In every morsel, a sense of gratitude

Raaja Bhasin

OFTEN enough, one has heard that the way to check a good cook of North Indian food is to see if he can make a good chapatti. It should be thin, perfectly round, not too large and should arrive at the table as well puffed as a pompous person. Depending on personal taste and the doctor’s advice, dollops or miserly morsels of ghee or butter may be applied. In winter, all may be crushed or rolled with jaggery. If one wants to further examine someone’s culinary skills, then the humble papad may be summoned. Roasting it also needs skill; no part should remain uncooked and no part should be burnt. The process requires both the flame and the griddle to be at just the right temperature, while the hand moves with the correct rotation and pressure.

We, in India, perhaps have one of the widest varieties of what may be loosely clubbed as ‘breads’. There is what we once called the ‘double roti’, only no one seems to call it that and its double role has been reduced to plain old bread — which may be white or brown and of assorted shades in between. A choice of grain comes along, too, as does a smattering of assorted nuts and seeds. Then, as we know, there are a host of other breads — lucchi, naan, rumali, laccha — and the list can go on.

But, sometimes, a chapatti tells a different story.

When I was very young, my parents and I spent long stretches with my mother’s family in Jammu. They, like many others in the city, were refugees from Mirpur who had lost everything during the Partition. Most of our relatives also belonged to this town or to Rajouri. Amongst themselves, they would often speak in whispers, so that we children would not hear about their harrowing experiences. All, without exception, were remarkable hosts who would ply you with food till you were ready to burst. ‘No more’ was not acceptable and would be taken as an affront. Some of the breads were typical of the area, like bakarkhani and katlama and were often had with tea.

There was one of those homes where the meal and the roti left an indelible impression. After a dinner that would have done a prince proud, a dry, plain chapatti came to the table. Almost unthinking, everyone broke a morsel and ate it. I asked my grandfather about this rather unusual dessert. This was his reply, ‘Our food has a lot of oil, ghee and spices in it. So, if you have a small piece of dry chapatti, it helps soak some up and keeps your stomach okay. But the real reason for this dry chapatti is to constantly remind us to be grateful. In the dark days of the Partition, we did not have even this to eat.’