Of Batta myonds and Bros

Photo source: V.J. Parimoo’s Family album. 1954

As I’ve entered my 5^th decade on the 3^rd rock from the sun, I feel so many shifts at so many levels. Physically, of course, there is an unquestionable change – oestrogen levels are depleted which means my good friend metabolism has not just retired but permanently left the building. I experience close encounters of a blurred kind where I cannot for the life of me remember if I did or didn’t lock the door when I left the house. Meanwhile, my only real objective is to get through the day without killing anyone.

There’s a lot more to say about that journey which we will revisit I promise, just not now, or I’ll forget what I started saying 🙂 Emotionally on the other hand, I find myself getting nostalgic more often than I can say. I cradle memories fondly, of times gone by, when life was simple and needs frugal, when happiness was found in the tiniest things and giggles bubbled at the slightest calling, are one of my greatest sources of joy.

Many of these memories belong to the rolling plains of my childhood, and food has a special place in all of them. Not surprising, as you can imagine, because food is the love language of all Kashmiris and the act of feeding said food the most passionate love letter ever written. While books can be written on how hell hath no fury like a Kashmiri lady scorned if you dare to even attempt to refuse just one of the 13 dishes she is serving you, I am here today to pay tribute to a humble mouthful of food. Yes, this is an ode to the beauty and simplicity of. . . . the batta myond and the beauty of feeding your loved ones by hand.

You see, batta myond literally translated is ‘rice morsel’. However, because rice is life for us Kashmiris (yes, sadly the breakfast staple consumed in the days of yore and by many still – kander tsott, a soft golden-brown tandoori roti of sorts or any other tsott, never quite made it to the upper echelons of the Kashmiri food chain), batta is a synonym for the entire meal. Now, you could eat your own food making your own myonds but the one/s that was made for and offered to you – they were legitimately magic. This magical batta myond could be offered by a grandparent (mainly grandmum), an elderly relative with a suffix of jigri or one of your parents. If you were lucky, you and/or a few other kids could be fed an entire meal, but the real treat was when it was not planned and you were passing by or lingered long enough to be fed. ‘Gobra, akh myond kyakhe?’ (will you have a bite, my child?), you were asked. Now, if you were really hungry, your head would acquire a life of its own and dart towards the general direction of the batta thaal, watching in wonder as weathered hands swept together a large morsel of steaming rice, a haakh burg (one large magnificent leaf of collard greens – haakh is the symbolic twin of daal), a small chunk of ledder tszaaman (paneer cooked in a dreamily fragrant turmeric, ground fennel and cardamom sauce made airily light with the addition of milk), a snap of pillowy dum oloo nestled in rich, red, oily gravy (a whole poem needs to be dedicated to this divine wonder!!), all wrapped together in the gentle hug of zamut do’ad (yoghurt – yes, yoghurt is ALWAYS the answer, if not, the question is wrong), into one mahoosive batta myond, the size of a meteorite that could, in all honesty, feed a small family.

But even if you were bursting at the gills, the slightly, crooked, toothless smiles that held so much joy at the prospect of feeding you by hand; the aromas and visuals that lay before you and the anticipation of the proportion in which the individual dishes would be brought together, made for a combination that was simply irresistible. For the recipient, the magical union of affection and scrumptious food resulted in a feeling of such incredible satiation even after just a couple of mouthfuls that you could get through your day with nary a worry of being hungry imminently. You just closed your eyes, literally transported to a heaven where rivers were made of dum oloo ras and cheer naalmots were handed out for free and managed to utter a long monosyllabic, ‘Mmmmmmmmmmmmm’ while simultaneously forming a circle with the tip of your index finger and thumb, much to the delight and beaming faces of the elders.

The batta myond has had such a lasting impact on me that I started creating my own version of it when my brother was little (he will never ever not be little even though he’s 6’ 2”, has 2 kids of his own and is in his mid 40’s) and wanted a bite from my plate. Too lazy to offer him a couple of morsels which would do justice to the distinct flavours of the individual delectables on the food plate, I too would gather all the items in one fell swoop and feed him, who in turn was ready and waiting with his mouth open so wide it was like getting a glimpse of Lord Krishna’s Virat roopa. He called it mixture mindu and the name stuck.

Even today, it gives me untold joy and my heart surges with love and insane affection when and if I get to feed him that fabled mixture mindu – I say if only because this gesture is all heart and emotion, so not something that can or should be hurried unless of course you are in a hurry in which case you absolutely must be aapravoed a batta myond because it’s the fastest and most nutritious way to get through your meal 🙂

Ah, the timeless beauty of these souvenirs from the past that hold pride of place in the elaborate dresser of my mind. There is just one artefact in that cabinet that can challenge their place, in fact probably dislodge them on many days and that is the memory of being fed that batta myond as an adult by elders, particularly your Mum. To hear ‘Val, buh aapraavay akh myond’ (come, let me feed you) and then be offered said myond by her in your maalyun (Mother’s home) is to experience the purest, most divine love that ever existed and to taste the very elixir of life. It is a privilege I or none of us should take lightly. It is a blessing I pray finds its place over my head until the end of time, my own personalised kalpush (bridal headgear) if you will, a feeling I want to preserve forever and a memory I want to keep recreating until I can.

As for my daughter, well, she adores a good mixture mindu. I hope that feeling doesn’t outgrow itself too quickly. She’s 15 and I am already dreading her leaving the nest, her not wanting to do certain things that ‘are not even a thing, brrooooo’. On the other hand, I smile gleefully – knowing how much she loves her dum dum (her nickname for dum aloo which is beyond a doubt her most favourite food in the entire universe), I know she will be back regularly, asking for that mixture mindu, after which I can then smugly say, ‘Brooo, you ate!’. And so it is, the batta myond chronicles, a story that lives on and reincarnates forever, as it should and hopefully always will. A bit, like time itself.