What the winds brought us

As a kid with a sweet tooth I looked forward to trips to my hometown in Kerala, Kanjirapally, not just to meet my cousins and for the river baths but also for the temptations of Kunjus – a bakery and, at that time, a 70-year-old institution. It was an overnight train ride to Kottayam from Madras, and then a winding, 45-minute drive to the town. Kanjirapally is on the Western Ghats, and sits at what is almost the absolute centre of Kerala. As we drew near, the urban atmosphere of Kottayam would give way to rubber estates, and we would catch glimpses of gracious homes surrounded by guava and other fruit trees. But it was only the sight of Kunjus, my personal landmark, that would alert me that we were home.

The lure of spices has long attracted traders from West Asia and Europe to Kerala. In the annals of Pliny the Elder, the 1st century Roman chronicler, it is said that the Keralan port of Muziris – today known as Kodungallur – could be reached in 40 days from the Egyptian coast, depending on the strength of the monsoon winds. It is believed that St Thomas the Apostle reached Kerala’s shores in 52 AD on a merchant vessel plying between Alexandria and Malabar. St Thomas established seven Christian communities under the East Syrian order, and the present-day Syrian Christians in Kanjirapally are said to have descended from these original groups. Christianity here has the flavour of antiquity. The old church Pazhyapally, in Kanjirapally, was established in 1449.

As it is known today, Kanjirapally was founded by a group of men whose privileged and exclusive way of life here was funded primarily by the rubber estates they developed. This prosperous lifestyle has been satirised in many Malayalam movies, where the rubber planter from Kanjirapally is shown as self-important and comically out of touch with reality.

But questions of history and social relations did not concern me during my childhood sojourns here. Rather, what I remember is calling – or persuading my older cousins to call – the Kunjus bakery in order to place our orders for pastries. My favourite was the jam roll, a sponge cake smeared with fresh pineapple jam made from the locally grown fruits.

The real treat in Kanjirapally, though, was the meals we would create. Breakfast would be puttu, made with a base of rice flour and a little salt, then layered with grated coconut and steamed in a cylindrical container. Piping hot, we would mix it with ripe bananas and eat it with brown chickpeas or fish curry. Instead of sugar for the puttu we usually used paani, a syrup boiled down from sweet palm toddy. This mixture of sweet and spicy was wonderful.

During holidays when our extended family would invariably meet in Kanjirapally, no one was ever in a particular hurry to finish their meals. Mealtimes would subsequently merge seamlessly – after breakfast the orders for second cups of coffee would go around, and so the morning would continue. As 11 o’clock approached, homemade fruit cake would appear, as would churuttu – a sweet made with roasted rice, coconut and paani – or mangoes.

After moving far enough through the morning after breakfast, lunches and dinners would be a treat for all – provided they were non-vegetarian, as vegetarians received only the scantest of nods in our house. For those not from Kerala, the reigning mascot of Syrian Christian cuisine is surely its spicy beef fry. The beef is diced and cooked with crushed ginger, garlic, onions, chilli and coriander powder, pepper and salt. Once the meat has cooked well and imbibed all these flavours, oil is added and the dish is roasted till almost black.

In our house, however, seafood was a particular delight. Kerala fish curry, made with coccum (a type of tamarind) for its distinctive tartness, tends to enliven even the most jaded taste buds. And the best accompaniment to fish curry is tapioca, which we either boiled very simply with a little salt, or spiced with mustard and curry leaves. Roast duck appeared on the table every time my aunt visited from the rice-growing area of Kuttanand. Meat, fish and prawn pickles all abounded, as did mouth-watering chamanthis, or chutneys. To this day, unakka chemeen chamanthi – made of dry prawns, coconut and vinegar, mixed with brown Kerala rice and crisp papadams – strikes me as one of the most satisfying of preparations.

Food of welcome

Traveling north from Kanjirapally is a beautiful drive, with views of everything that has made Kerala famous – lush green fields, muddy rivers and a languidness unique to the region. Teashops that serve ethekka appam (banana fritters) and sweet tea are particularly worthwhile stops, though more unique cuisines wait further down the road.

One of the most distinctive communities of north Kerala is that of the Moplah, the Malayalam-speaking Muslims. They, like the Syrian Christian community, find their origins in the trade that has for millennia taken place across the Arabian Sea. The Moplah are said to be descendants of marriages between Arab merchants and local Kerala women. Having existed with a distinct culture since the 8th century, the Moplah are one of India’s earliest-known Muslim communities.

The Moplah are extremely hospitable, and food is their language of welcome. Perhaps the best way to taste their cuisine is to attend a wedding, and I have several cousins who have gate-crashed for the lure of Moplah food. In the old days, the groom was served his wedding meal in a particular order of courses. First came the mutta malla, literally ‘egg-garland’, a sweet dish made with egg yolk strained into hot syrup. A noodle-like egg dish is then served with pinnathappam, a preparation of egg-white, in the middle.

Next comes the alisa and biriyani. Arab influence is particularly evident in the alisa, a distinctively flavoured porridge of wheat and meat, usually lamb. The meat is cooked together with wheat, onion and cinnamon, after which the whole thing is mashed. Golden brown fried onions are added, and the dish is finally served with ghee and sugar.

The aromatic Moplah biriyani is a very well-known dish, usually served with einthappam (date) chutney. Fish biriyani – more special, I find, than the usual mutton and chicken varieties – is often made with seer fish, and has a myriad of flavours. Fish masala is prepared first and then layered with cooked rice, saffron and fried onions. Finally, no Moplah wedding could be complete without the neichoru (ghee rice), which has onions, cinnamon, cloves and cardamom. This is delicious with mutton curry.