 | ||||||||||||||||||||
| Fado na Alfama, by Markus Lüske
I recently returned from a week in Lisbon. The holiday was
an incredibly thoughtful birthday gift from a friend, as I have always had an
unusual passion and interest for all things Luso. As young children, my parents
took my sister and me on our first holiday to the Algarve. I cannot say what it
was about the country and its wonderful people, but subsequently, I chose to do
my first memorable school project on Portugal. In my late teens, I developed a
taste for Brazilian electronic music, a deep enthusiasm for such artists as
Suba, Cibelle, Fernanda Porto, and Céu, then branching out to baile funk music
and Angolan kuduro, the latter genres being introduced to the international
mainstream by Diplo and M.I.A. I loved Maria Rita, Bebel Gilberto, and Mylene Pires,
and owned all the latest bossa nova compilations of both João and Astrud
Gilberto, and Stan Getz. I discovered the intense beauty of Portuguese fado. It
was from a desperate desire to understand Cibelle’s poetry and identify with
Amália Rodrigues’ longing that I sought out a Portuguese language teacher in
Neasden.
My friend and I debated for a while over which part of Lisbon we should stay at, and upon learning of its status as the birthplace of fado, my friend opted for history and culture over nightlife, and booked a bijou apartment in Alfama. The eccentric owner of the flat, Maria, met us outside Santa Apolónia railway station on the Tuesday evening that we landed. She proceeded to guide us down Rua Jardim do Tobaco, and began relaying amusing anecdotes about previous guests, the neighbourhood, and her colourful personal life with gusto and an air of effervescence. As we followed her across the road opposite the Museu do Fado, we passed through a small public square to enter Alfama’s archetypal labyrinth of steep and winding, narrow streets. By the time we had ascended the first couple of cobblestone inclines and were tackling the first set of steps, Maria was already out of breath, her gravelly voice wheezing and panting between sentences. A few more turns and steps later, we had stopped outside a tall terraced house. Maria reached her hand through an open panel in the door to release the lock, assuring us that this was the only way to enter the building. A rather steep and narrow wooden staircase led to our room on the top floor, and it took another good fifteen to twenty minutes of Maria nattering before we were finally alone.
It was, by then, after 10 o’clock
in the evening, and we needed to find something to eat. So we set off into the
streets of our new neighbourhood and settled for an al fresco dinner at the
first open restaurant that we came across, situated on a cobblestone side
street. A fado performance went on in a small square behind us as we picked on pastéis
de bacalhau and olives, awaiting our meals. We had ordered a jug of wine
and, when our food finally arrived, my friend began to wax lyrical about his
grilled sardines and boiled potatoes. I had initially found my own dish of bacalhau
à bras to be quite bland, almost like a fish khichri of sorts. It
was made up of shredded salted codfish cooked with sliced onions and strips of
fried potato. But I soon began to appreciate the subtle flavours and textures,
almost as much as conversing with the Nepalese waiters, speaking both in Hindi
and in broken Nepali.
The next morning was, for me,
unbearably hot; during our stay the temperature refused to dip
below 28°C. I had stupidly forgotten to pack my Kolhapuri slippers, and did not
bring anything in the way of summer clothing. Desperate to get some airflow
going, I was suddenly captivated at the east-facing window. The view was like a
scene from a postcard. The terracotta tiles of Alfama’s rooftops blazed red
before me, only to be offset by the brilliant white of the buildings they enveloped.
To the left stood the serene Igreja de Santo Estêvão, and ahead a vast stretch
of sea blue, almost like facing the edge of the earth: the celebrated Tagus
river.
I stood there for a moment, the sun’s rays hitting my chest, breathing
in Lisbon’s sweet air, taking in the beauty. After we had showered and got
dressed, we set off for a pastry shop nearby that Maria had recommended in
order to sample the famous Portuguese pastéis de nata for breakfast.
Something about the narrow streets and the heat of the day reminded me of
India, of Old Delhi and my walks around Jamnagar during the afternoon siesta.
Of course, Alfama was nowhere near as busy and crowded as any Indian locality,
but the clothes hanging to dry outside people’s front doors, the small square
windows looking into quaint home kitchens, and the camaraderie between its
residents; these little things caught my attention, reminding me of
neighbourhoods in India.
Many of the houses and buildings
throughout the city itself were tiled with striking ceramic tile work known as Azulejos,
an influence bestowed by the earlier Muslim inhabitants of Iberia. This too
corresponded to what I had seen in Northern India, similar geometric shapes and
floral motives adorning the grand buildings of the Mughal elite and the old
towns. The many churches too were, quite naturally, of a similar design to the
churches I saw in Diu, a former Portuguese colony until only 1961, just south
of the Saurashtra region of Gujarat. In fact, the Igreja de Santo António de Lisboa,
which stood close by at the bottom of our street in Alfama, made me think back to my visit to the Church of St. Paul in Diu.
We decided to walk to the Castelo de São Jorge, not too far from our apartment. Trundling up the steep steps of Beco de Santa Helena, we found that we had come face to face with the Cerca Velha, or the medieval Old Wall, and a bustling street bearing an imposing statue of São Vicente stood opposite the Museum of Decorative Arts. Following the tram tracks, we explored the town on our way to the castle, getting lost many a time along the way, discovering local life, walls decorated with bold graffiti, and more tiled buildings. The castle itself and the surrounding grounds also reminded me of Diu and its fort, while its structure and impressive size has similarities to the forts of Jaipur, albeit on a much less intricate and aesthetically refined scale. The amount of walking and the heat of the day saw us finally retiring at our starting point, the Miradouro das Portas do Sol. With a spectacular view of Alfama before us, we sat at a table on a vast balcony, the largest balloon glass of gin and tonic I had ever encountered, and a bottle of ice-cold champagne between us.
I took a spoonful of the chocolate mousse and sipped on
the ginjinha. The rich, dense mousse coated my mouth in a blanket of
bittersweet bliss, followed by the intense sour cherry liqueur: deep and
luxurious, syrupy, burning my throat and chest. The fadista began to sing. Her
voice was crystal clear and slightly high pitched. She moved and sang
perfectly, her actions and eyes matching the mood of the song; one slightly
jovial, the next more melancholy. The restaurant was lit with candles, and a
warm pink glow had settled on everything, the strapping guitarists, the
doll-like singer, the glasses of alcohol, and the mesmerised faces of the
seated diners. It may have been the ginjinha, but I was starting to feel very
warm. The performance ended to wild applause, and I went to pay for our bill.
Behind the bar, washing dishes in the kitchen, I spotted the waitress from
earlier. She caught my eye and managed to wave. I told her that we had been
waiting to hear her sing, that we had come especially for that reason at her
own request. She appeared hesitant for a moment. Then she lifted her index
finger and came to the bar. “Let me speak to my boss,” she told me. Perhaps she
could organise something. I ordered another round of ginjinha and returned to
my table. The guitarists looked as though they were set to head home, and I
could see the waitress almost pleading with the maître d’. Finally, the
guitarists returned to their places and began to play as one of the men sang to
warm up. The waitress entered the performance space and began whispering with
the guitarists nervously. With a song decided upon, the soul stirring strumming
commenced. Out of nowhere, a powerful and slightly husky voice boomed across
the room. As she found her feet, the waitress’ voice oozed from the depths of
her very core out through her mouth. The honeyed words trickled like heavy but
reluctant tears onto the audience, the words of sadness and longing, of love
lost and better days. She looked as though she was breaking down, the
microphone bearing her frustration, her feet stamping on the tiled floor. And
then, once the performance was over the agony on her face disappeared, and the
awkwardness and nerves returned in contemplation of the next song.
That night I was blown away. The two performers had such different styles, personalities, and performance deliveries. Where the first singer stood with poise and cool confidence, her vocals precise with a restrained playfulness, the waitress displayed humility and a sweet charm, desperation to some minute extent, whilst her singing alluded to personal loss and suffering. It was like watching a film, one of those old Indian films set in a brothel or a royal palace, where you view the lives of two artistes of different social classes and levels of expertise, and their journeys through love and privilege. Being lucky enough to observe a few more fado performances throughout my stay, including one where a spirited and amiable group of elderly friends took turns on the stage, they made me think of the old mehfils and mujras of Mughal India, so lavishly portrayed in art and media. The old friends reminded me of my family around the time I was born, when my grandfather would invite his pals over and they would all sit on worn Persian rugs and fraying bolsters playing musical instruments and arguing over the melody and lyrics of film songs and ghazals. Each of my aunts would be roped into singing as the remaining guests and family members would sip on tea and graze on snacks, mothers cradling their sleeping children in their laps. Of course, the history and social practices of mehfils and fado are not comparable, but the passion in the performers, the sense of desolation present in the florid lyrics, and most importantly the emotions these performances stir up, the bringing together of souls through music, this is the common ground I found between the musical performances of Northern India and Lisbon.
There is so much more to share about my trip to Portugal,
including visiting the fairytale castles of pastel-coloured Sintra, reminiscent
of my idea of South India merging with an aristocratic colonial hill station,
and the historical municipality of Belém. Visiting Lisbon made me feel
strangely at home. Perhaps understanding the language helps in familiarising
yourself with a place, adding to that my keen interest in the country, but it
felt like I was simply revisiting a part of my past with new eyes. Alfama
itself was magical, and we left its sweet old ladies and captivating fadistas,
its crumbling brickwork and glazed azulejo tiles, and its magnificent churches
and hole in the wall ginjinha bars in the early hours of the morning. That
night was the night of the total lunar eclipse and the Super Blood Moon. As my
friend caught a couple hours of kip in preparation for the early flight, I
stood at the window admiring the reflection of the brilliant full moon on the
Tagus River. As the hours passed, the moon began to disappear and surge higher
into sky, making me stretch my body further through the window. Around 2.30am we pulled our
suitcases as silently as we could across the cobblestones of Alfama. One or two
astronomy types were out with their telescopes and cameras, a truly surreal
sight in the old world surroundings of the town. I looked up as we approached
Santa Apolónia railway station, and I saw the luminous garnet moon watching
over me. It bid me farewell, following me all the way in the taxi to the
airport.
 |
Thursday, 19 November 2015
Lusophilia: Lisboa, te amo!
Friday, 2 October 2015
Breakfast: Azerbaijani Gozlemeh
I am quite fussy about breakfast.
I need it in order to function upon waking, but I am also particular about what
I will have. Growing up on Weetabix made with hot milk, cereal was the go to
choice for many years, but living alone brought along with it a myriad of
possibilities. Of course, as a child we did have the regular Full English on a
Sunday, the unsavoury odour of bacon rising to my bedroom, The Chart Show
booming 90s hits through the house. On some occasions, we would have Indian
variations thrown in: tiny pooris with dry potato curry and rice
pudding; chai, gaathiya and jalebi; crisp parathas and crunchy sambhaaro;
and once or twice in my lifetime, fresh masala dosa with all the
trimmings, made with the help of our neighbour Shashi Auntie.
It is these latter sorts of
breakfasts that I have found myself craving for as the years have mounted
living away from home. They are hearty and substantial, yet light and full of
flavour. Jalebi and gaathiya may sound too heavy and cloying for some to eat at
breakfast, but this is surprisingly not the case. The ideal jalebi should be
thin and crispy, with the finest coating of sticky, rose-perfumed syrup;
gaathiya, deep-fried chickpea flour savoury snacks, are delicate and flaky,
with coarsely ground black pepper running through them for gentle piquancy. In
Gujarat, these are usually served alongside a carrot or papaya sambhaaro. This
is a warm salad consisting of finely shredded carrot, cabbage, or raw papaya
stir-fried in mustard seeds, green chillies, and turmeric. It is seasoned with
salt and lime juice to give you fresh, crunchy, sour, and spicy all at once,
and all of these different flavours are brought together with a warm mouthful
of sweet masala chai.
 |
| Jalebi and gaathiya (Source) |
Being able to obtain good quality
gaathiya and jalebi is a bit of a mission, since most jalebi I have tasted
across the capital have been disappointing, to say the least. I feel that I
have perfected most breakfast dishes over the years: breakfast breads like
stuffed and plain paratha, poori, and bhakri, and the aforementioned sambhaaro,
which is especially quick and easy to rustle up. Since before I left home, I
always made an effort to discover and understand Iranian culture, and this is
how my taste for Persian and Central Asian cuisine developed. I regularly make
Iranian quince moraba alongside Indian amla murabba when these
fruits come in season during the winter months, relishing the quince for
breakfast with Bulgarian white goats cheese, warm Turkish bread, and sweet
black Iranian tea. From late spring, when robustly flavoured Greek basil and
heavily fragrant rose petal moraba become available, I begin to enjoy these
seasonal treasures as part of a sabzi khordan platter with cheese,
bread, a host of fresh herbs and vegetables, and soft boiled eggs.
 |
| My quince moraba, served with white cheese, Tabrizi bread, and Iranian tea |
 |
| Sabzi khordan |
Always on the hunt for varied
breakfast ideas, I came across Azerbaijani gozlemeh. This godsend of a recipe
came from the Turmeric and
Saffron food blog, a page that specialises in Persian recipes and stories.
I must warn you that this recipe is far from Ayurvedic. It follows incorrect
food combinations and is far too heating, with the inclusion of eggs, yoghurt,
and raw garlic. I overindulged in this one summer and, being someone with a
slight heat imbalance, developed nosebleeds and bleeding gums as a warning sign
to curb my enthusiasm. Regardless, it is, without a doubt, one of the easiest
and most satisfying breakfasts I have discovered in a while.
The blogger, Azita, explains
having stumbled upon this recipe in an old Iranian cooking manual, and
modifying it to current tastes and cooking methods. The original Farsi recipe
serves six, and calls for 500ml of oil, twelve eggs, a kilo of strained
yoghurt, and a single clove of garlic. Two of the eggs are required to be mixed
well into the yoghurt and cooked over a gentle heat before adding the mashed
garlic clove. This is the sauce of the recipe, and is served over flatbreads
with fried eggs laid on top. It specifically states that a liberal use of oil makes
for a tastier dish. My recipe turns the yoghurt sauce into a Turkish cacık of sorts, with salt, garlic, and dried mint, and layers the
uncooked sauce and fried eggs over a thin, buttered roti. The garlic is very lightly cooked in ghee before being added to the yoghurt, in order to balance its heating potency. I did try the recipe
with the ramazan pidesi bread that is always found in abundance at the
Turkish shop nearby, but found it to be too thick. There are other types of
flatbreads like lavash, and even thin Turkish pide, that would work just as
well as roti.
I like to tell myself that the
mint imparts a cooling quality to the dish, and the ample use of butter
balances the yoghurt, but I could be clutching at straws. Nevertheless, this is
a deeply satisfying breakfast to treat yourself to over the colder months.
Azerbaijani Gozlemeh
(Fried eggs with yoghurt sauce)
(Serves 2)
Ingredients:
50g strained yoghurt (Greek style
yoghurt will suffice, but homemade works best)
½ tsp salt
½ tsp dried mint (optional extra: 1 tsp
finely chopped parsley)
1 – 2 garlic cloves, finely minced
4 eggs
1 Tbl ghee / butter
2 rotis (frozen or fresh)
6 – 8 black olives, halved
Dried oregano
Dried oregano
Slices of cucumber, radish, and tomato,
to serve
- First prepare the rotis. If using frozen rotis, allow to defrost before cooking on the stove. Fresh rotis can be prepared and kept warm.
- Mix the salt, herbs, and garlic into the yoghurt, stirring well. A few drops of water can be added at this stage to loosen the sauce, depending on personal preference.
- Heat the ghee or butter in a frying pan. Add the garlic and cook for a few seconds, or until the raw smell only just begins to soften. Tip into the yoghurt with half of the melted fat and whisk well.
- Crack two of the eggs into the remaining ghee in the pan, season with salt, and allow to fry until they are cooked with slightly runny yolks. I tend to finish my fried eggs off under the grill in order to cook the tops to perfection.
- Spread a spoonful of the yoghurt mixture onto a generously buttered roti, and top with two fried eggs. Garnish with the olives, a sprinkling of oregano, and serve with a salad of your choice.
 |
| Azerbaijani gozlemeh |
Monday, 21 September 2015
The Food of the Gods: Yoghurt & Shrikhand
 |
| Cardamom and saffron-laced Shrikhand |
Yoghurt is one of the oldest foods in human history.
Supposedly originating in Central Asia, it has been mentioned in ancient
Ayurvedic and Persian texts, and written about by Roman philosopher Pliny the
Elder and medieval Turkish intellectuals. Cultures from Greece and Central Asia
through to the Indian Subcontinent incorporate yoghurt into their cuisines, be
it cooked into dishes, prepared as a soup, or served alongside meals; many
cultures still enjoy yoghurt-based drinks for their refreshing taste and digestive
properties.
Back when we were children, I
remember my mother making fresh yoghurt almost every night; she would place a
stainless steel bowl of cultured milk to set in the boiler cupboard each night
before bed. As the years went by she grew lazy, and fresh yoghurt was replaced
with shop-bought fat-free natural yoghurt. This never bothered me because I
cannot say that I was the biggest fan of yoghurt as a child, always preferring
milk or ice cream. Yoghurt was too sour, regardless of what preparation it was
being used for. My sister on the other hand loved yoghurt, and I would watch
with distaste as she took second helpings of the warm yoghurt soup kadhi,
and dropped large dollops of thick yoghurt onto her rice.
It was on my extended trip to
India last year that I began to appreciate yoghurt. Having spent four months
there in order to complete a clinical placement for my Ayurvedic studies, I was
fortunate enough to travel up and down the country sampling the different
gastronomic delights. Starting in the South, at a dusty town between Bangalore
and Mangalore, I savoured the cool yet spicy tang of curd rice, and found
surprising comfort in freshly prepared yoghurt that was rich and unctuous with
a thick layer of cream on top. In Gujarat I discovered shrikhand, a dense
strained yoghurt sweetened with rock candy and flavoured with saffron,
cardamom, and pistachio. It was intensely addictive stuff, a kind that I had
never tasted before, almost a cross between Italian gelato and mousse. Of the
few that I had tried back home, all had this terribly sharp tang to them that
did not agree with my palette. And then there was Delhi, my beloved Delhi… I
could not get enough of the sweet lassi from Kamla Nagar. It was thick and
creamy, but still thirst quenching and light, with electric crimson rose syrup
at the bottom of the gigantic plastic cup and a generous layer of crunchy
clotted cream on top. I always rewarded myself after channa masala and kulcha
with two helpings.
I managed to spend a little time
with relatives in Jamnagar and Mumbai before my departure, and observed an
almost obsessive fastidiousness around the preparation of yoghurt and mealtime
lassis. Each culture, indeed each individual, has their own taste preferences:
Iranians prefer sour yoghurt, allowing it to set for at least 24 hours to
achieve the desired level of sharpness. In contrast, most Indians prefer a
milder, creamier yoghurt and allow between 4 to 12 hours for it to set,
depending on the season. I remember my cousin in Mumbai shouting at her maid
around lunchtime to enquire if the morning’s preparation of yoghurt had been
placed in the refrigerator. I had not understood why at the time. My aunt,
incidentally my cousin’s mother, in Jamnagar had been obsessive about hygiene
surrounding her own yoghurt, and lassi had to be prepared in a very particular,
rather rigorous way for the lunchtime meal.
In India, the Ayurvedic view of yoghurt
has only somewhat prevailed amongst its people. Contrary to popular opinion,
yoghurt is viewed as a heating food due to its sour taste and fermentation
process of production. It is often considered heavy to digest, and should only
be consumed in the colder months when digestion power is strong, never to be
eaten at night or on a daily basis by way of its heavy qualities. It increases
fat, and strengthens both the sperm and the body in general. Therapeutically,
yoghurt has been prescribed for anorexia, irritable bowel syndrome, and urinary
tract infections, whilst its improper consumption can lead to fever, skin
diseases, and anaemia. However, certain
foods possess qualities that balance those of yoghurt, making it more agreeable
to the body and the digestive system. These include mung bean soup, ghee,
honey, unrefined sugar, and amla (Indian gooseberries).
Rediscovering Shrikhand
Rediscovering Shrikhand
Shrikhand is mainly eaten as a
dessert around the winter months in the Indian states of Gujarat and
Maharashtra. At celebratory gatherings and social dinners it is served
garnished with bright green ground pistachio, rose petals, and silver leaf.
Unrefined sugar is used to lightly sweeten the yoghurt, and cooling,
blood-purifying saffron is added alongside mucous-mitigating cardamom for an
overall balanced sweet. The yoghurt is strained to remove all the liquid whey
and to produce that luxurious texture. The name itself poses some interesting
questions. Initially, because I was studying Farsi, I thought that the dish had
its origins in Persia: shir is the Farsi word for milk, and qand
is sugar. However, upon commencing my Ayurvedic studies, we had to take one module in
Sanskrit, and there I learnt that kshīr was also the Sanskrit word for
milk, with khānd meaning unrefined sugar. The prevalence of shrikhand
centres on Gujarat, a northwestern state close to Rajasthan and Sindh, and
where the Zoroastrians first settled centuries ago. Although strained yoghurt
recipes abound throughout western, central, and southern Asia, it has been
difficult locating any recipes similar to shrikhand outside of India.
Having delighted in the tah dig
crust with a little too much gusto, my friend declined dessert, and I only
tried the shrikhand the next morning. Memories came flooding back. Delights to
the senses in Gujarat: the biting chill of the morning shade, cows cleaning
each other in the sun, the scents of freshly fried jalebis and gaathiya
coming from the bottom of the street, and strong masala chai wafting from the
kitchen. It was delicate, silky, and delicious! This one had been made with the
addition of fresh mango pieces, adding bursts of tangy sweetness to each
mouthful. Despite my attempts to savour the glory for as long as possible with
only two spoonfulls a day, by the third day I caved in and polished off the whole lot in one sitting.
 |
| Cows in love in Jamnagar, Gujarat |
Naturally, I set off to make my
own. Strained yoghurt could not possibly be that difficult. So I purchased a
tub of natural yoghurt from the local Turkish shop, poured it into a
muslin-lined colander, tied it up into a bundle, and set it over a bowl for the
liquid to drip away. A few hours later, I added some sugar, the required spices, and mixed well. Whilst the texture was acceptable,
the taste was completely off. Just like the ones I had tasted in my youth, this
shrikhand had that terrible sharpness that resulted in a mild smarting sensation on my tongue. Highly dissatisfied, I relayed the story to my friend and asked her advice. She informed me that her mother only used home made yoghurt to make shrikhand, and I
was instructed to allow it to strain in the fridge overnight. I had kept mine
on the kitchen table as I cooked dinner, so the surrounding heat must have
contributed to the yoghurt becoming increasingly sour.
Although I had put it off for a
couple of weeks, I was determined to make the perfect shrikhand. I sent my
cousin in Mumbai a message to enquire over her secrets for the best yoghurt. As
standard, I was to boil the milk, allow it to cool, and then mix in a little
amount of starter culture before placing it in a warm place
to set. But here was the trick. For the mildest, creamiest yoghurt, it had to
be carefully observed. As soon as the mixture came away from the sides of the
bowl, and a thin liquid had developed over the top, your yoghurt had set, and it had to be put straight
into the fridge to stop it from souring any further. So here is what I did:
Homemade Yoghurt
Ingredients:
1½ pints full fat organic, unhomogenised milk
1 Tbl Yoghurt
·
Preheat the oven to about 50°C.
·
Pour the milk into a large saucepan and bring to a
rolling boil over a medium-low heat. Make sure to stir the bottom regularly to
prevent any milk solids from sticking to the bottom of the pan. This process should take about 15 – 20 minutes.
·
Once boiled, take off the stove and allow to cool. At
this point, the milk can be transferred to a container of your choice. When a
finger can be immersed in the milk comfortably for 20 seconds, the milk has been
sufficiently cooled. A thick layer of cream will have developed over the milk.
·
Add the yoghurt and whisk well to make sure it has been evenly dispersed.
·
Place the container in the oven and immediately turn it off. In
about 3 – 5 hours, the set yoghurt will be coming away from the sides of its
container, and a thin film of liquid will be visible over the top. Transfer the
container to the fridge right away.
This method produces the most
creamiest, sweetest yoghurt I have ever tasted outside of India, with the cream
on top adding a layer of luxury. It is actually impossible to find anything even remotely similar in the shops, be it organic, fresh from the cow's udders, or made by devoted, golden hued farmers in Crete. Using this batch of yoghurt to produce your
next will only enhance
the quality of the yoghurt, so I am always careful to keep a couple of
tablespoons back to use as starter culture.
 |
| My home made yoghurt, complete with the layer of cream on top, courtesy of unhomogenised milk |
With the yoghurt perfected, it
was round two with the shrikhand. This time I made sure to allow the yoghurt to
strain in the fridge overnight, keeping a heavy weight over it. Sure enough, by
the morning I was left with strained yoghurt that had an almost solid consistency.
To this I added saffron rock candy that I had found at an Iranian shop nearby (nabat),
and cardamom. I mixed it well, trying to whip some air into it, and finally
sprinkled ground almonds and pistachios on top. And then to taste…
Yes! I found myself back in
Gujarat.
Shrikhand
(serves 2)
Ingredients:
250g homemade yoghurt
2 – 4 Tbls icing sugar, or ground
rock candy
3 – 5 cardamom pods, seeds
removed and ground to a powder
Pinch of saffron
2 Tbls pistachios, ground to a
powder
2 Tbls almonds, ground to a
powder
·
Pour the yoghurt into a colander lined with muslin and
pull up the sides of the cloth to tie into a tight bundle. Place the colander
over a bowl. A plate can be placed on top with a weight, such as a pestle and
mortar or a can of chopped tomatoes. Alternatively, the bundle can be hung and
suspended over a bowl, as is the traditional method.
·
Allow the yoghurt to strain for a good few hours in the
fridge, or overnight, until all the liquid has been drained. Squeeze tightly before
use.
·
Put the strained yoghurt into a bowl and add the
powdered sugar and spices. Mix well, whipping gently for a few minutes.
·
Taste and adjust the sugar if required.
·
Before serving, sprinkle with ground nuts and dried
rose petals. Dried and fresh fruits can also be stirred into the shrikhand for
flavour and texture.
NB: The drained liquid whey does
not need to be thrown away, and can be used in soups, cooking, and especially
in baking and bread making.
 |
| My own perfected Shrikhand |
Thursday, 12 September 2013
Cup of Chai?
If I had been asked a couple of years back to rate tea
amongst my list of preferred beverages, it would not have ranked so highly. A
tea bag dunked in boiling water with some sugar and milk was considered an okay
pick me up, adequate with cake or biscuits in the afternoon, better with fresh,
butter-drenched cumin parathas and stir-fried shredded cabbage for
breakfast. I used to enjoy a freshly brewed cup of coffee in the mornings, with
plenty of hot frothy milk and cinnamon, and a cigarette. This was before I
discovered the intensely disagreeable effects coffee had on both my digestive
and nervous systems, after which I have abstained from even a drop. Since my
stay in Delhi however, I must admit that I now cannot get enough of tea. If I
cannot find the time to make a proper cup of masala chai in the morning my day
does not seem to pass smoothly; I start to feel deficient in some way,
strangely hollow.
I was flicking through the television channels during one
of my usual bouts of insomnia, checking the On Demand section for programmes I
may have missed over the past week, when I chanced upon Victoria Wood’s Nice Cup of Tea on the BBC. The information button described the comedienne
travelling through China and India, meeting “chai wallahs, opium smokers, Assam tea pickers and grumpy elephants”
along the way. I was more than intrigued and settled down nicely to a
thoroughly enjoyable and informative, humour-riddled documentary on the history
and industrialisation of the tea trade. I applaud Victoria Wood for writing
such an entertaining yet honest account of history. Even dark and uncomfortable
truths of the depraved intentions and practices behind the British Empire were
revealed, though the weight of these details were detracted through the use of
her amiable, satirical wit.
Tea: Some Uncomfortable Home Truths
Tea: Some Uncomfortable Home Truths
After the
programme, I thought deeply of the consequences of the tea trade. The Chinese
were, and continue to remain, admirably wise. When direct trade between Europe
and China first began in the 16th Century, entry into China was
forbidden to all outsiders; certain ports were specified solely for trade in
order to keep invaders and foreign rulers out. The Chinese kept the production
of their most lucrative and sought after exports a closely guarded secret, tea
being one of them. By the 18th Century, British demand for tea –
along with such coveted Chinese goods as silk and porcelain – grew rapidly. In
contrast, Chinese demand for British goods was low and silver, the only
commodity the Chinese would accept, and which the British were subjected to
purchasing from other European nations, was only incurring the Empire further
losses. This distressing degradation caused Britain to turn to India, by then
under British rule, to exploit its opium poppy harvests in order to restore the
balance of trade with China. The British introduced opium to China, where its
fatally addictive nature quickly allured the masses, securing an instant
consumer market. Despite strong protest from the Qing Dynasty government,
British traders began the import of opium from India until its sale and
consumption was finally prohibited in 1729. It was only a century later, in
1838, when China’s own silver had been exhausted from the sheer number of its
people hooked on the destructive narcotic that the Daoguang Emperor demanded
the arrest of Chinese opium dealers, along with the confiscation and
destruction of all foreign stock. In retaliation, the British devastated the
Chinese coast in the First Opium War. This resulted in China being forced to
pay the British for security, to open its ports to Britain, France and the
United States, and to relinquish Hong Kong to Queen Victoria whilst recognising
Britain and China as equals. Though the House of Commons had wondered if there had ever
been "a war more unjust in its origin, a war more calculated to cover this
country with permanent disgrace”, the Second Opium War was proclaimed a triumph
in the British press. This subsequent victory ensured new Chinese ports to be
opened for foreign trade, permission granted for all foreigners (including
Christian missionaries) to travel throughout the country, and indemnities of
five-million ounces of silver to be paid to Britain and France. This period in
Chinese history is referred to as the Century of Humiliation. The lasting effects of these mercenary disputes, all stemming from a guzzling appetite for
the cured leaves of some aromatic plant, are still evident today.
As
the British poisoned the Chinese, laws enforcing the prohibited sale and
personal use of opium in India were so rigid, so effectively enforced, that the
Indian opium den was eliminated, and continues to remain relatively so. The
British had encouraged agricultural productivity, even providing economic
incentives for workers to bear more children in order to assist in the fields.
Furthermore, Indian landlords were given a share from cash crop systems,
driving them to mount unrestrained pressure onto their workers. The cultivation
of such vast amounts of opium, with an enforced scarcity of its demand on
Indian soil, allowed the British to control both its production and its
distribution, monopolising the entire trade. Then, intense Indian droughts
started to result in the failure of grain crops, and population numbers were
beginning to exceed the amount of available food and land. This led to the
Great Famine of 1876-78. During this period, not only did the British
government continue to oversee the export of a record 2.9 million tonnes of
Indian wheat to England, but it also refused to export grain to India from its
colonies in an attempt to reduce expenses on welfare. It has been estimated
that between 12 million and 29 million Indians died for the British appetite
and as a consequence of Britain’s financial greed. It was after this period
that many Indians, mostly agricultural and skilled labourers, began to migrate
to such British colonies as those in East Africa and the West Indies to take up
work as indentured labourers. The ultimate inception behind my existence.
Personal Preferences
Personal Preferences
Aside
from the poignant realities behind the tea trade, I also began to think of the
peculiarities of tea loving nations in great anticipation of the morning, when
I would finally be able to relish my next cup. I found Wood’s reactions to the
various tea preparations she was savouring quite amusing. Whilst the Chinese
infusions were appreciated for their delicacy and floral fragrance, the
traditionally brewed tea offered by the Singpho people of Arunachal Pradesh
(and enjoyed with a hit of opium by the men folk) was considered too strong and
bitter. A cup of Indian tea in Assam was likened to cocoa: treacly, and thick
with sugar and condensed milk; it was “not quite doing it”. And finally, a
special masala chai in Kolkata, prepared with spices, mint, and rosewater by a chai-wallah
called Sadhu, was dubiously described as tasting like sweet, hot milk; it
appeared difficult to detect any tea flavour at all. It was “really lovely”,
she opines, but “he might need to think about doing a skinny version”. The very
thought of a masala chai made with rosewater and mint makes my mouth start to
water. That exotic, perfumed, intense sweetness is something Victoria described
as a world away from a British cuppa. And quite rightly so.
The
tea I grew up with was boiled in milk and water, in a saucepan over the stove.
It was sweet, rich, and subtly spiced, always with a commercial chai masala
powder that contained far too much dried ginger for my taste. It was strained,
always with a brightly coloured plastic tea strainer; my mother would fly into
a rage over tea leaves littering the kitchen sink. And there was always that
fine layer of cream floating persistently at the top of your cup, savoured by
some, despised by others. For years I thought tea – and the word chai – to be
purely of Indian origin, as I did saffron and chillies. The brightly dressed
Indian woman picking tea on the boxes of PG Tips confirmed this to me, as did
the love of tea displayed by not only every member of my family, but also every
Indian person I encountered. Everything seemed to be governed by chai, from my
parents’ will to go on in the mornings, to my dad’s functioning by the late
afternoon, and finally to the drawn out seeing off of dinner guests well past
midnight. This tea was the only tea I had known.
Drinking
English tea, at cafes, canteens, and restaurants, I had always felt that there
was something missing; that the tea had not been allowed to brew for long
enough, that the establishment was being forced to act frugally with their milk
supply, or that the entire method of preparation may have been desperately
rushed. Back when I used to frequent the farmer’s market each Saturday for
dairy produce, a couple of friends and I decided to spend one morning in
languor at a charming little café along Stoke Newington Church Street. Seated
in the rear outdoor area of the café, on distressed filigreed garden furniture
under a forest green parasol, we were surrounded by pots of evergreen shrubs,
grasses, and herbs placed along the walls. There was a shed or greenhouse
taking up most of the limited space, which resulted in a warm and intimate
atmosphere amongst the friends and couples discussing artwork, theatre plays
and modelling. We ordered a pot of tea and it arrived in an Alice in Wonderland
style clear glass teapot with some sort of high tech filter within containing
the tea. What a spectacle! We poured ourselves a cup and tucked into our
pastries. But what a disappointment the tea turned out to be. It was still
bland and watery; poorly flavoured hot water. I allowed the tea to stew for the
duration of our morning, added more milk to my cup, more sugar. It was just not
doing it.
And
I can never forget the first time I tried green tea. When I used to work at the
pharmacy, a work colleague would wax lyrical about Jacksons of Piccadilly,
insisting I try their sencha green tea with lemon. I was stubborn in
those days and had remained quite resolute in my refusal to chance a gustatory
experience so unusual; I had been the same with sushi. My colleague kindly
offered me a couple of teabags to take home and try. That weekend, I must have
indulged in one too many gin and tonics, and woke up on Sunday morning feeling
worse for wear. Remembering the green tea, I thought I might as well make
myself a cup; I could do with the detox. I found the taste revolting! It was unpleasantly
bitter with a grassy mustiness, the lemon flavour reminiscent of Dioralyte. I
forced myself to down it regardless. Within a minute or two I had my head in
the toilet, projectile vomiting every last drop back out. I have since found
white tea more agreeable to my palate.
Tea on the Indian Subcontinent
Tea on the Indian Subcontinent
China
is the world’s largest producer and consumer of green tea, whilst India is the world’s largest producer and consumer of black tea, which explains the tea
drinking habits of these great nations. The Chinese, along with the people of
the Himalayan regions, historically drank tea as a medicinal decoction before
its popularity increased as an invigorating, bitter stimulant. So why and when
did the people of India decide to add copious amounts of milk, sugar, and
spices to this traditionally pure and uplifting brew? The British found that
they could grow tea in Assam and, in order to compete with China’s monopoly on
the product, resolved to use Chinese techniques to cultivate it on an
industrial scale. Thus, the British fondness for the leaf, followed by a drop
in its consumption during the Great Depression of the 1930s generating a
production surplus, was passed on to Indian society, giving rise to the
integral part it plays in Indian culture and identity today. Before the advent
of tea, Indians would drink coffee in the South, and milk and yoghurt based
drinks in the North, along with herbal preparations and broths of medicinal
value to supplement their diets. Fresh rasas, the juices of seasonal
fruits and sugarcane, along with coconut water, were widely consumed throughout
India, as were fragrant herbal infusions and sharbats enhanced with
balancing spices and floral essences. Hospitality and social ceremonies
revolved around the offering of paan, the stimulating betel leaf and areca nut
preparation, then devoid of the cancerous effects of tobacco. The hookah,
originating in the North Western provinces of India and initially used to smoke
herbs and spices to relieve disorders of the respiratory system, was
popularised as a social pastime activity by the Mughals via Iran. Freshly
prepared snack foods, and board and card games also played integral roles in
Indian hospitality and home entertainment.
As
the popularity of tea began to grow amongst Indians, the majority of Indian tea
was still being exported to Britain. This usually left the Indians with low
grade tea dust, which chai wallahs began to boil with milk, sugar, and
spices for longer periods to draw out as much as they could from their tea.
This could explain the birth of masala chai as we know it today, but what else
is behind its distinct recipe?
India
remains the largest producer and consumer of milk in the world, neither
exporting nor importing the stuff. Milk has always been highly prized, both for
nourishment and for cultural and religious practices. The Vedic scriptures
revere cows milk as nectar, nourishing and balancing; there are passages
dedicated to its proper collection and preparation, and to its many therapeutic actions and properties, in the Ayurvedic classics. A golden rule with milk is
that it requires sufficient boiling in order to render it digestible for
humans. The cream that settles on the top, known in Northern India as malaai,
is considered heavy and difficult to digest, and is almost always skimmed off and
churned to make butter, or used to enhance desserts and festive foods. Milk was
traditionally taken at the beginning of each day for strength and vigour, and
at bedtime as a restorative and nervine tonic. Spices such as ginger and black
pepper were added as digestive stimulants and to counter the cooling, unctuous
nature of milk, whilst the pungency of cardamom served as an expectorant,
neutralising the mucous forming properties of milk. Cardamom also detoxifies caffeine, which explains its liberal use in the time honoured Turkish and
Middle Eastern methods of preparing coffee, again, via Iran. It can be safe to
generalise Indians as a nation of sweet lovers, and pots of boiling milk are
sweetened with cane sugar not only for the taste, but because energy-rich
unrefined sugar works to carry nutrients faster and more effectively to all the
bodily tissues. The sugar modulating effect of cinnamon was well known to the vaidyas
through its bitter and pungent taste and its digestion stimulating properties,
explaining its essential use in the more saccharine masala chai recipes.
The
ritualistic process of pouring the tea back and forth from a height also finds
its origins in health and well being. Apart from its obvious function of
cooling down the hot tea before serving, it is believed in Ayurveda that the
air bubbles produced by pouring a drinking liquid from a height increase the prana
in a person, the life force. Working as a supplementary immunomodulator in
modern terms, such practices continue to be carried out in India with drinking
water and lassis, for example, though their original significance has
been long lost. Even the order in which the ingredients enter the pot is owed
to medicinal practices: the herbs and spices are added to the water first in order
to draw out their essential oils. Then the fatty milk is added to mingle with
these oils as it heats up. The elongated boiling process allows all the
concentrated ingredients to disperse through the liquor, before tea and sugar
is finally added and brewed to taste.
The
ancient Eastern civilisations were at one with nature; anything that entered or
was applied to the body had medicinal value, balancing the body and mind and
promoting physiological homeostasis. Though these beneficial traditions are in
rapid decline, the literature is still available to be understood and observed.
Even something that Gandhi regarded as foreign, an exploitation of Indian
labour, has been wholeheartedly embraced and Indian-ised, the Vedic principles
of antiquity somehow finding their way again into the daily lives of Indians.
Though
some argue that tea was never introduced by the British, that it is indigenous
to India and that the British only played a part in its commercialisation and
popularisation, it is something I cannot deny being grateful for. Once I sign
off, I will probably continue to mull over the lasting effects of the tea
trade. What if the British Empire had not been so ruthless? What if my great
grandfather had never set sail for Uganda? Would my father still have met my
mother in London? Would I have ever come across the people I hold dearest to
me? Friends from Trinidad and Kashmir, friends whose parents emigrated here from
places like Guyana and Nepal?
In the meantime, I shall just go ahead and boil myself that nice cup of chai.
My
Masala Chai
(makes
1 cup)
1
cup water
¾
cup full fat milk (organic, unhomogenised)
1 inch piece of fresh ginger, grated
1 bag Organic India tulsi tea
1 bag Organic India tulsi tea
8 - 10 green cardamom pods, crushed well
1 black cardamom pod, crushed well
1 black cardamom pod, crushed well
½ cinnamon stick, pounded to a coarse powder
Pinch of cumin or fennel seeds (I prefer the strong,
savoury note of cumin)
6 - 8 black peppercorns, crushed (optional, for colder days)
6 - 8 cloves, crushed
Fresh mint leaves and stalks (optional, for hot days)
Dash of rose water
Dash of rose water
1 rounded tsp loose Assam tea leaves
2-4 tsps sugar (raw, unrefined)
· Boil
the ginger, tulsi, spices, and mint (if using) in the water for around 7 – 10 minutes.
· Add
the milk and bring to the boil.
· Finally add
the sugar and tea leaves, and allow to simmer until the required strength and colour is
achieved (about 2 – 4 minutes).
· Before serving, add the rose water. Strain into
a cup, and pour back and forth from one cup to another from a height, if desired, until
slightly cooled and energised with prana.
Tuesday, 10 September 2013
May the Diaspora Unite
India has been in the media a lot lately, and almost
always for the wrong reasons. For every positive news story there are around
triple the number of articles countering the news: pretentious and patronising,
imperialistic in tone and highly conceited. And the readers comments sections
pack such unnecessary venom that it renders me speechless and choking, the
inflicted poison refusing to wear off even after twenty-four hours. For months
I have endeavoured to voice my own opinions, my notebooks full of resentful
writings on random pages, but the level of indignance I have felt has been so
overwhelming, I have been at a loss for where to start.
I was sent a link to an article
featured in India Today by a friend the other morning: ‘India & A Blonde Tourist: an alternate account’, by Jane von Rabenau. It was a response
to Michaela Cross’s report on CNN about her experiences studying abroad in
India. Like most people, reading Cross’s report did upset me, brought up
feelings of shame and disgust, but after all the articles and comments
following the horrific gang-rape in Delhi almost a year ago now, and subsequent
reports of violent sexual assaults on tourists, it was like listening to a bad
broken record over again whilst desperately anticipating the delivery of a new
one, a better one, one with a new and superior melody. Furthermore, the report
garnered so much attention and appeared to be pounced upon by the US media as
some sort of universal lesson for the developed nations to bear in mind about
the culture and society of India. Indians are sexually repressed. Indian men
are brazen perverts. Indians turn savage at the sight of fair skin. They scoff
irately that India can even consider calling itself the world’s largest
democracy.
I can recall such snidely deriding
comments being made by both the British media and the public during the run up
to the 2010 Commonwealth Games in New Delhi. India was ridiculed and the
Western generalisation of Indians as lazy and incompetent was reinforced. This
stance continues to embellish the majority of British articles I have read on
India: the stench, dirt, and ubiquitous dire poverty appears necessary to adorn
travel and culture pieces, with a primitive and backwards depiction of Indian
mentality used to set the scene on its society and development commentaries. I
observed sanctimonious national pride back in February when David Cameron,
though apologetic, defended the British Empire over the 1919 Amritsar massacre
and, whilst I was examined on the holocaust and apartheid as part of the GCSE
history curriculum, such truths and important historical events relating to the
British Raj – the reason anyone from the Indian subcontinent is in Britain in
the first place - are swept under the carpet, replaced instead by a subtle,
systematically inculcated anti-Indian sentiment. I am even seeing British
newspapers commission Indian writers with set agendas, biased viewpoints that
match those of the British media, to comment on Indian current affairs, denying
the common British public any counter arguments or debates, further enforcing
an already long established antipathy – or at least hopeless apathy amongst the
reasonable – towards India and Indians.
This is why Jane von Rabenau’s
article struck such a chord with me. Not because hers was a beacon of light,
nor because I was sentimentally moved by her disapproval of Cross, her humble
reasoning ability and her defensive stance, but because it took a white student
to make people take note and perhaps accept a little perspective. When Indians
talk in defence of their own country, not through pride, but because they are
primary witnesses with the ability to objectively attest daily life in current
climates, their statements are overlooked, passed off as blind patriotism. If a
British newspaper decides Narendra Modi, currently the longest serving chief
minister of Gujarat and a leading candidate to becoming India's next prime
minister, to be a right-wing Hindu supremacist, then it must be true. Let us
pore over all the reports focusing on his alleged involvement in the 2002
Gujarat riots and his condoning the murder of between 790 and 2,000 Muslims,
and on the various speculated definitions of Hindu nationalism. Let us ignore
the voices of the majority of Indians who, according to opinion polls conducted
by such news mediums as The Indian Express and OneIndia News,
chose Modi as the preferred next prime minister of their country. What do they
know? I too was of this ilk from the moment I heard of the man, back in 2011. I
was growing increasingly fretful learning of his possible rise to power,
especially because all that was published about him here connoted his
anti-Muslim stance, opining that he did not do enough to make minorities in
India feel safe, and that he could incite further conflict with Pakistan. As a
minority in Britain myself it is the safety, well being, and peace of mind of
ethnic minorities worldwide that I hold closest to my heart; it is minorities I
sympathise with and relate to. What was happening in India? I read comments
from Indian nationals vehemently supporting Modi, but could not understand why.
Then my own cousin who lives in India began posting his speeches and applauding
him on Facebook. Finally, it only took a little bit of research, a little
expansion of my sources of knowledge, to be able to see another side, to
understand how millions of ethnically, socially, and religiously diverse people
could see hope in someone our media misrepresents as another fascist nut
job.
Why do so many Indians,
especially those abroad and those of the diaspora, lack pride in their
ancestry? Even Indians in India fail to accept unity. The “modern” youth want
to do things the Western way; they too want to pour scorn on the ancient
culture and practices inherent in them. Vedic medicine and sciences, spiritual
practices, and the universally Indian virtues of tolerance, humility, and
benevolence (as noted by the 16th Century Italian traveller Ludovico
di Varthema upon observing the people of Gujarat, and the numerous examples
throughout history of Indian kingdoms granting asylum to religiously persecuted refugees of Central Asia
and the Middle East – communities that
continue to thrive in India to this day) are rapidly being discounted as
superstitious rigmarole, traits that make you weak and have no place in
economic development. Rather than offer anything constructive, eminent Indians
in the media, those turned to for insider information from personal experience,
give the West what they want to hear, a variation of what has already been propagated.
In a CNN interview with the Indian-born American model and television presenter
Padma Lakshmi, she responds to the Delhi gang rape with, amongst other
misguided statements, “[sexual discrimination] is ingrained so deeply into our
psyche, into our religious texts”. Though she may allude to a suggestion or two
towards resolving this serious concern, these are overshadowed by her anecdotes
that describe being aggressively leered at whilst popping to the market for
cilantro and unbearable sexual harassment on crowded buses on the way to
school, both experienced as a teenager.
“So that literally would happen
on the bus,” the newsreader asks, unable to conceal her confounded disgust,
“that men would touch you and grab you…?”
“Sometimes, yeah.”
Lakshmi then laughs, perhaps
nervously, as she describes India’s bus policy of providing reserved seating
for women. Why does there have to be this hint of derision, this distinction to
be verified between “them” and “look at me now, I've escaped the horrors”? Why
the hypocrisy? Von Rabenau quite correctly points out the double standards
between an Italian man’s wolf-whistles and stares, often considered a
compliment, and an Indian man’s stare, deemed threatening. In most cases,
speaking from my personal experience of visiting various parts of India, people
are staring from a place of curiosity. Once, on the Delhi metro, I suffered an
anxiety attack from the number of passengers I found staring at me,
scrutinising me from head to toe. Perhaps the sight of a man with a 1920s
inspired haircut, stretch-skinny jeans, and vintage tennis plimsolls was not
something East Delhi commuters were accustomed to so early in the morning.
And how about some perspective?
The first time I visited India as a preteen I stayed in Gujarat, where my elder
cousin and I were driving back late one night from an uncle’s house on her
scooter. Upon nearing her neighbourhood a couple of young men on a motorcycle
began to follow us. They kept sounding their horns and whistling at my cousin
for her attention.
“What are they doing?” I remember
asking with fear in my voice. Images of distressing harassment scenes, so common in
popular Indian cinema of the 80s and 90s, flashed through my mind. “Why are
they following us?”
Just as we were approaching the
narrow alley that served as a shortcut to the entrance gate of my cousin’s
courtyard house, the youths overtook us and blocked our path. We had been
cornered in a deserted and unlit side street. In true Bollywood style there was
even an abandoned bullock cart of hay propped against a wall. My heart was
racing and I went to hold my cousin tight, praying for the intervention of some
hairy-chested, angry hero to leap down from a ten-foot wall. Before the youths
were able to utter a word, my cousin leapt from her scooter and charged
towards them. She threatened them with a slap so hard it would leave their
cheeks burning as red-hot as an iron tawah. They promptly rode off,
giggling and cursing to save face.
I have seen women harassed in the
same way all over London. Men would call out to them, follow them, pester them
incessantly for a hug, a kiss, or a number. I can see the discomfort and unease
in these women’s faces as they initially try to ignore the louts. And when they
can take it no more, disappearing into a taxi, behind a door, or telling the
men where to go, they are met with laughter and abuse. They are ugly slags in
any case; their mouths disregarded as unfit for urination. This scene is
regularly played out up and down the country.
Of course India has a problem,
but what nation does not? Is Britain branded as the paedophile capital of the
world? Does every child abuse case look to indigenous British culture and
psyche for explanations? And what about the self-imposed unemployed Britons,
happy to sit at home or at the pub as they malign immigrants for their work
ethic? Any mention of a lazy Briton and the public commentators hit the
ceiling. How dare you suggest a Briton to be lazy! You lot need to give us our
jobs back. Britain for Britons! Return the Koh-i-noor diamond? Illogical!
Acknowledge British atrocities bringing about the devastation and demise of a
once powerful civilisation? On yer banana boat mate.
This brings me to that primitive
dullard Vinnie Jones and his recent comments to the Radio Times on an
unrecognisable Britain, over which I initially lost much sleep. He readily
handed himself over to our media to be ripped to shreds over his
feeble-mindedness so I can save my time pointing out the baseless bigotry of
his every word, but he did give me cause to mull over something of greater
significance. His opinions, absurd as they are, seem to hold true for an
increasing number of British people. When I was younger this resentment towards
foreigners and immigrants appeared to be directed at ethnic minorities for
being different, and spending more time with my mum growing up made this
difference more apparent. Though my dad and his siblings spoke, acted, and
thought like English people (even going so far as to decidedly condemn India as
a filthy and smelly place, full of flies), we knew that they were not born
here; their stories of racial abuse, although relayed light-heartedly, have
marked my mind with a lasting terror to this day. Now we are seen as a threat,
as direct competition for work, for accommodation, and for resources.
Simpletons like Jones criticise immigration to the UK whilst seeing their own
migration almost as an honour bestowed to their host country. In the same way,
these people have no idea of the distress or insecurities their thoughtless
words can induce in the hearts and minds of those ethnic minorities to whom
Britain is the only home they know, a home they were born into, a birthplace
that is their primary identity. Should the question arise, ‘where are you
from?’, our immediate response is to proclaim Great Britain, or our British
city, with as much pride as any full-blooded Englishman. Jones and his obtuse
lot see all immigrants as one, be they black, brown, or Eastern European. They
do not care to hear how some of our parents and grandparents have worked
through blood, sweat and tears to contribute not only to the British Empire,
but subsequently also to the British economy and society. How they have
staunchly refused to accept a penny in benefits whilst saving up to buy family
homes and set up businesses in order to survive, to live as responsible and law
abiding citizens, to make something of themselves. In order to support Britons
unable to work, pensioners, and the disadvantaged, a great deal of whom
continue to fantasise about a Britain devoid of Pakis.
Rather than being so quick to
scornfully distinguish ourselves as Punjabis, Bengalis, or Gujaratis, to
distance ourselves from Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, or even freshies, all
children of the Indian Subcontinent diaspora must stand united. Rather than
choose to ignore racist comments, to sit quietly in a corner, we must speak up
and correct the statements, educate the uninformed, even if it means stepping
out of our comfort zones, confronting those close to us. My sister has a mixed
bunch of good friends from working class, council estate backgrounds. She
relayed to me recently how one of them, one she is quite close to, throws the
word Paki about willy nilly. The latest episode occurred on a night out when
some South Asian guy must have accidentally bumped into her in a crowded club.
This friend’s instant reaction was to call him a stupid Paki. I asked my sister
if she said anything to correct her. She did not. When asked why, my sister
responded that it was not her that was being called a Paki. And besides, she
was not from Pakistan. One of my closest friends told me just the other day of
an incident she encountered on a visit to her boyfriend’s house share. A
brother of one of the housemates had come to stay for a few days from out of
London. She described him as boorish and opinionated; something about his
manner made her feel uneasy. One night, as she and her boyfriend sat in the
living room watching television, this man decided it was appropriate to
announce that he was “just goin’ down the Paki shop”. My friend looked at her
boyfriend in horror, who just shrugged helplessly in response. I asked her why
she did not say anything to the man. Her reply was that she just did not want
to get into it all with him.
Consider the Jews of Eastern
Europe, once the surviving victims of genocide and now one of the most powerful
and influential communities in the United States. They have utilised their
influence over Hollywood and the media to constantly remind the world of their plight.
They have worked together to build their reputation and authority, not just for
themselves but also for Jews the world over. How about African Americans, and
the Afro-Caribbean community of Britain? They too have worked just as hard to
break down stereotypes and aggressively challenge prejudice in order to achieve
the respect and recognition that is owed to them today. All of these
communities have used the media to push their stories and to educate the world,
in effect glorifying their self-image whilst simultaneously promoting the ostracism of
their critics.
What is happening in India should
be of significance to us, but they are issues too vast and from which we are
isolated. We are constantly reminded of our statuses on visits to the
Subcontinent, how we do not belong, how the experience will always be novel for
us; we are disregarded as foreigners who could never adjust. And when comments
like those of Vinnie Jones explode onto the media, following the recent reports
over the Home Office immigration vans targeting people of an “Asian appearance”
in specific London boroughs, it is disconcerting because it is being indicated
to us that we do not belong in Britain either. We cannot even be classed as
nomads, for we do not travel from place to place. If anything, we are in danger
of being displaced. It is now up to us; it is the responsibility of those who
work within the media, of those who have some influence, to put their faculties
to good use in order to educate and inform the masses. Indian history during
the British Raj must be taught at schools, including such dark and disturbing
truths as Macaulayism, in my opinion the inflicted root cause of Indian
mentality today, the many Indian famines under British rule, brought about
through greed and selfishness, and the indenturing of Indian
labour to all corners of the globe. Writers and directors need to cinematise
significant moments in the history of India and its diaspora: colonial
attitudes, Indian massacres, partition, the 1972 Expulsion of Indians from
Uganda. We need to show the world where we have come from, what values we have
brought, and how much we have contributed to our new homelands. In this way,
united, we can challenge attitudes and misconceptions, collectively earn
respect, and find our place, with reverence, as part of British society.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)