A Year of Spiritual Feasts
Growing up in a Muslim family in South India, Sajida A Zubair recollects how religious gatherings were a celebration of spirituality but also of a culinary heritage.
I grew up in a family in Belgaum, Karnataka where both sides of my parents were dedicated fateha enthusiasts. Al-Fatiha, which translates to ‘the beginning,’ is the first chapter of the Quran. A seven-verse prayer, wherein we seek straight paths in this world, is also recited as an invocation to begin anything fresh. The first fateha I can recall was in the corner of our ancestral dining room, where the women of the house set up a shama, a lamp that is lit with tiny wicks hand-rolled out of cotton, the room fragrant with agarbatti, and lobaan. There were three dishes on a ‘musallah’ (a prayer carpet or rug): one glistening bowl of pulao that could make anyone weak in the knees, a meat curry that was practically begging to be devoured, and a sweet, malida, which looked like it was crafted by culinary angels. Honestly, who needs a spiritual experience when you've got a feast like that?
Malida is a powerhouse of whole wheat flour, semolina, jaggery, ghee, and dry fruits — a sugar rush before energy bars were a thing! It was so good, it crossed cultural borders, finding a home in Afghan, Gujarati, Bohra, Memon, Kachi, and Parsi kitchens.
As kids, we’d impatiently wait for the hazrat to finish reciting so we could finally devour malida. But first—tabarruk (the ritual of sharing food) duty. My Badi Ammi and mother would carefully portion it into tiny servings, and off we’d go, mini food couriers, delivering the food to our neighbors.
Once done, we had a choice — eat rice with meat curry or malida. It was no contest. We’d yell “Malida! Malida!” and dive into a bowl dripping with homemade ghee. The first bite was pure bliss. I still crave it, though I never quite mastered making it myself.
Malida is a powerhouse of whole wheat flour, semolina, jaggery, ghee, and dry fruits — a sugar rush before energy bars were a thing! Stock Photo.
The second day of Eid was for visiting shrines nearby and picnicking with biryani on their lawns.
On the second day of Eid, we would visit nearby shrines, though as kids, we were more excited about playing on the grass than the actual rituals. We’d carry a large daig of yakhni biryani, sturdy steel plates for the elders, and old aluminum ones for us. A bedsheet and mat were packed for the feast, and the concept of ‘use and throw’ was entirely unheard of—everything had its place, except perhaps our energy after a long day of running around!
Occasionally, we'd be taken inside the tombs, and while the religious significance was lost on us, what I still vividly remember is the fragrance of incense sticks filling the air. Even now, I light those incense sticks in my home—not for any deep spiritual reason, but simply to relive those carefree childhood days. Once we emerged from the shrine, we would unfold a bed sheet, ready to savour the biryani.
Due to my father’s transferable job, we moved to a new city often. When we first left our hometown, everything felt unfamiliar. Back home, our understanding of spiritual gatherings was limited to fateha. But in the new city, we were introduced to a variety of traditions. We participated in Quran-Khwani, where the Qur’an was recited collectively for blessings, Poor ki Fateha gatherings, Gyarveen, a celebration honouring Shaykh Abdul Qadir Jilani on the 11th day of each Islamic month, and Barveen, a festival during Rabi' al-awwal to commemorate the birth of Prophet Muhammad. While the elders spoke of how these events deepened their faith, as kids, we were mostly excited about the special dishes that came with each gathering. To us, the focus wasn’t the significance—it was the feast!
The Quran-Khwani was a feast for the senses, treating us to a special biryani and muzaffar, a delightful sweet delicacy. This saffron-infused dish, made with Basmati rice, had a rich sweetness from an assortment of nuts roasted in clarified butter. On the occasion of Poor ke Fateha, we indulged in halwa puri, a dish with roots tracing back to the Mughal Empire — the deep-fried pooris, paired perfectly with halwa—a luscious sweet made with semolina, ghee, dry fruits, and khoya. Meanwhile, Gyarveen and Barveen brought forth more delights, featuring rich dam ki siwayee, saffron sweet rice, fragrant pulao, and flavourful meat curry. Each gathering was a celebration not just of spirituality but also of a culinary heritage that delighted our young palates.
Each gathering was a celebration not just of spirituality but also of a culinary heritage that delighted our young palates. Stock Image
The first month of Islamic lunar calendar, Muharram, always brings a flood of childhood memories for me. While there weren’t any big spiritual ceremonies at home, making chonge was non-negotiable. The sugary treat consists of a crisp fried pooris generously soaked in a thick jaggery syrup. A special juice, commonly known as Moharram sharbat, made with almonds, was also an essential part of this preparation. We were also introduced to the new version of malida, made using papad instead of wheat rotis.
These cherished memories are slowly fading, overshadowed by the prevalence of pre-ordered meals at family and spiritual gatherings. For us as children, those spiritual gatherings were food festivals. What I really miss is how the elders always ensured the food was shared with those in need, teaching us the importance of feeding the hungry and less privileged. Unlike today, when the invitees often include the who’s who of society, these gatherings used to foster a sense of social responsibility.
Recipe for Malida
Ingredients
Measuring cup used 240ml
1 cup wheat flour
1 tbsp gram flour
1/2 cup jaggery (or as per your taste)
2 tbsp dessicated coconut or kobbari turi
1 tbsp poppy seeds or gasagase
2 tbsp roasted gram or hurigadale or putani
2 cardamom
1/2 tsp salt
Method
Place wheat flour in a wide bowl—slightly coarse wheat flour works best, though regular wheat flour will do. Mix in gram flour and a pinch of salt. Gradually add water to knead a stiff dough, then shape it into large, lemon-sized balls.
Roll each ball into a thick chapathi, and cook them on a pan over medium heat without oil, ensuring both sides are evenly cooked.
Once cooled, tear the chapathis into pieces and grind them into a coarse powder. Add powdered jaggery and crushed cardamom, grinding briefly to blend.
Transfer the mixture to a container, and stir in roasted poppy seeds, desiccated coconut, and roasted gram.
Mix everything thoroughly, and serve with milk and ghee—or enjoy it just as it is.
Sajida A Zubair is a Sub Editor at Vartha Bharti (English), freelance writer, voice-over artist, faculty member at IPERC Chennai, and counseling therapist.
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