A Kashmiri Pandit Meal with Alok Ganju
#1000Kitchens is a series that goes into kitchens all over the country, documenting heirloom recipes that tell a story. In this edition, Alok Ganju cooks a Kashmiri Pandit favourite — Salan walah chawal, a slow cooked, aromatic dish of meat and rice.
Alok Ganju steps out into the courtyard to light a cigarette. Inside the kitchen, a pot sputters quietly over a blue flame. The aroma of meat slowing browning wafts out. He rolls his tobacco leisurely, not minding the rain as it splashes into small puddles around us. “This was a tiny, dirty little space between the flats,” he gestures to the lush little garden we are in. Full of foliage and trailing creepers overhead, sunlight streams into this tiny tropical space at the heart of the house.
Alok is cooking a Kashmiri Pandit favourite — salan walah chawal. He clarifies right away that it is not a special occasion recipe. “It’s eaten like a pulao — a short cut recipe, really. You’d never serve it at a festival or celebration – unless it was accompanied by four other dishes, of course.” It was the first recipe he ever learnt to cook – meat is browned slowly in ghee and yogurt, seasoned with a palette of Kashmiri spices, then cooked with basmati rice and Kashmiri wadi, before it is finally set to rest on a griddle, lid sealed with a heavy towel. Simple but rich, this is a one-pot dish that rewards meticulous care over latitude. “The recipe was my mother’s. And she learnt it from her mother, who was also a very good cook,” he says.
Kashmiri Pandit cuisine is distinctive and particular. Alok gives us a quick lesson: One, garlic is rarely used, “…even though there is wonderful wild garlic found in the Valley.” Two, Pandits never skimp on good basmati. He opens a pantry cupboard and twists the lid off a jar, pulling up a handful of yellowed grains. “Aged, long-grain basmati – it blooms better when it is soaked, and is more aromatic when cooked.”
Kashmir’s ancient connection with Persia is telling in details like the community’s singular obsession with meat – one that both Hindus and Muslims from the region share. “In fact, lamb innards — heart and lung — are offered to the goddess on Navami, the ninth day of the Navratras.” This connection is also evident in his maternal grandmother’s maiden name: Gamkhar, meaning one who swallows your sorrow – a poetic title given to the family in the late 19th century, during a time they published a Farsi newspaper whose circulation went all the way to Iran. “Family history records a tithe that would come to us every year, from the Shah of Iran.”
But there are two types of Kashmiri Pandits, he clarifies. “Those who, like us, left the Valley several generations ago; and those who still live there now, or at least have strong family ties there.” Alok has returned to Kashmir often, over the last decade. “Pandits who left over a 100 years ago, like my family, cook differently; our customs and our cuisine have evolved differently. In fact, we have taken on several Muslim characteristics: the way we dress, the way we greet each other with ‘aadaab arz,’ and call our mothers ‘ammi’. Perhaps because we were often bureaucrats in the courts, and the rulers were so often Muslim, we absorbed those traits.”
He carries his cigarette back into the kitchen, as he checks on the meat. “What you want for this recipe, is meat from the front or back shoulder — I prefer back; the front is too stringy. And little to no fat, ideally.” Kashmiris begin the cooking process with asafoetida, or hing. Dried sap from the ferula tree, it is flaky and intense; diluted in water, just the merest drop is used to season a dish. Afghani hing in the Ganju household is sourced from INA market in Delhi. “You almost can’t taste it in the final dish, but it is crucial in our cooking.”
He pours in a generous quantity of ghee, followed by yogurt, and it marbles, hissing noisily. Against the striking black and white flooring of the kitchen, everything seems to glow — a sleek black Bialetti, the yellow kettle on the hob, a stack of ceramic bowls, and a flaming red Betty Crocker spoon rest. The last remains of plum cake, from Thompson's bakery across town, languish in a wicker basket by the window. A vintage six-piece spoon set hangs by the hob, a decidedly good investment from his wife Vineeta's time in Europe, working with the Tea Board of India. On the fridge, a handwritten note — Ma Pa, love you guys to the moon and back. Pokita yours. Gayatri, their daughter, is in Srinagar at the time we visit.
"Gayu is a good friend of mine,” he says about her. “We've been friends since she was 15. Old friends, now," he chuckles. He is waiting for a first-hand update on the ground realities of Kashmir. The Pandits have long been in exile from their beloved Valley. Their forced exodus three decades ago left many Pandit families scarred, carrying the trauma of a brutal ethnic cleansing as radical Islam forced them to flee their homes overnight. No subsequent government has since been able to rehabilitate them, but the community still hopes for a chance at homecoming. India’s recent decision to eliminate Kashmiri autonomy, and impose what amounts to martial law in the state, has only caused further grief and anxiety about the irreversible damage to their homeland.
Despite a perceived divide, Alok believes that Kashmiris have always felt very much a part of India. “But today if they feel like the whole country has turned against them, I couldn’t blame them. I’d feel that way, if I were in their place. I’d feel pushed away, my rights completely stomped on.”
In Kashmir, he goes on to explain, there was traditionally never any great divide between Hindus and Muslims. “Before these struggles were instigated, we’d sit and eat together. Religion was not divisive. In fact, Kashmiri Pandit weddings were considered incomplete without Kashmiri Muslim singers.”
He tells the story of the man who found Amarnath, that most holy of shrines – a Muslim goat-herder named Malik, from Srinagar. “Until not too long ago, his descendants were the custodians of the shrine, and a tithe would be sent to his family.” Historically, both communities welcomed the Chari Mubarak Yatra together, and jointly performed rituals invoking peace for the Valley. In Kishtwar, another centuries-old cremation tradition is still honoured – a Muslim performs the last rites of a Kashmiri Pandit.
“But of course, that narrative has been hijacked. Gayu will give me a good picture of what is happening in Kashmir when she returns,” he says, returning to the hob. The flat white February morning, still holding on to the last wisps of tropical winter, is cold. But inside the Ganju home, it is mellow and snug, crammed with colour and texture, unashamedly maximalist in its collection of art, lamps, crockery and photographs — a passion both father and daughter share. This is a house brimming with the personality of its residents.
At the hob, Alok adds a few tablespoons of water into the pot, allowing the meat to caramelise slowly. This longest and most painstaking step, the slow browning of meat, is integral. “What you want is a wide pot, to maximise the surface area.” Alok thumbs through a cookbook, its spine held together by sheer force of will. ‘Cooking Guide’ by Shivram Raina, September 1969. “One of the last great Kashmiri cooks.” With recipes measured in tolas and mashas, this is a book of wedding food; wazwans cooked lavishly and without restraint. A rogan josh recipe we spot calls for 250g of ghee for a kilo of mutton. The other cookbook in circulation at the Ganju household is handwritten, with favourite recipes collected from family and friends. A recipe for garam masala, from Alok's mother; another for orange squash, from a dear friend at the Jungle Retreat lodges, in Masinagudi.
“Because mutton was so integral to our food, my father would go himself to buy meat. I’d tag along with him. Everything I learnt about meat was simply because I had tagged along; there was no teaching or passing on of knowledge.” He describes the butchers of Delhi’s Gole Market as craftsmen, wielding two knives — a cleaver, to carve the meat, and a second, thin, curved blade, between their toes, for the finer work of cleaning meat. “Kalakars,” he says, with admiration.
We lay the table together. The afternoon sun has warmed the room, and we sit down to eat. The conversation keeps its enthusiastic pace, moving from Vineeta’s expertise with tea (only second flush, from the Darjeeling Tea Emporium); to the best way to put good marmalade to use (on vanilla ice cream, with a splash of Cointreau). Alok’s son and a friend join us at the table, and affectionate greetings are noisily exchanged. We eat with our fingers, cold raita and fragrant pulao, tender meat, still steaming from the pot, and for a few minutes, we are all silent.
RECIPE: ALOK GANJU’S SALAN WALAH CHAWAL
Ingredients
1 kg mutton (preferably rear shoulder, cut into medium-large pieces)
2 tbsp sunflower oil
4 heaped tbsp ghee
1 ½ cup + 1 tbsp yogurt
2 ½ tsp salt
2 cups aged basmati rice, soaked for 30 minutes
1 tsp Kashmiri red chilli powder + 1/2 tsp red chilli powder
1 tsp ginger powder
Afghani hing (asafoetida), a few flakes diluted in 2 tsp water
4 bay leaves
2 black cardamom pods, crushed lightly
8-10 cloves
3 tsp cumin
4 heaped tsp coriander powder
1 tsp fresh ginger paste
2-3 pinches of Kashmiri wadi, if available (do not use Punjabi wadi)
Method
Place a wide, heavy bottomed pot over medium flame. When hot, add in oil and ghee, 1 and ½ cup yogurt. After a minute, add a few drops of asafoetida.
Next, add in mutton and 1 ½ tsp salt.
Turn the flame up to high, and allow the meat to release its water, as the yogurt and ghee cook down.
Meanwhile, mix 2 cups of water with a tablespoon of yogurt, ½ tsp of Kashmiri red chilli powder, ½ tsp ginger powder and a couple of drops of hing.
When the water in the pot has evaporated, lower the flame and add 2 tablespoons of the yogurt-chilli-water mixture, a little at a time. Allow the meat to brown slowly. This step is crucial, will need patience.
As the water reduces and dries out, add a couple of spoons more of the yogurt-chilli-water mixture. Repeat this for about 45 minutes, with the flame on medium/low.
Now add in the spices: ½ tsp red chilli powder, ½ tsp ginger powder,½ tsp of Kashmiri red chilli powder, cumin, coriander powder, clove, cardamom, bay leaves and 1 tsp fresh ginger paste.
Add enough water to cover the meat, and cook under pressure for 15 minutes after the first whistle, on medium/low flame.
When the meat has cooked, open the pot, and add in the pre-soaked rice, with 4 cups water, 1 tsp salt and Kashmiri wadi, and cook on a low flame with the lid ajar a crack, until no water remains.
When the rice is dry and a little short of being perfectly cooked, place on a heavy tawa or griddle, over low flame. Cover with a lid, lined with a towel inside, over the mouth of the vessel (to catch condensation). Cook for 13-15 minutes. When done perfectly, each grain of rice should be separate, and standing up along its length.
Best eaten with chilled raita of diced tomatoes and onions.
Words by Anisha Rachel Oommen; photographs by Aysha Tanya; artwork by Toshi Singh.
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