"The Pakis Are Here!"

All Aboard The Darjeeling Express

A few weeks ago I went for a well overdue catch up dinner with a very dear friend who I have known since we were at school. We went to Darjeeling Express on Carnaby Street; I had been keenly following the head chef and owner, Asma Khan, on social media since back when she used to host her supper clubs in Kensington. The images of her dishes and descriptions of her techniques have repeatedly elicited wonderment and salivation, and I was silently ecstatic throughout the day. The food did not disappoint. We savoured authentic street food like paapri chaat and puchkas, immersed ourselves in the decadent Mughlai venison koftas and robust Bengali goat curry, and finally, full to the brim and slightly tipsy thanks to my irresponsible compulsion to sample one too many of the gloriously sweet and fragrant whites, we settled on ordering just the one bhapa doi to share. I find the term “mind blasting” ideal for the sensory experience that followed: a thick and creamy, very slightly set, steamed yoghurt with a deep and raw – yet never overwhelming – sweetness much like that of jaggery or treacle, delicately perfumed with cardamom and garnished with dried rose petals. There was silence.

What ensued immediately after was, to me, a very interesting discussion.

I am not sure where it came from, but we were suddenly talking heatedly about ethnicity and identity. My friend’s parents are from the former British West Indies, part of the diaspora of indentured Indian labourers sent across the colonies after the end of slavery. She herself was born and raised in London. If I remember correctly, I was either attempting to unravel the mystery behind where in South Asia her family originated, or I was bemoaning yet another incident where I had observed fellow South Asians failing to unite, continuing to publicise and promote ideas of segregation within the community, and / or distance themselves from their ethnic identity. I suppose it was always the same with me, and my friend had expressed earlier on in the evening that she refused to get into any sort of conversation on such topics.

“I don’t really care,” she declared wearily, laboriously going in for another spoon of that irresistible bhapa doi.

“See, this is what’s wrong with our lot,” I said. “No one cares. Everyone wants to do their own thing: get their heads down, earn a bit of money, start a family. It’s typical contemporary Indian mentality. No one wants to deviate from the norm and nurture the arts, or to delve extensively into, or even promote, their own history… Like…What happened to your acting…?”

“I’m not Indian.”

“Okay, well from a South Asian back – ”

“I don’t consider myself Indian,” she reiterated clearly before putting down her spoon.

I have to admit, I was shocked. And speechless, for once. But not for too long. Could it be the wine? She did not really drink as much as I had. Was she just really full, and therefore exhausted after a hard day’s work? It was also a pretty stuffy evening. Perhaps she was not able to think straight. Unless she was genuinely annoyed at my bringing up the subject yet again, despite her insistence, and was trying to shut me up.

I questioned how she could say that. Were the names of her family members not of Indian origin? Were her parents not practicing Hindus, enough to convert an entire bedroom in their home into a puja room? Did they not wear saris and kurtas at religious and ceremonious events? And what about the food? Was she not comparing the daal we were served earlier to the one that her mother made? She replied, quite matter-of-factly, that it was West Indian culture.

Okay, but she was not ethnically West Indian. Did she have Arawak, Wai Wai, or Carib ancestry? Did Afro-Caribbeans not acknowledge their African roots and history? But she kept insisting that she was not Indian, and that she did not identify as South Asian in any way whatsoever. “So what are you?” I asked. She was British West Indian. So that would mean I could refer to myself as British East African, seeing as my dad was the second generation to be born in Uganda. Apparently, I should.  

We argued back and forth: she maintained that identity was by no means tied to ethnicity, and that she and her family associated their part of the West Indies with Back Home. As long as she had no existing ties to the Subcontinent, why should anything relating to that part of the world shape her identity? I, on the other hand, still incredulous, took the unnecessarily dramatic route, bringing up factors such as DNA and physical characteristics, criticising our media for failing to represent us, lamenting our education system for offering us neither a place in history nor a story to present our very existence on this island. More interestingly, why was it more acceptable to express pride in West Indian cultural ties over South Asian ancestry? In the same way, why do some British South Asians like to identify themselves as something other than what they are?

The Totally Buzzy New Zealander

I had taken in a lodger a few months back. Funnily enough, my dad had introduced him to me, leaving me an excited voicemail enquiring over my spare room. He said that the guy was from India, that he was looking for a room specifically in East London, and that he bore an uncannily similar resemblance and manner to me. So much so, that my dad relayed having to do a triple take when he first saw this young man eating dinner at the Spiritual University in Dollis Hill. So the guy turns up for a viewing, and he looks absolutely nothing like me. I am not sure if my dad is blind, or if he has a questionable sense of humour (I actually moaned to my mum, and she was not best pleased with my dad!). He did, however, speak with a charming and unmistakable Indian accent, he was polite and engaging, he seemed really laid back, – almost eager to please – and we ended up having a laugh.

I asked him what he did for a living, how often he planned on using the kitchen, what he considered best hygienic practice. I asked him where he was from, and he replied, “Actually, I’m from New Zealand”. That didn’t seem right. Where was the accent? Did he recently move out there for work? Was he studying there? And then it came out that he was a Tamil Brahmin from Hyderabad who, after a number of years, had become a naturalised citizen of New Zealand. It was not that I really cared, I was just interested to know if I had visited the part of India that he was from, but if we put it this way: an Englishwoman born in Surrey with roots in Dorset moves to America to study. After gaining her Green Card, she decides to travel across Europe, settling in Prague for a few months. Does she tell the people there that she is from America, or does she refer to herself as English? I communicated this example to him a month or so later when he was briefing me on his “totally buzzy” weekend one Monday evening, and casually dropping how he introduced himself to the spaced out, hipster “bitches” as being from New Zealand.   

Never mind looking absurd, my point is that South Asians already have a stereotyped image attached to them – and they always have had, from the turbaned lackeys of yore to various exotic but obsequious, and frankly ridiculous, restaurateurs near the turn of the century – thanks to the media. In today’s America you have the submissive, heavily accented IT workers and taxi drivers, and here in the UK you have your arrogant and contemptibly avaricious business owners and opportunists.  Both stereotypes remain conservative and religious, always tied to their culture. And here was someone, my lodger, who could be perceived as “cool”, as “different”, as “refreshing”, “for an Indian”. Someone that was a trance DJ, was always experimenting with astral projection on psychedelic drugs, was not working in finance in Canary Wharf with an arranged marriage ahead of him next winter. However, he did fit the positive stereotypes: he practised yoga and chanted mantras every morning, he offered alternative healing therapies as his means of income, and he dressed and behaved like a white man in Goa. Why would you want to hold back on your Indian roots? He pondered over it for a moment, his bulging eyes looking to the ceiling, his mouth pursed in an ‘o’ shape, exaggerating his already herpetological features, before he beamed, declaring the revelation buzzy.

My friend too, being from a part of the world that is respected and acknowledged in Britain for its vibrant culture, for its community spirit, and most notably for its contribution to music. But how many know that people of South Asian ancestry also contributed a respectable portion to this culture? When I had first met my friend’s mother I was confused. I had never seen an Indian-looking person speak in a West Indian accent before. My next door neighbours growing up were from Jamaica, and I had heard Grandma and all the aunties and uncles speaking in their gentle, sing-song ways, along with some of the mothers at my school, and the stern nurses at the doctor’s, but they were all black. Would it not break the stereotype if it was widely known that there were South Asians from these parts of the world, whose mothers spoke in Jamaican accents (the entire Caribbean was Jamaica to us growing up – sorry, we were ignorant), and who legitimately danced at weddings in their salwaar-kameez to soca and dancehall music, as opposed to bhangra and Hindi film remixes? By at least being open about, if not proud of, your South Asian roots it offers an important opportunity to start discussions and question tired and offensive stereotypes.

In the end, my friend and I had no choice but to agree to disagree in order to avoid our delectable evening turning sour.

But that was by no means an isolated incident.

The Pakis are Here!

I have near and dear ones, all with the same or similar family stories of immigration and terrifying discrimination, who are with white British partners and spouses that voted to leave the European Union for reasons relating to such ludicrous ideas as immigration and the overpopulation of the United Kingdom being a direct strain on jobs, housing, and the NHS. But we are deemed okay because we have assimilated into the culture. I apologise to even have to explicate that ‘we’ have nothing to do with the European Union, and the European Union has nothing to do with the broad range of people, cultures, and races that are currently being accused of failing to assimilate. My near and dear ones grow to agree with their other halves because they are not part of those being ostracised by the whole of the “developed” world.  

I was speaking to my aunt the other day, now that it has been two years since I moved into the old family home in Stepney, and I was asking her what it was like to live in the area over forty years ago. As I had imagined, the row of quirky renovated houses along the charming cobblestone mews leading up to the old church of St Dunstan and All Saints, used to be a row of shops selling everything from children’s toys to ladies’ underwear. There used to be a pub on every corner, with the two almost adjacent to the block having since been converted to an NHS Health Centre and a chicken shop. “I used to go into both of them sometimes,” my aunt told me in her ever-strong East End accent. “Everyone used to know your name and ask how your family was.” She told me how in her teens in the late Seventies she used to spend most of her wages at a record shop run by an old Jamaican man on Grove Road, and how a group of black boys always protected her at school when the white kids used to pick on her and throw chewing gum at her hair. I asked her what it was like when they first moved to the block. My aunt described how the family – my grandparents, along with my dad, two uncles, and two aunts – were given many options to relocate from the RAF Camp turned refugee camp at Greenham Common in Berkshire, to such enticing destinations as Manchester, Leicester, India, and even Canada and the United States, but my grandfather was staunchly set on London, and that too the East End, with its textile and wholesale fashion industry on Commercial Road and the abundant possibilities of work for a tailor like himself.

After almost a year at the camp, my aunt remembered how a group of families finally hopped on board a minibus destined for London. One by one, not too dissimilar to a travel company coach dropping off families at their luxurious, all-inclusive destinations along a strip of glitzy yet oppressive hotels, my family was let off at their final stop: a smart and tidy council block just along Regent’s Canal. I was told that we were the first and only non-white family to move into the block, and that every resident of each flat had come out to see who had arrived. The woman that lived downstairs was a “racist bitch”, being the first to loudly bemoan, “the Pakis are here!” as my family huddled confused, unsure what to make of this new future ahead of them. “Pakis, Pakis, Pakis, Pakis, Pakis, Pakis,” my aunt whispered almost manically, “That’s all I could hear around me. And we were thinking, hang on! We were confused. Why were these people calling us Pakis?”

I had recently finished reading, and thoroughly enjoyed, Shappi Khorsandi’s autobiographical A Beginner’s Guide to Acting English, where she describes her own experiences as a child from pre-revolutionary Iran growing up in West London during the 1970s and 1980s. Many times in the book her family are insulted as Pakis, with one particularly memorable passage relaying a time with her father at Portobello Market. Her father is haggling down an item when the aggravated stall owner resorts to racial abuse, with someone ultimately calling him a Paki. Her mother is shocked at the ignorance of the English, who are not even able to tell the difference between a Pakistani and an Iranian. Khorsandi herself makes many subtle references throughout the book to distinguish herself from South Asians, be it mentioning the boys in the playground who enquire over whether she is an Arab, Pakistani, or Bengali, though “The boy himself looked Indian” (?), or even making one of her closest friends seem almost like an exotic alien because she came from India. Although, to be fair, Khorsandi also ardently differentiates herself from Arabs and Iraqis, and any ethnic group that is not Iranian.

Regardless of whether we are from the West Indies, East Africa, South Asia itself, or even evidently parts of Central Asia and the Middle East, when push comes to shove we are indistinguishable in the eyes of many. Before 9/11 we were collectively known as Pakis, and we have since turned into Muslims and terrorists regardless. I can imagine a contemporary role reversal of Khorsandi’s book playing out with North Indians: “Of course I am not an Arab / Iranian / Turk! How can I be a fundamental Muslim if I am Indian?” (and I have experienced a very similar example with a middle aged work colleague who, when staff were asked if they would be taking time off for Eid, flatly declared, “Why would I? I’m Indian”). What difference does it really make? Why succumb to their divide and conquer?

I understand and accept that it is fair to identify with what you choose, be it your ethnic or racial background, the country of your ancestors, the country of your birth, or even your adopted country. But all of that is superficial in the fight against ignorance and prejudice. There are many varied and beautiful cultures from all over the world in Great Britain, and I feel as if all the different ethnicities, from Moroccans, to Kurds, and even to Nepalis, who are still considered South Asian, acknowledge their ethnic identities with pride. What is wrong with the rest of the South Asian diaspora? 

Winter Warmers: Lasanyo Rotlo (Garlicky Pearl Millet Flatbreads)

Throughout the winter of 2014 I was in India on a clinical placement and, considering the mild winter we have been experiencing here in London, I can honestly say that our winters can be, at times, comparable. Especially so in the states situated more towards the north like Gujarat and Rajasthan, the latter of where I was finally forced to request an electric heater from the hotel reception after layers of socks, shawls, and clothing still had me shivering in my antique wood four-poster bed. Staying at a family home in Jamnagar I swear I could feel the cold in my bones at night, my nose and feet numb, since I was practically offered a charpoy set in the courtyard with just a mosquito net and a couple of thick blankets for company. For protection and sustenance during the colder months, warming and bulking foods have always been consumed as part of an essential winter diet on the Subcontinent, and this generally continues to be observed, at least among the older generation and the rural population who are known to adhere to long-standing Ayurvedic principles. Energy-rich pearl millet, or bājra, replaces wheat flour rotis, and are eaten with pungent pickles made sharp from the generous use of mustard and mustard oil. The heavy qualities of jaggery are appreciated over cooling sugar through moreish peanut and sesame brittle confectionaries, found in abundance during the cold season, and fiery garlic chives are added to everything for aromatic piquancy.

Cardigans and shawls in Rajasthan

 

Gujarati man taking a stroll on a sunny winter's morning

I was discussing such observations with the same friend that brought over the shrikhand, inspiring my post on yoghurt. She relayed to me that one of her favourite Rajasthani winter treats happens to be crumbled bājra roti mixed together with ghee and jaggery. In much of India these bread-based dishes are referred to as chūrma or chūrā (chūr literally means powder, but also indicates shredded and crumbled pieces of unleavened breads), and can be prepared as either a sweet or savoury instant snack with leftover roti. The recipe I am presenting today happens to be a favourite of Kathiawar, or so I have been informed. I had never heard of it before, having fiercely detested bājra roti as a child; it was too thick, too dry, and had an unpleasantly crude bitter and smoky flavour. In Jamnagar, I was served bājra rotis with a sweet and sour fruit pickle and spoonfuls of the richest, creamiest ghee I have ever had the pleasure of tasting. The ghee had solidified in the cold, and had to be scooped up with a piece of the thick, rigid roti. This combination was taken as a light supper, along with mung bean khichri, cumin potatoes cooked in a simple tomato sauce, and a cup of hot tea. And it was delightful.

Funnily enough, I did not come across lasanyo rotlo in Gujarat. Instead, my cousin introduced it to me while I was in unbearably hot Mumbai for a short while. She has always loved cooking and impressing guests with her eclectic repertoire. On this particular occasion we had plans to go shopping in Bandra, and my cousin wanted to rustle up something quick and easy, yet nutritious enough to last us until dinner. “Hey, Cheraaaaaagh!” she exclaimed. “Have you had lasanyo rotlo before?” When I said that I had never heard of it she declared that that was exactly what we would have for lunch. The maid was asked to prepare a handful of bājra rotis, before being sent to the market to pick up a bunch of garlic chives. “And make sure you come back with a fresh, fat bunch! If you dare return with a withered yellow bunch like last time I’ll send you right back,” my cousin shouted after her. 

My sister was summoned to the kitchen and instructed to proceed crumbling the rotis. I was not looking forward to lunch, especially with it being centred on bājra, and must have been in a strop of sorts after my own suggestion for lunch was rejected. My cousin kept insisting I join them in the kitchen to observe, but I persistently found some excuse to keep away. Lunch was ready in a flash and, as she snapped at the maid to prepare a jug of lassi right away, my cousin brought a large serving bowl to the table. Upon lifting the lid, the tantalising aroma of garlic and coriander wafted towards me and started to make my mouth water. She served me a generous portion of what essentially looked like toasted breadcrumbs flecked with the brilliant green of freshly chopped herbs. “What do I eat this with?” I enquired. “You eat it just like that!” came the irritated response. And then, a little gently, “But you have it with lassi, otherwise it will feel too dry and heavy.”

I remember finding it weird at first, almost like eating a bowl of cereal without milk. But then the textures and flavours started to mingle and sing: soft and chewy with crunchy crusty bits, strong with garlic and onion flavours, and a deep earthy note, possibly cumin or asafoetida. Every now and then, you caught a tiny bit of green chilli to shake things up, and it was all washed down with silky smooth, creamy lassi. It was definitely a very filling meal for something that took such little time and effort to prepare, notwithstanding the dear maid.

The Ayurvedic view of winter is that the colder months provide increased energy and digestive power; it is the best time for growth and muscle development, and the time to take rejuvenative herbs along with food items that are high in fat and protein, and those that have just come into season. It is also a time to increase the consumption of unctuous and heavy substances; oils and butters to help moisturise the skin, rich comfort foods for sustenance.

Bājra is considered astringent and sweet in taste, with drying and heavy qualities, and a heating potency. As a result, it balances kapha and vata, and increases strength in the body. Because it can be difficult to digest, bājra is preffered to be eaten in the colder months, when our digestion is strongest; our digestive fires burning more effectively from the heat generated to counter the cold. It is recommended for metabolic disorders, obesity and weight gain, and to alleviate feeling cold. It also serves as a heart tonic. To assist the body during vata and kapha-dominant seasons like winter and spring, bājra works by virtue of its increased fibre content, encouraging the elimination of toxins, and for providing the extra energy required when exercising.

Pearl millet has the highest protein content of any grain, and that too with a balanced amino acid profile. Though it is a high-energy food, it contains fewer carbohydrates and more fat per 100 grams than what is found in both wheat and rice, which is specifically why the north-western states of India traditionally prefer bājra during the colder months. Pearl millet also contains twice the amount of iron than whole wheat, and more fibre than both wheat and rice. The consumption of pearl millet has been shown to greatly benefit those with Type 2 diabetes, as it has a low glycemic index. It has been found to inhibit the development of malignant breast tumours and colon cancer cells. Because it contains beneficial amounts of such essential nutrients as B vitamins, potassium, magnesium, and zinc, the inclusion of pearl millet in your diet can assist in maintaining a healthy heart and reducing the risk of such metabolic disorders as high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and weight gain. It is also a gluten free grain.

Bājra rotis tend to be on the dry side, which is why they are often served with lashings of ghee or butter, and eaten with lassi or a cup of tea. In this recipe, the crumbs are fried in a generous amount of ghee to not only encourage bulk and lubrication in the body during the cold, dry months, but to also give the dish its wonderful crisp and chewy texture.

If garlic chives are not available, I just use regular chives or spring onion along with finely chopped garlic. This way, you still get that satisfying vegetal crunch and the welcome aromatic pepperiness of garlic.

Lasanyo Rotlo

(serves 2)

Ingredients:

150g (1 cup) Bajra Flour (pearl millet flour)

2 Tbls Whole Wheat (Chappati) Flour, plus extra for rolling

½ tsp Salt

½ tsp Carom Seeds (optional)

2-4 Tbls Ghee or Unsalted Butter

½ tsp Cumin Seeds

1 pinch Asafoetida

1-3 Green Chillies, finely chopped (or cut in half for less heat)

100g Garlic Chives (or Spring Onions), finely chopped

3 cloves Garlic, finely minced

Salt

Large handful of Coriander or Parsley, roughly chopped

·  First prepare the rotis by adding the two flours, salt, and carom seeds to a bowl and mixing well.

·  Gradually add about 120ml (around ½ a cup) of warm water to the flour mixture and knead to a stiff but pliable dough. Cover with a damp cloth and leave aside for 5-10 minutes.

·  Heat a skillet or frying pan over a medium-low heat. To make the rotis, divide the dough into four equal balls, and roll out into ½-inch thick rounds with the help of a dusting of chappati flour. Sometimes it helps to use cling film to roll out these rotis as the lack of gluten makes them rather sticky and fragile, and a bit of a challenge to roll out.

·  Place on the frying pan and cook until faint bubbles start to appear on the surface of the roti. Turn over and cook the other side, gently pressing down with a spatula or such implement to ensure even cooking. Repeat on the other side as necessary. Stack the rotis on a plate and smear with ghee or butter if desired.

·  Once cool enough, break the rotis into pieces and place into a food processor. Pulse the pieces to make rough breadcrumbs. In Indian homes, this process is meticulously done by hand, pinching the rotis to a coarse crumble.

·  In a heavy-bottom pan, heat the ghee over a medium flame, and add the cumin seeds. Once they darken and start to sizzle add the asafoetida, allowing to cook for a few seconds. Tip in the garlic chives (or chives / spring onion), the garlic, and the chilli, and stir fry for about 20 seconds, or until that raw smell of garlic just begins to cook out.

· Immediately tip in the breadcrumbs and salt. Increase the heat, stir frying and pressing the breadcrumbs to the bottom of the pan from time to time in order to catch and crisp up. Continue this for 2 to 4 minutes, until a warming, toasty smell begins to rise, and sprinkle generously with chopped herbs for added succulence and freshness.

·  Serve hot with a tall glass of cold salted lassi, or any available yoghurt drink. I tend to accompany this dish with spiced roasted aubergines for a complete meal; one of my favourite winter comfort foods.