Then, I was the person least interested in my tuck. The others were — as I was interested in theirs . I suppose because my luggage and self came by road, more cartons and tins and jars could be carried. I used to get two large cartons, with neatly packed martbans of pickle, industrial sized tins of barfi and mathri, economy jars of milk powder, packages of fresh cakes and cookies.
I could see my father’s hand in the packing, the dunnage preventing rattling and jostling. The food of course was my mother’s doing. In July it was traditional Punjabi mango pickle; in January it was cauliflower, turnip and carrot in sweet and sour masala, pungent with ground mustard. Both were topped with mustard oil, so carefully packed that not a drop leaked out. Sometimes there would be a smaller jar of pickled wild boar or partridge, and I was told to finish it quickly. Not that I needed to be told.
The tins on the other hand were huge, a good foot high, they were light blue, with ‘Sway’ written on them. I think they originally contained detergent powder. The lids were so tightly screwed on that whoever opened them was sure to break a nail.
The crisp, golden-brown mathris each had a whole peppercorn embedded in the centre. We had no plates or tissues in our hostel rooms, so the mathris served as plates, consumed judiciously to coincide with the finishing of the pickle. For some reason I wasn’t too keen on this tuck, so I wasn’t interested in eating it.
My friends from that time still remember that after dinner we’d all hang around in some one person’s room and my deal was that they were welcome to eat it as long as they opened that nail-fracturing tin, swept up the crumbs and ensured not a drop of oil fell anywhere.
The bit of tuck I liked was the home-made tomato ketchup. It wasn’t the prurient crimson of Kissan: it was slightly rusty red, and had whole peppercorns and cloves of garlic suspended in it. That I could eat on the mathris or even a slice of white bread, saved from breakfast. The other ‘Sway’ tin had besan barfi. It was cut into lozenge shapes and smelt lovely, of roasted besan. The sugar was crunchy, and the tops were sprinkled with brown slivered almonds. Also not my favourite.
Applesauce cookies
What I absolutely loved were the applesauce cookies that came in the October and January terms. This was decades ago, and there was no such thing as cling film or even tinfoil. I think they were packed first in polythene, then in a box of some sort. My mother called them applesauce ‘cookies’, though they were soft and moist, a dark, rich brown, fragrant with cinnamon and cloves, with the occasional raisin bursting juicily in the mouth. The other cake she always sent me was thoughtfully baked: cupcakes, so no knife was needed.
Sometimes they were yellow, sometimes chocolate brown, and they reminded me of having them at home, with icing: she topped them with whipped cream and brightly coloured fresh fruit segments, or chocolate sauce and crushed nuts.
Too late for kababs
One year I returned to college a day after term started, only to be told that Bunty had got kababs from Tilhar “specially for me.”
Some of us will remember the boxes used for packaging in the 70s. Mothers and cooks saved the cardboard boxes that mithai was sold in. Each box, of thin cardboard, had a bright, colourful cover with the name of the halwai , it had a string attached to tie the lid on, and the inside was lined with white paper. So Bunty’s mum (or her cook, Bhagga) had packed it brimful with shaami kababs, tightly jammed in.
Or so I imagine. The box was produced as proof. It was empty, nary a crumb! But I could imagine the kababs, which had left oily smears on the white paper. To this day I regret coming back late to college. They didn’t save even one for me.
Deepa used to bring interesting U.P. type pickles. Once she brought kathal, jackfruit pickle in a vinegar masala. Delicious and tart, I’ve never had it again and now that I make my own pickles, I’ve searched in vain for a recipe, and given up. The other one she got was of raw mango slivers in lots of heeng (asafoetida), and ground red chillies. That, too, I’ve never had again. Will someone please send me recipes?
Garden bounty
Now, 40 years on, I’m still getting ‘tuck from home’! My father sends me so much that when I’m packing the boot of the car to return to Delhi I have to find crevices and hollows to squeeze in all the pickles, jams and fresh garden produce that he collects for me.
The clear jam jars are filled with all manner of jams and jellies: strawberry, plum, guava, gooseberry. Each jar is labelled with the name and date and, since there are no hostel buddies and our own consumption is limited, I use it to fill tarts or to top ice cream.
And I particularly love the fresh vegetables and fruit: quintals of bael — though last year the tree was cut down — large lemons, hot green chillies, tender green aubergines, just-plucked lady’s finger, sweet, perennial, New Zealand spinach, Tetragonia. Some tuck I long for but it can’t be shipped to me because it’ll spoil in transit: huge, purple mulberries and plump black jamuns.
And then there’s tuck for my daughter, whose favourites are green chilli pickle and frozen shaami kababs. She’s off sweets, so there’s no more baking for her, plus she lives in Cake Land. And she’s cooking, so she prefers ingredients like Indian spices.
So when I get an instalment of freshly ground turmeric, my father sends me twice my own requirement — because half the consignment goes to his granddaughter. She says the intensity of colour and flavour of the home haldi surpass what’s sold in English shops. And so the cycle continues...
From the once-forbidden joy of eating eggs to the ingratitude of guests, the writer reflects on every association with food. vasundharachauhan9@gmail.com
