They say the hills beckon and it’s call is irresistible. This morning I too hear the hills call, and i am not sure if it’s calling me.
May be the trending songs, the voices of the hill choirs singing festive carols are echoing, may be the annual fairs and feasts of the Santal regions , the colours and aromas of the rural kitchens call me as my physical self is far far away but my inveterate being is too much of a ‘Wolf’ to not respond to these inexorable calls.
I see with ears this morning and listen with my eyes and lap up the prompting from the hills of the North East and the hills of the Santal Paragana.
To me hills are messengers . They call us to look up to a human height of visibility. It opens up tracks and terrains for common man to reach them on foot. They are not formidable or imposing.
So following their trail in my thoughts and revisiting those terrains I stumbled upon a fish recipe. Now the food on the hills is locally sourced fruits ,vegetables and herbs. A variety of greens grown on Jhoom plantations.
Minimalist and rugged life styles especially the tribes who have less contact with the modern world. Practising and conserving of forest produce, keeping the sanctity of the hilly environs is their prime concern.
Being with them for a year or two got to know them, and they graciously allowed me into their well guarded culture by which I could engage in very intriguing conversations with tribe heads and village Lords and at the same time the women with phaniks who head the matriarchal society.
Being with them for a year or two got to know them, and they graciously allowed me into their well guarded culture by which I could engage in very intriguing conversations with tribe heads and village Lords and at the same time the women with colourful motif laden phanaks who head the matriarchal society.
In one such home I took a liking to a fish dish whichi I recreated this afternoon.
The fish preparation which reopened my cookery book was the fish in cabbage. A poached fish cooked in roasted garlic, onions and green chillies. Dried fish paste is a must which is added but since I did not have I added fish sauce and I am so sure I influenced the character of the dish.
Pour water to a soupy consistency, let it simmer for a while and then add the torn cabbage leaves, sprinkle salt and pepper. Close lid for five minutes and it is done
To have my lunch with the poached fish in cabbage I needed a chutney or a salad which ought to be salty, sour and green chilly enriched.
I wished to have it from yet another hill track memory kitchen. So i
I climbed a different range of hills in a different part of the country and entered yet another hilly forest area of the Santals.
I found a young girl with sickle in her hand. She had just in the middle of her field work but now given a break to have breakfast, it was now about 11 am.
I stood there panning my gaze to vastness of the hill, ranging in a circular manner with the green paddy fields at the foothills. Nature’s colour schemes are irresistible and enchanting.
I saw this young maiden in mindful ecstasy pop out of the field with a sickle in her hand. She washed her face from the flowing water from the irrigation channels. In this act of washing her hand and muddy legs I was curious to know why her gamcha was floating on the water and why she with a jerk bundled up the gamcha?
The thin dark skinned teenager with a sickle in her hand now had a gamcha mutiya dangling on her shoulder.
She hopped and skipped out of the field where I saw she had another ‘gunny bag’ from which she took out a earthen pot, a plate, some raw vegetables. By then she opened the gamcha and I could not hold myself back. I rushed to see the ‘catch’ and to my surprise I saw a handful of tiny fishes. I asked myself and found I was muttering. ‘ Was she fishing while washing her face? What is ahe going to do with them? Is she going to eat them now, Raw?
By then she already gathered some sticks, lit the fire. She Skewered thr fishes on to another stick and placed it on the fire. She then placed the sickle in between her toes and chopped up like thin matchsticks the radish, tomatoes, cucumber and green chillies. She added salt and chilly powder and sqeezed a lime on it. By then the smell of burnt fish was all over the place. She removed all of it and again sprinkled salt, chilly powder. The water soaked rice was served on the plate, the chutney salad was ready, the fish too was ready to eat.. 15 mins for all of this. The girl folded her legs snd sat on the bare soil and asked me to sit in broken hindi. I did sit because I was eagerly waiting for the invite.
The girl mashed up the rice, made a big ball, in the center she stuffed both the salad and fish, rounded it again and gave it to me on my palm.
Surprised I was with her hospitality, she had already accepted me as her guest when she saw me rushing towards the gamcha mutiya. She made herself another ball and literally dropped it into her mouth.. Good! Lord! and I was gaping at her style of procurement and consumption without batting my eye and still holding on to the rice ball. Was I the dysfunctional Atlas reduced to mortal human holding the rice ball stuffed with 2 min fish chips and raw salad?
Gazing and gaping I took a bite and the ball broke apart! She started to giggle at my urban insufficient dexterity. Oh God! another googly? She actioned to me and I recalled her eating style… One go and go down!
Just as something at times is not everyone’s cup of tea so is rice, fish and salad. Above all regional delicacies have their flavours, taste and body language, so to enjoy every bit of it one must unlearn and rewrite, the write thir respective procedure and relearn again.
So I attempted making the radish, cucumber and tomato salad to go with the poached fish from the other hills.
The hills hugged each other on my plate and this bonding urged me to say the hills are alike in many ways.. Bare, bold and beautiful!
©grace