The before word is andaazan, which suggests you put salt, spice, water into a dish, not through a precise measurement, but as a sense impression of what will work for the dish being cooked right then and perhaps those who will eat it
Illustration/Ravi Jadhav
There are some Hindustani words associated with food that I think of as the before and after of cooking, and for which no equivalents in English really satisfy me. The before word is andaazan, which suggests you put salt, spice, water into a dish, not through a precise measurement, but as a sense impression of what will work for the dish being cooked right then and perhaps those who will eat it. The after word is barkat, which means blessings, but in the sense of having the plenitude that brings gratitude. My mother would often scold me when I ate straight from the pateela as food was being cooked for guests, because of the superstition that when you do this, "Barkat nahi rehti." There is a twinkling quality to these words, both of which imply measurement, but defy the numerical, not unlike the way that kal can mean yesterday or tomorrow.
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That's a little like the place, where the two words meet, an English word, for which no Hindustani word satisfies me: leftovers.
Leftovers have something to do with the andaaza of how much to cook and the desire for barkat, and also that yesterday's meal is tomorrow's leftovers.
Some people distrust leftovers; stale food is a no-no for them. Some of these are stern, if sensible, folks: food should be cooked precisely, else be fed to birds and animals, not kept. Others are more plaintive, but also, actually practical. "Why have you left one spoon of peas?," they will ask and beg someone on the table to finish it. Because they know that keeping the four peas and one potato in the fridge is a kind of virtue signalling. Not enough for a meal, not tasty enough for a snack, the throwing away of that item is only being deferred. Such people do not suffer fools.
Some people's approach to leftovers is non-denominational, perhaps reflecting their general approach to food, maybe, even life. Food ought not to be leftover, but it happens. They will repurpose it minimally next day. Many have they fed subzi on toast to for breakfast, while others have sadly found a baingan bharta snacker toastie in their lunch tiffin. Such people may seem heartless, but are merely pragmatic to a fault.
And then there are those who love leftovers. I confess I am in that category. They cook too much at parties, force people to take doggy bags, and love yesterday's pork curry today. Everyday leftovers are also cause for joy because they turn the table into a smorgasbord, a kind of barkat max. They take pride in converting leftovers into something else. My grandmother would heat last night's mutton curry on a tava, and break an egg over it to eat with pao. My mother was famous for her leftover pies: everything from rajma to macaroni making its way into a pie crust and under a blanket of mashed potato browned nicely on top. A friend's special talent was a variety of exotic fried rice dishes made from leftovers. Such people are fun, but can also be exasperating.
But, some are hapless in the face of leftovers, letting them sit in the fridge, even after they've turned green, black or fossilised. We cannot say anything about or to these people. We must give them hugs, feed them often, and bring the leftovers back home.
Paromita Vohra is an award-winning Mumbai-based filmmaker, writer and curator working with fiction and non-fiction. Reach her at www.parodevipictures.com
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