THE GREAT INDIAN STORY OF PAPAD AND ACHAAR

When I look back at my childhood, often spent with my grandmother making papad and achaar, what remains with me is not just the taste but the process itself — the choreography of women working under the winter sun, our palms dusted with flour, the dough kneaded in wide paraats, papads laid out on the terrace, chillies slit and salted for achaar, fingers stained with turmeric and the scent of crushed spices in the air.

- By RITU DALMIA

I used to witness this pattern of maximalism every November. In a traditional Indian rasoi, maximalism is omnipresent. It is the large reserve of utensils (colloquially called bartan) that make up a kitchen’s library. It is seen in the assortment of masalas, herbs and condiments that command shelves and cabinets. It lives in the thali lined with katoris, each carrying different textures, colours and flavours. Maximalism in an Indian rasoi is also the many hands at work, almost obsessive and completely disciplined at every step of culinary processes in the country.