IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 139 — THE FLAVOUR CALLED INDIA Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

 “KFC and McDonald's are going to take over India. People will forget Indian food,” my NRI friend declared in 1996 with confidence.

His prediction stayed with me.

Over the next few years, I made it a point to try every new Western food outlet that opened. Out of curiosity, insecurity, and partly because of my complex which whispers, If it's Western, it must be better.

The burgers, pizzas, fried chicken, salads, fries were good. Yet, after every meal, I felt something was missing. Nothing matched the comfort of simple Indian food.

Give me a plate of Rajma Chawal—steaming rice, thick rajma cooked patiently for hours, and a spoonful of desi ghee slowly melting into it. It doesn't merely satisfy hunger; it somehow convinces you that life is under control.

Or Kadhi Chawal. Soft pakoras floating in lightly sour kadhi. Every spoonful is gentle, almost as if your grandmother has quietly placed her hand on your head and said, “Have one more.”

Then comes Chole Bhature. You tear open the hot bhatura as steam escapes. The spicy chole, flavoured with amchur and slow-cooked spices, make you forget every promise you made to your doctor. It is one of those meals that usually ends with a satisfied smile... and a spoonful of churan.

That was when I began to wonder. Perhaps...my friend had simply never tasted India.

Take something as ordinary as Jhal Muri. A paper cone filled with puffed rice, roasted peanuts, chopped onions, coriander and green chillies. Before the first bite, the aroma of raw mustard oil reaches your nose. Then comes the crunch, followed by spice, tang and freshness. It doesn't merely feed you. It wakes you up.

Travel to Kashmir and sit down for a traditional Wazwan. Tender meat, fragrant saffron, fennel and slow-cooked spices arrive course after course. This is not merely a meal. It is centuries of culture served on a copper platter.

Drive west into Rajasthan. There is Laal Maas, where the Mathania chillies announce themselves long before the first bite. Then comes Dal Baati Churma—a baati soaked in ghee, spicy dal and sweet churma combining to prove that balance is not just a management concept.

Stop at Indore. A plate of Poha topped with sev, coriander, pomegranate and a squeeze of lemon sits beside hot Jalebis. Logic says sweet and savoury should not meet. The tongue strongly says, “aane do.”

Head further south. Soft idlis, crisp vadas, tangy sambar, coconut chutney and finally a tumbler of strong filter coffee. The breakfast alone is worth crossing half the country.

Some tastes simply refuse to leave you. I still remember a pork curry I ate in the North East nearly thirty years ago. Slow-cooked over a wood fire with fresh herbs, its smoky flavour has survived in my memory long after I have forgotten the names of many places I visited.

Then there is Bengal's Machher Jhol—simple fish curry served with steaming rice. Light, delicate and comforting. The only challenge is negotiating the tiny fish bones.

Fortunately, Punjabis solved that problem in their own style. They took boneless fish, coated it with gram flour, ginger-garlic paste and ajwain, fried it till golden and sprinkled it generously with chaat masala. Thus was born the legendary Amritsari Fish.

And before anyone tells me that America invented the perfect burger, I would request them to stop at a roadside rehdi in Udhampur. The Kalaadi Burger of Jammu can hold its own against any imported burger. Fresh kalaadi cheese sizzling on a hot griddle, crisp onions, juicy tomatoes and buns lightly fried in ghee create a burger that deserves a passport of its own.

Then my own innovations of mixing the dishes from one culture with the other. Like the appams taken with butter chicken, leaves you in an ecstasy.

Indian food is not merely about taste. It is memory, it’s family and it’s festivals. It is smoke rising from a wood-fired kitchen. It is recipes quietly travelling from grandmother to mother to daughter.

A few days ago, while walking through Janpath in Delhi, I noticed something that made me smile. People stood patiently in queues outside four South Indian restaurants. Office-goers, students, tourists and even some goras waited for a dosa, idli or pongal.

Barely fifty metres away, an "Angreji Pizza" outlet displayed a large 35% OFF board, trying to attract customers.

That was when I realised my friend's prediction had quietly collapsed. The West certainly taught us branding, consistency and presentation. We should learn from that.

But one can beat the India Flavour.

Give Indian food better packaging, hygiene, marketing and confidence. And we will rule the world.

Recipes can be copied. Machines can standardise production. Ingredients can be sourced from anywhere. But the flavour called India cannot be manufactured.

बर्गर भूख मिटा सकता है,
पर राजमा-चावल बचपन लौटा देता है।

Jai Hind.

Note: I could not accommodate several wonderful Indian dishes in this piece. Please write in the comments—which dish, according to you, deserves to represent the flavour called India?