Pray, Love and Eat

Guest Post written by Baba, my father.

Every child has a lucky day; mine was Thursday. It was the day Agha, my father, would take my brother and I to meet our grandparents and cousins inside Lahore’s Old City. (more…)

Asghar squats on top of a wooden table and fans the coal embers as the chicken tikka, impaled on steel skewers, turns a carbon-black around the edges as it plumpens and becomes amber-hued in the middle. Asghar has worked at Punjab Tikka House in Main Market, Lahore for as long as I can remember. As I sit watching from the car, he effortlessly slides off the bite-sized pieces of chicken tikka with his bare hands. Onto a newspaper. One fold, two fold, then a third, just like fish & chips in England. Then into the plastic bag they go. (more…)

The silver filigree antique jhumkas you see in Ami’s earlobes- she gave them to me when I was 18- and the irresponsible teenager that I was, I lent them to a dorm mate who lost them. It didn’t even occur to me that they were missing till I saw this photo recently.

Andaaza

I watched Ami, as she stirred the pot in a circular motion. Round and round her arm circled, the gold bangles glistening on her wrist. Clink, clink, they went as she stirred and stirred. The same gold bangles given to her by her Ami, when she married my father in her China-red and gold brocade gharara.

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This post was featured in Oliver Thring’s weekly round-up. Oliver Thring writes for the Guardian and iStarvin’.

“Always keep some whipped butter next to the sink,” Aunty Bhupinder tells me as I lament over my dry hands after my move to Toronto. “Once you’re done with cooking,” she continues, “wash your hands and smear a little bit of whipped butter all over them.” Following the advice of someone I love like a grandmother, I slather some whipped butter on my hands. But in vain. Aunty Bhupinder’s hands are soft; like cake batter before it goes into the oven. No amount of whipped butter will soften mine up like hers. (more…)

Mughal Emperor Akbar the Great was a mere thirteen years of age when he ascended the throne. While still a relatively young Emperor, he commissioned the construction of a new capital, known as Fatehpur Sikri. The buildings, a fusion of Islamic, Hindu and Jain architecture, reflect the Great Emperor’s beliefs of universal religious tolerance. It was under his rule that the Islamic jizya tax was revoked for non-Muslims and a new faith called the Din-i-Ilahi (Faith of the Divine) was created by him in an attempt to bring the diverse religions of the Mughal Empire together. To this day, only 18 people are said to have belonged to this faith, but one cannot help but admire Emperor Akbar for trying to unify his peoples. (more…)

Currying Favour with the Portuguese

The great Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan, King of the World (1592-1666), died in confinement, in Agra Fort, imprisoned by his son, Aurangzeb. As he lay dying, he looked down from the balcony of the Musamman Burj tower at the pearlescent dome of the Taj Mahal he created for his beloved wife. (more…)

Comfort(ed) Food

It’s a grey evening in Washington, DC. The rain, falling heavily, creates a pewter gloss on the road as I am driving home from work. It makes me want to be back in Lahore, during the unexpected Spring showers, when we sit on the veranda in my ancestral home with my paternal grandmother, known affectionately by everyone as Mader; mother in Dari. (more…)

Lahore, my birthplace, is a city of ornate derelict Mughal buildings and the place where Sikh ruler Maharaja Ranjit Singh lays at rest; a true cultural crossroads. It is also the setting for Kipling’s stories, where you will find Kim’s Gun on the Mall; the main artery where the rickshaws, cars and motorbikes weave in and out of the lanes like tiny insects. (more…)

The French have their pillowy, like-a-curdled-creme, soufflé-like version of scrambled eggs. The Latin Americans have their huevos revueltos; the Colombians serve theirs with pillowy arepas. Us Pakistanis & Afghans have our own version of scrambled eggs, called Khagina. (more…)