it helped in cleansing the liver. She also chewed a few white peppercorns to aid digestion. As much as possible, I try following the wisdom of Nani’s teachings.

  Early Lessons

  Our elders told us that the best food is the food shared with others, for it brings barakat, blessings to the table. Prior to eating or drinking anything, we were made to recite ‘Bismillah ir-Rahman -ir-Rahim,’ In the name of Allah, Most Merciful, Most Compassionate.

  Apa Saeeda taught us on how to eat using three fingers of the right hand. No leftovers could remain on the plate. Daddy’s plate looked so clean after the meal that Ammi would blemish it with a little curry. She worried that it if it looked like an unused plate, it could be left unwashed. Apa Saeeda repeatedly said that leftovers find their way to the shaitan, devil’s, stomach. I feared leaving food on the plate because it would make me responsible for energizing the devil!

  After meals, Apa Saeeda collected the leftover roti. While chatting, Amma and Apa Saeeda broke these into fine crumbs, and sprinkled them on the lawns for the birds. Leftover meat was fed to the cats that roamed around the house. Bones were collected from the plates and left on the street for the dogs. No food item was trashed in the garbage. Apa Saeeda warned that on Qayamat, the Day of Judgement, God would take us to account for every wasted morsel.

  The same warning applied to water. Apa Saeeda never allowed us leisurely baths, wasting water was a strict no. She said water is a form of Allah’s Mercy, and explained, ‘Ek ek boond ka hisaab dena padey ga,’ you will be accountable for every drop of wasted water. Her lessons about water consciousness have made me cautious with its use.

  The elders reprimanded us for drinking water while standing or in a single gulp, ‘Ghataghat paani nahin peetey, teen baar main peetey hain aur baith kar peetey hain,’ don’t gulp down water, sit down and sip it with three breaks. Some years ago, my acupressure therapist told me that one must always drink water while sitting and never in a single gulp. He seemed surprised when I told him that this is what we always did.

  Amongst other lessons, we were told never to criticize food as it was risq, provision, from Allah. When the elders thought the quality of food served to them was not good, they simply said, ‘Bas, Allah deta rahey,’ may Allah continue to provide! On the rare occasion that Abba thought some dish did not taste right, he just said, ‘Omelette bana do,’ make me an omelette. This was enough to send the whole household in a panic.

  A tradition that has been lost is placing the food on the table before the bread. Nowadays, not many are even aware of this nuance. Amma made sure that on festive occasions, and even during daily meals, the food was bought to the table before the roti. On occasions of mourning, the roti had to be placed first. This symbolizes tukda todna, breaking bread, and grieving together.

  Other table rules included washing our hands but not wiping them before meals. We had to offer a short thanksgiving prayer before the table was cleared. We were told to take food from the side of the dish and not dig into the centre as it held the blessings. Tasting a bit of everything served on the table was another lesson. All these rules come from the Sunnah, normative practices of Prophet Muhammad . These are taught to Muslim children from a young age so that they turn into lifelong habits.

  Kebab stalls on the steps of the Jama Masjid

  Photo: Vaseem Ahmed Dehlvi

  The Halal Word

  The Islamic ruling of staying away from pork and eating only halal meat was taught to us early in life. It is permissible to consume the meat of most non-predatory animals. All kinds of fishes are halal except those which died in the sea without any apparent external cause. The halal process requires that animals be alive and healthy before the slaughter. Meat becomes halal when the name of Allah is pronounced while putting the knife to the animal’s jugular. The blood must be drai
ned from the carcass, as blood is haram. While on shikar, hunt, devout Muslims ensure that their hunt does not die before the halal process. If that occurs, the meat is haram.

  These rules are passed on from one generation to another. I must have taught my son the rule about not eating pork when he was just old enough to differentiate between animals. Once, when he was about six years old and harassing me, I told him to keep quiet and angrily called him a suar, swine. He began to wail loudly and uncontrollably. Infuriated, I asked ‘What is it now?’ In between sobs, he said, ‘You have called me the name of an animal that we are not even allowed to eat!’ I had to apologise, kiss and make up, resolving never to use the word again.

  Since Jewish dietary rules are quite similar to Islamic requirements, we were allowed kosher food. My father always advised me to order kosher food while travelling on an international airline. When invited for meals to the homes of non-Muslim friends, I pretend to be a vegetarian citing health concerns. Sensing my discomfort, sometimes the hosts assure me that the meat has been bought from a Muslim butcher. Much to the shock of some friends, when eating out in a restaurant I regularly enquire if the meat is halal. If the answer is vague, I stick to eating vegetables or fish.

  A food stall in Nizamuddin Basti

  Interestingly, lobster, crab, prawn and other shellfish are permissible by Islamic dietary rules, but fall in the makrooh, not preferred, category. Most Muslims don’t seem to be bothered by this category. There is no prohibition on beef consumption. However, pertaining to the meat of cow and buffalo, Prophet Muhammad did famously say, ‘There is value in its milk, healing in its ghee, and a disease in its meat.’ He never ate beef nor did he encourage it. I know many Sufi masters and family elders who refrain from eating beef because of these Prophetic norms.

  The word halal is not just about the way food is processed. It has a more profound meaning that confirms to Islamic values of morality and integrity.

  Kakori kebab from Al Kauser

  Ammi, Vaseem and I

  Ammi and I

  Ammi has no interest in cooking. Luckily, she never had to deal with daily kitchen chores. The youngest of eleven siblings, and the eldest bahu of the Dehlvi khandaan, family, there was no pressure to cook in either home. Her interests lay in writing, designing garments and handicrafts for her export house. A non-conformist, Ammi never understood why women’s hands should smell of garlic and ginger. She maintains that only women with oppressive husbands become good cooks.

  Although a food connoisseur, Daddy never complained about food. He still makes claims about being able to differentiate between food that has been cooked on a gas stove from that which has been cooked on wooden logs. He yearns for the dal his mother cooked in a clay pot on wood.

  While friends and family are appreciative of my cooking, Ammi is not. She rebukes me saying, ‘Mai ney tumko khana pakaney ke liye nahin padhaya likhaya,’ I did not educate you to waste your time in the kitchen. Ammi thinks most women cook well and that it does not count as a great achievement.

  I guess I can never say, ‘No one cooks like my mother,’ as she still has trouble boiling rice and preparing basic dal. She rarely goes into the kitchen and does not know any traditional recipes. However, just like most people in our community, she understands our cuisine to the last detail. Ammi remains my severest critic and the hardest to please. Food must look khushrang, inviting, because pehle aankh khaati hai, first the eyes feast on the food. The aroma must be seductive and the meat and vegetables should be done just right, with no single spice overpowering the other. Be it garlic, onion, salt or ginger, everything must be used in its correct proportion and the garnishing must be perfect. If a dish requires mint leaves for garnishing, you cannot replace them with coriander leaves!

  Ammi and I keep disagreeing about the oil and salt content in the food. I tend to use minimum oil and salt. On being told that too much salt is not good for health, Ammi wants to know if I cooked for her or hospital patients. I hate to admit that other than the salt factor, Ammi is mostly right in her criticism. I breathe a sigh of relief on that rare occasion when she gives a nod of approval. I know then that the cooking has been marked ten on ten.

  I first began cooking while living in New York during the year 1978. Missing comfort food, I managed to rustle up decent meals. Watching Apa Saeeda in the kitchen while growing up helped. I often spoke to her on the phone and wrote recipes down. My friends enjoyed my experiments with cooking and their responses encouraged me to work harder in the kitchen.

  I found New York’s food kiosks and street food culture fascinating. This inspired me to create an eatery when I returned to Delhi. In 1979, Ammi and I founded Al Kauser, named after her middle name. For many years, this remained the sole roadside kiosk outside the old city to sell kebab, tikka, biryani and qorma. It is located at the corner of Sardar Patel Marg and Malcha Marg, just across where Shama Kothi used to be. The large open area adjoining my bedroom was converted into a kitchen. Al Kauser became particularly famous for its kakori kabab. I created our signature dish by wrapping a kebab in a chappati and named it ‘wrap a kebab’. The phrase caught on and is still used in dhabas and eateries across the city to refer to the ubiquitous kebab roll. I went back to writing and it was Ammi’s day-to-day supervision that turned Al Kauser into a success story.

  The kakori kebab were made by Ishtiaq Qureshi from Kakori, a small town near Lucknow. He came from a family that specialized in the art of making these melt-in-the-mouth kebabs. Ammi knew Ishtiaq and convinced him to work at Al Kauser. Ishtiaq then worked as chief assistant to the acclaimed Imtiaz Qureshi, then the head chef at Maurya Sheraton. One of the reasons he agreed to join us was that he enjoyed interacting with customers who appreciated his craft rather than work inside a hotel kitchen. He moved in with his family and stayed in the staff quarters. Ishtiaq died many years ago, but his son Ashfaq continues to manage the kiosk successfully. Al Kauser now has a branch in Vasant Place Market near Vasant Vihar. The kebab are still the best in town.

  Although not a foodie, I have always enjoyed having family and friends over for meals. Keeping Abba’s tradition alive, I often hosted evenings of Urdu poetry and qawaali at Shama Kothi. Ammi helped organize the dinners that followed the mehfil and food was ordered from the professional cooks in the old city. These days, the best known of them is Hakim, from Gali Rodgran near Ballimaran. On festive occasions, we often order biryani, qorma and other traditional dishes from him.

  In my early thirties, I married Reza Perwaiz, who came from Ambari that falls in Azamgargh district in Uttar Pradesh. God bless Reza’s soul, he was extremely finicky about food. In many ways, his fussiness improved my cooking. With Reza, each dal had to have the traditional bhagar. As with most UPwalas, arhar dal was his favourite. It had to have a bhagar of lasan ke sabut javey, browned whole pods of garlic. He did not enjoy fusion or Punjabi food. Everything had to be made in a traditional or continental style. He would scorn at the mere thought of kadhai chicken, butter chicken and makhani dal. An erstwhile tea planter and a bit of a brown sahib, he relished cutlet, chicken roast and caramel custard.

  My New York days

  The opening of Al Kauser in 1979

  Reza and I often clashed over the Delhi and UP methods of cooking. He loved aloo qeema, which we don’t make. He preferred khichda over haleem. When cooking vegetables, UPwalas chop them into tiny pieces, while we cut them slightly larger. Even these little details mattered a great deal. Our son Arman, often got caught up in this age old ongoing tussle between UP and Delhi of supermacy regarding cuisine. Ultimately, the Dehlvi in him prevailed. One of the dishes Reza taught me to prepare was khili safed mash ki dal, dry white lentil, which became a great hit. I am not sharing this recipe as it is a UP specialty, and perhaps I should keep a few recipes secret!

  Gone are the when I could invite over any number of guests to Shama Kothi without having to worry about a thing. Now that I live in a flat, there are concerns of space at home and parking. However, on a much smaller
scale, I make the effort to maintain family traditions. I keep an open house and enjoy having friends and family stay over. I try to ensure that no one leaves my home without being fed, be it the guests or their drivers, the caprenter or tailor. Thankfully, with friends dropping in all the time, it is rare that Arman and I are alone at the dining table. This is one of the blessings in our lives.

  With some dish or the other being prepared, the kitchen is the most active part of my home. I am paranoid about running out of provisions and keep a large stock. For the last few years, my life in the kitchen is increasingly about niaz and langar. With help from Sabir, I personally prepare food for langar.

  Niaz, offering of food, that we make at home generally consists of aloo salan, chicken qorma or yakhni pulao and mithai. After a short prayer, some of this tabaruk, blessed, langar is shared at home and rest is distributed to the needy. I offer niaz on various days of the Islamic calendar marking special days in the life of the Prophet Muhammad and his family, Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti, Hazrat Nizamudin Auliya and some other Sufis whom I deeply love. Sometimes, we celebrate these occasions with a qawaali at home. Thanks to Dhruv Sangari, my friend and wonderful Sufi singer, hosting a mehfil has become easy. Bless him, he never never turns down my request. After the music, we serve food on a typical Dilli yellow coloured, cotton printed dastarkhwan on the floor over the white chandni, with guests sitting on both sides. These Sufi traditions keep my soul nourished.

  Al Kauser: The kebab kiosk Ammi and I established