Nana or Nanaji or endearingly Nanu is the Hindi word to refer to the maternal grandfather. In his late eighties now, my father-in-law, is lovingly called Nanu in our house. He is nanu to our children. And now Nanu to us too.
Nanaji is a formidable personality and loves to feed. My wife gets the joy of feeding from him. Festivals bring out the twinkle in his eyes and the glow in his gentle yet macho face. He loves to do the weekly grocery shopping and our boys love the idea of going with him to the fruit and vegetable markets. Now that they are both very busy with their adult working lives they very rarely go with him.
Rolling back a few years, I remember the first time Nanu came to our house to cook one of his favourite dishes, just the way he made it when he was a young adult. It was a Sunday and his instructions had come before. All he needed was arranged and kept ready for him one day in advance. Sundays have something special about them. This Sunday was no different. The sun was shining bright and cheerful and spread only its happy warmth. The trees were glowing. And the breeze was gentle and tingly at the same time. Vodka tonics was ready to go. It was all that Sunday can be. There was an air of festivity and excitement.
He reached perfectly on time. Raring to go. He inspected the mutton closely and smiled. His nod clearly saying that the quality was right. And he got started right away. No wasting time. Not being one of much culinary skill I am unable to share that decades old recipe. I can tell you though that there was a lot of mutton, onion and ghee. And chillies and potatoes. The biggest pot in our house was just about big enough.
After all the initial tempering of spices, everything went into the largest pot we had and sat on the slow flame for nearly three hours. The vodka tonics were ready just as the cover went on the pot. And we sat around the dining table to enjoy our drinks. Nanu was most excited, he was cooking something and Nani (grandma) was not around to interfere and give him unwanted direction. He was flying solo and loving it. In a father-daughter conference call a few days earlier it was clearly decided that Nani was not invited for the cook-out. In any case she is a vegetarian he said.
From time to time he went to inspect the pot, lifting the lid to get a whiff and giving it a tweak and a stir. Each time coming back and announcing with glee that it was all looking good.
We also heard about the origins of the dish. During his late teens, he and his brothers would go the forest near their house and cook mutton for themselves. In those times their family were strictly vegetarian at home. Not just that, they were socially looked up to and were renowned as an upright vegetarian family. So, the boys would have to secretly go to the forest and cook the mutton for themselves. They had even stashed away some utensils just for their jungle cook-outs. I forget, but they even had a code word for the dish. He was most excited about that. You could see the mischief in his eyes even now.
After all the waiting, as the mutton reached the table and the heavenly aroma wafted through the living room our taste buds came alive. There was a lot of eating and drinking and burping too. The rich gravy was soaked up by the rotis and the plates were wiped clean. At the end all our senses were satiated. Most importantly he was super excited having been able to share his recipe with us just the way he wanted to. Over the years since then we made several attempts to repeat the experience, but it was never quite the same as that Sunday. A Sunday that we all shall always cherish.
Written By Mohit Gupta
Week 18, May ’19
