Everything is fishy about this dish

She gently emptied the contents of the ‘chatti’ (earthen pot) into one of her unswerving Tupperware boxes. “This should be enough for a week. But will security personnel at the airport allow you to carry this onto the plane?  I mean as hand baggage? Remember your white kurta is in the suitcase. What will you do? Are you sure you want to keep this alongside your clothes?” she informed, inquired and cautioned, all at once.

Suma aunty was getting hysterical precisely because she knew how much I adored her fish curry. She was also aware of the fact I lived alone in Mumbai, and that my Maharashtrian housemaid would never lay a hand on those gilled creatures or any of their cousins. I respect vegetarians but I also pity them. They simply don’t know what they’re missing. And that includes Gulaab moushi.

Despite being a half-Malayali (the other half is Sindhi, a deadly combo), I have been praised — and loathed — for being more ‘mallu’ than my ‘unadulterated’ country cousins. And one of the areas where I have very easily outscored the purebred is by giving undying respect and reverence to Kerala cuisine. The best way to please a community is by appreciating their food.

My chachi lectured me throughout our journey to the airport. The CRPF jawan didn’t budge initially, and that’s when the ‘PRESS’ ID came in handy. The aircraft landed safely and so did my fish curry. And for a week, I was spared the horror of Gulaab moushi’s varan-bhaat.

On the eighth day, it was that reality-bites-again feeling. I knew my next tryst with Suma aunty’s fish curry was at least six months away. I couldn’t wait that long. Hence, I decided to take the plunge.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she inquired, not very encouragingly. For a moment, I wondered if I had told her that I plan to elope. Eventually, she said, “Okay, go buy some fish and the masalas. Then call me.” Yeah, right. As if I knew what I had to purchase. My ignorance was thankfully construed as my willingness to learn. I did as I was told.

I got home the constituents of my formula for happiness. Here’s what:

Half a kilo of Seer fish (Surmai)
Five pieces of tamarind (ask for kudam puli at any Kerala store)
One cup of coconut oil (isn’t that obvious?)
10-15 grams of fenugreek
Four tablespoons of Kashmiri chilly powder
One (or two) tablespoons of normal chilly powder
10-12 button onions (ask for ulli) or one full onion
One tablespoon of ginger-garlic paste
A pinch of turmeric as well as pepper
Salt to taste

Heat the oil in a utensil (you must ideally use Suma aunty’s chatti) and sprinkle the fenugreek. Within a minute, add the chopped button onions and heat them till they become golden brown. Now add the ginger-garlic paste. It’s time to add all the masalas (which were already soaked in water in a katori). Now’s the tough part. You have got to vigorously mix this for a good 20 minutes.

Like Suma aunty says, do it till you get a reddish-brown paste. You will now see the oil make its way out of this paste. This is an indication that your masalas are cooked. Now add the tamarind pieces (soaked in water earlier) to this paste. Keep the gas on maximum and let the paste dissolve completely. Your gravy is practically ready. Say a prayer before tasting and then drop in the fish pieces. Keep the gas on sim for 15 minutes. Bingo!

The curry I carried to work comprised funky ingredients like chaat masala, lemon juice and mango pickle gravy. I’m glad — or should I say relieved? — no one complained! And yes, do not forget to garnish the dish with curry leaves and/or coriander leaves. While I shall refrain from describing how my very incapable friend (sorry Tarun V Pillai) and I almost messed up the first time, I must also admit that long-distance calls to Kochi (where Suma aunty lives) did please the owner of the shop where I recharge my cellphone from.

For the record, the curry will taste better a day or two later after the tamarind juice makes its way out completely. By the time this appears in print, I will be in Kochi. And I can’t wait to cook for Suma aunty.