Taiyaba Ali Shares a Treasured Lucknowi Recipe for Bheja at Bakhrid

At Goya, celebrating home cooks and recipes have always been at the heart of our work. Through our series, #1000Kitchens, we document recipes from kitchens across the country, building a living library of heirloom recipes that have been in the family for 3 generations or more. In this edition, Taiyaba Ali joins her mother and aunt in cooking a typical Bakhrid specialty, a bheja masala scented with dill. It’s a dish that is the legacy of her maternal family and a staple at their family celebrations.

This season’s stories are produced in partnership with the Samagata Foundation—a non-profit that champions meaningful projects.

This year’s Bakhrid felt very different from those of my childhood. The days once filled with ritualistic frenzy: the slaughter and distribution of meat, the exchange of greetings, the arrival of hissa (parcels of meat) from friends and family were replaced instead by a quiet afternoon and a simple desire to mark the festival symbolically.

Bakhrid is not a festival in the same celebratory sense as Eid-ul-Fitr. What defines the day is the act of qurbani: animal sacrifice, when a goat or water buffalo is ritually slaughtered in Muslim homes, in remembrance of Prophet Ibrahim’s offering. It is an observance that carries duty and humility. The meat is distributed first to the less privileged, then to neighbours, and only then, finally, shared within the family.

Since we had delegated our qurbani to the neighbourhood mosque, and it was unlikely that any offals would reach us, we sourced some bheja (goat brains) from our butcher.

The older construction (a red brick build) of our house had a courtyard which allowed for qurbani operations to spread out, from slaughtering to butchering and distribution. Men in the family did the heavy lifting with the butcher, while the children were runners. Mid-way through the operations, the aroma of browning meat and mustard oil would fill the courtyard — my mother would be cooking kaleji (liver) curry for everyone. At my family home in Lucknow, meals on this day are usually offal-centric — liver, brain and trotters of the slaughtered animal are cooked and consumed with a rigour that is unlike other occasions, and the best cuts are reserved for others.

This year, around noon, my mother [Farah Deeba] and I start preparations at home. I sit cross-legged on the floor, the pale and fragile goat brain resting in my palm, its folds like soft ripples on still water. The challenge is to keep the brain intact or ekjut, as my mother calls it. Fine red threaded capillaries of blood cling on stubbornly. The work demands stillness, and yet a thousand thoughts race through my mind. I have eaten bheja several times, and love it, yet this is the first time I am handling, and attempting to cook it with my mother.

I am failing faster than I care to admit, and my mother’s look of silent disapproval says it all: the recipe has slipped from my grasp before it even reached the stove. Yet I continue, intently picking at the blood vessels, half in frustration and half in defiance. What strikes me most is her insistence on retaining form; not only of the brain, but of so many aspects of our cooking. It is not just her, but the Lakhnawi obsession with intactness, elegance, restraint. These unspoken rules of cuisine often feel heavier than the recipes themselves, but nafasat and nazakat — precision and subtlety — are not just words. They are an everyday practice and philosophy in our kitchens. The locals, including myself, use minimal spices to enhance flavour, choosing whole spices, and the browning of meat and vegetables with the onion, to maximise flavour. Green chilli is still preferred for heat, and pulled out from the final dish before serving.

Once the cleaning is done, we take it to my mother’s aunt, Rafat Nomani, whom we lovingly call Nanu Aunty. She lives a hundred metres away with her husband, Shoaib Nomani, or simply, Uncle Nana. Since this recipe was passed down through my maternal family, it makes sense to share and cook it with those to whom it belongs.

When I started documenting food from Lucknow homes, I realised that there were no voices representing Lakhnawi women and their contribution to the cuisine. No one knew anything about the city beyond the Nawabs. That’s when I decided to tailor menus that showcase different communities and their kitchens — a peek into the past, yes, but also a very thriving and present culinary culture.

Most of my cooking practice takes root from my mother’s side of the family, which is very quintessentially Lakhnawi. Mustard oil, whole spices, herbs and seasonal produce form the backbone of our food. Our curries shift with the seasons, adapting to what is available in the markets, and celebrating each season to the fullest. Red meat, whether mutton or water buffalo, is cooked with vegetables in every meat-eating home in Lucknow. In the summer, lauki (bottle-guard), ghuiyan (colocasia), and torai (sponge gourd) are turned into simple subzis or stir-fries, but are also cherished when cooked with meat, in a simple mustard oil curry called salan. In winters, the combination is replaced with winter roots like turnip, beetroot, and tomato.

Everyone in the family has a favourite cook. For me, it is Nanu Aunty. She makes the best vegetarian food, and her gentle humming as she cooks adds unmatched flavour.

To make a brain curry, there are two non-negotiables: a healthy glug of mustard oil, and dill leaves — for fragrance as much as for flavour. Khushbu, or aroma, captivates the diner even before the first bite is taken, but herbs like dill (soya) are especially important with offal and fish, where they mask gamey odours. Each winter, dill leaves are sun-dried and stored for use through the year. One may now find them off-season, thanks to cold storage and hydroponics, but for traditionalists like in my family, the latter is never quite good enough. As for the mustard oil, Nanu Aunty insists it should be added with a khula haath, or a generous hand, since it is essential for the bhunai, the slow browning of the onion–ginger–garlic base to extract flavour.

As my mother and Nanu Aunty huddle around the stove, I step back to observe the cooking — to take notes, but also to witness my mother being gently schooled by her aunt, a rare and cherished sight I secretly enjoy. Nanu Aunty adds the ingredients one after the other, while my mother lines them up, nodding in agreement.

The brain cooks quickly, so the misé en place must be ready: mustard oil and fenugreek seeds for tempering, onion–ginger–garlic paste for the masala, staple spices like coriander, chilli, turmeric, garam masala, a spoonful of curd for creaminess, salt, and finally, chopped dill leaves. More than the ingredients, it is the attention and gentleness that makes this curry special. Bheje ko bicha diya jata hai — the pieces of the brain are carefully laid out in the simmering curry, not tossed in hastily. When cooked, the brain holds its shape. It is at once firm and fragile, with a buttery creaminess that soaks up the masala. It is best eaten with hot rotis, which my mother rolls out at marathon speed, as the curry simmers alongside.

Even though we have enough bheja and roti for everyone, Nanu aunty brings out kheer and some pulao that she had made earlier — it is a festive day after all! I spread the dastarkhwan on the bed and laid out the food, just like old times when the dining table wouldn’t suffice, and everyone squeezed onto the bed with their plates and ate together.

The women in our kitchens have long carried the unacknowledged responsibility of maintaining the rhythm of ritual, the nuances of taste, and the textures of memory. Perhaps out of love, perhaps out of duty. But in the process, it has become abundantly clear that the heirlooms are fragile, and like the brain itself, they demand gentle handling if they are to survive.

NANU AUNTY’S RECIPE FOR BHEJA

Cooking time: 30 minutes
Prep time: 30 minutes

Ingredients

1 kg of goat brain, deveined and cleaned with warm water.
300g of raw onion paste
100g of ginger-garlic paste
1 heaped tsp of coriander powder
½ tsp of turmeric powder
½ tsp of fenugreek seeds
½ tsp of garam masala
25 g of whisked curd
200 ml of mustard oil
Salt to taste
A handful of chopped fresh dill leaves or 1 tablespoon of dried dill to finish

Method

First, clean the brain. Dip the offal in warm water and gently pick out the mesh of blood capillaries. Take your time with it to prevent it from tearing apart.
In a heavy-bottom vessel, heat mustard oil to get rid of its pungency and sprinkle the fenugreek seeds. Stir as they splutter.
Add the onion paste before the seeds turn too dark, else they will leave a bitter taste.
As the onion paste starts changing colour, add the ginger-garlic paste and stir it well.
When the oil starts resurfacing, add the dry spices — turmeric, red chilli, coriander and garam masala powder and salt. Mix well and keep stirring occasionally to stop the masala from sticking to the pan.
Add whisked curd and cook till it is well incorporated.
Once the masala is browned well and all the oil has come to the top, gently lay in the brain. Stop stirring here.
Gently pick up the vessel and swirl it for the masala to settle and cover the brain equally. Do not use a spoon to mix.
Sprinkle the dill leaves and cover with the lid. Turn the gas flame to a simmer for 12-15 minutes.
Serve hot alongside roti, onions and green chillies.

Words by Taiyaba Ali. Images by Sanskriti Bist.
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