Local Flavor

The Mystique of India
Three weeks in India can feed the soul as well as the appetite.

by Deb Barshafsky

How could November 2005 have gotten here so quickly? For nearly the entire year since I returned from Chile, the date for my next big fall adventure seemed so distant, merely a speck on my planning horizon. It peeked around the corner every now and then reminding me to get my vaccinations, apply for my visa, learn a few words of Hindi and Urdu, shop for desert clothes. I felt like I was made out of time. And then, it was late October and the streets were full of princesses, cowboys, aliens and miniature George Bushes. In less than a week, I was India bound.

The Saturday night before we departed, Marian and I went to Bombay Central for the golden triangle, our favorite trio of Indian dishes, and some last-minute travel advice from our friend, Nidhi Kalra, who owns and operates the restaurant with her husband Sunny.

We don't even look at the menu anymore. Nidhi simply confirms that we want the usual-saag paneer (pureed spinach with cubes of fresh cheese), baingan bharta (a spicy eggplant dish) and murgh korma (chicken in a creamy cashew sauce)-and brings us a couple of cold bottles of Taj. The first time I ordered the eggplant dish, I stumbled over the name. It came out sounding like Bangin' Bertha. From that day forward, we've been known to Nidhi and Sunny as the Bang Bang Sisters.

Nidhi, who comes from a small town in the Himalayas north of Delhi, advised us of the best markets in Old Delhi, suggested we try the chai, Indian tea, on the railway platforms and rhapsodized about Indian Chinese food. "You must have the lungfung soup," she purred. "You'll fall in love with the hands that made it."

That same evening, we ran into Bakul Wadgaonkar. Last year, Bakul connected us with some local women interested in doing henna hand painting at an Indian-themed party we hosted. Bakul exuberantly encouraged us to "try everything." And really, that was my plan. To dive as deeply as I could into the culinary traditions of the country, resurfacing only when my belly felt ready to burst.

But back to my pre-trip anxiety. I had been working at breakneck speed at the office to make sure all my professional bases were covered. But at home, there was so much I didn't get done.

I had planned to have my holiday shopping finished but failed to even get a good start. I didn't have those boards on the porch replaced. And I thought my kitchen renovation would be finished. My new Electrolux appliances have been sitting in my hall for so long my friends and family have come to think of that space as my satellite kitchen.

If you don't think a 36-inch, six- burner, stainless steel gas cooktop in your hallway is a conversation starter, try it for six months. I believe a third of Augusta could tell you the plans for my kitchen. Say it with me, friends...cinnamon walls to match the sofa, butterscotch ceiling to bring in the living room, black cabinets with natural fronts, stainless steel back splash and a resurrection of the original hardwood floors.

I mean, if you're a food writer, your kitchen has to make a statement, right? Tell your guests something about the way you're wired. If you're going to create culinary masterpieces, you've got to be properly equipped, right? Right, I say, with a smug nod.

And then...there's India.

I thought I was prepared for this trip. For years, I've read about the country and was astounded by its challenges. The maddening bureaucracy. The grip of the caste system on the culture in spite of laws intended to dismantle it. Widespread poverty and homelessness. The pervasiveness of disease. Sobering issues.

I've also been tantalized by the depth of the country's cultural traditions. The myth and mystery. The promise of salvation, of enlightenment, of a greater understanding of the human condition.

Oh, and the food, particularly the complexity and centrality of spices in Indian cuisine. The cardamom, the coriander, the fenugreek, the black mustard seeds. Masalas, exotic blends of spices, that dance across your tongue.

I first ate Indian food in Washington, D.C. I ordered something spicy, a pork vindaloo, and ate it with gusto despite the fact that it seared everything it touched. Sensing I was in a bit of distress, my waiter asked, "Is this your first experience with Indian food?" I nodded affirmatively while gulping my water. He wobbled his head in that charming Indian fashion, patted my arm, and said, "Take it easy."

By the time the Moghul, Augusta's first Indian restaurant, opened, I was a seasoned pro. I was there every week, blissfully munching on pappadam (crunchy lentil wafers), vegetable jalfrezi and lamb roghan josh. When the Moghul closed its doors for good, I mourned. I would have drowned my sorrows in Kingfisher beer if I could have found any.

Three Indian restaurants are now open in Augusta-Bombay Central, India Café and Taj of India. I like the India Café when I'm in the mood for a Bollywood movie. The owners typically run one on the televisions in the corner. The Taj has a respectable lunch buffet, convenient for me and all the other Medical College of Georgia folks who frequent it. But my heart belongs to Bombay-those lovely persimmon colored walls, Nidhi's mischievous sense of humor and the food. The best in town.

For years now I've been a student of Indian cuisine. I've read Madhur Jaffrey's An Invitation to Indian Cooking cover to cover. I've sniffed out superior Indian restaurants in every city I've visited. I can roll koftas, Indian meatballs, as easily as Yahtzee dice. Despite my long history with Indian cuisine on this continent, nothing could have prepared me for how much I learned-about food and life-after I took my first breath of Indian air.

We started our adventure in Delhi, landing at the Indira Gandhi International Airport just before midnight. On the hair-raising ride from the airport to our hotel, I was amazed by the ubiquitousness of food. Even at this late hour, restaurants were open, food stalls were humming and families living on the streets were frying bread over small open flames. Over the next two-and-a-half weeks, my journey took me across northern India-from the exotic and desolate Thar Desert in Rajasthan to the bathing and burning ghats in Varanasi, India's holiest city.

In the crowded markets of Old Delhi, I was dazzled by the sights and smells of street food and the sheer density of people, bicycles, rickshaws, trucks and animals. "India is a true democracy," I was told. "Humans, dogs, cows, horses, camels and elephants all peacefully coexisting."

Everywhere you look, someone is frying, stirring, grinding, mixing- preparing something sweet or savory to fuel the roiling crowds. A chai wallah serving tea in small terra cotta mugs. A boy minding a vat of hot oil full of puffy poori, crunchy little balloons of deep-fried bread. A barefooted man sitting cross-legged on a counter, making jalebis-vibrantly orange swirls of fried batter made from milk, cardamom and semolina.

In Jaipur, the Sharma family opened their home to us, feeding us dinner on their rooftop, copper bowls of fire on the cement floor illuminating our night. Mrs. Sharma's kitchen was small and spare, but an entire wall of cabinets held her spices-a source of pride in every Indian kitchen. This was one of the two things she wanted to show us. The other was her prayer room. On the shelf next to her shrine, I spotted a Mr. Potato Head. "A gift from America," she smiled.

In Chandalao, a village so remote it doesn't appear on my atlas, we stayed in a 300-year-old fort owned by a Takhur, a nobleman whose ancestors were one mere rung below the maharaja. On our last evening in Chandalao, we caravaned by camel cart to a rock outcropping beyond the village for dinner. Peb Singh, our cook, prepared potato patties, whole roasted onions, lentils, spicy vegetables, and three varieties of goat. All over a small open flame.

The next morning, I wandered to the rear of the fort and found Peb and the prince's elegant lavender-clad mother ("I am helping when he is busy.") in a simple and utilitarian kitchen. A squat airy room equipped with one tiny cooktop that could accommodate two kadhai, Indian-style woks. In this humble space, and in the tandoor oven just outside, Peb and the prince's mother prepare three meals a day for the travelers who visit Chandalao.

The food of India is as complex and varied as the country itself. I visited five cities and one village in only three of India's 29 states. I didn't experience a true thali meal in Gujarat. No barbecued mackerel or prawn soup in Goa. No dosas, fried fermented rice flour cakes, in Tamil Nadu.

But what I did eat made me feel good about the Indian food waiting for me when I returned to Augusta. Often, food of other countries is bastardized to please the American palate. We all know that eating almond chicken or sweet and sour pork bears no resemblance to an actual dining experience in China. My friend Doreen never fails to break up a crowd with her description of "the Fear Factor buffet" she encountered in Shanghai.

I was pleasantly surprised-nay, that's not strong enough-I was uplifted to discover that the meals I've been eating at Bombay Central are not a watered down, Americanized version of authentic Indian cuisine. I had saag paneer and murgh korma, two parts of the aforementioned golden triangle, in the heart of Delhi at a restaurant not frequented by Westerners. I can assure you that the food Sunny and Nidhi serve right here in the heart of Augusta can go toe to toe.

Beyond depth and richness of the culinary traditions of India, what moved me most about this country is the grace and serenity of the Indian people despite (or perhaps because of) heart-breaking poverty and chaos. "Heart-breaking" is a term I've used a lot to describe this trip. And what I mean is that this trip broke my heart open. Cracked a hard protective shell that kept deeply felt emotion at a safe distance.

When I share tales of my time in India, stories about food are central. But I won't soon forget the hand of a small child in mine, walking down a dusty village road. The smile of a shy, slight young girl named Ganika, wearing a single strand of saffron-colored beads.

I can't say it any better than James O'Reilly and Larry Habegger in their introduction to a collection of traveler's tales about India.

"India-monsoon and marigold, dung and dust, colors and corpses, smoke and ash, snow and sand-is a cruel, unrelenting land of ineffable sweetness. Much like life itself. And like life itself (if reincarnation be true) worth visiting repeatedly, in this turn of the wheel and the next."

This trip fed more than my appetite. India fed my soul.