Sindhi Papad

Vikram Doctor curates a very high-quality food podcast. A week or so ago, he called to ask me if I could tell him something about Sindhi papad. I was reluctant because, though I have written a book about Sindhi stories and all, I don’t really know that much. To be honest, I do enjoy my papad, but it is not a tradition from childhood meals or anything like that. I told him I’d try and find out what I could and a few days later told him what I’d found out.
When I listened to the podcast, I must say I was impressed with the depth of Vikram Doctor’s research. At the low end of the spectrum was my own voice – embarrassingly pontificating. There was also one moment in one of the podcast interviews which I felt was unduly facetious. There’s a fairly widespread tendency to mock Sindh and Sindhis and I feel it is necessary to avoid anything low and of that nature.
Papad is certainly a Sindhi staple – that much even I know. But not everyone understands the strength that this simple staple embodies.

Angan of a joint family in Sindh
Watercolour on art paper by Menghraj Talreja (b1924)
Collection of Sanjay and Barbara Mohinani

In the old days in Sindh, papad was made at home. Women and children worked together in the angan, the courtyard, of the family home making the dough and rolling it out and laying it on mats to dry.
After Partition, families splintered, people moved to new homes and took time to settle down. Many enterprising women of families who had suddenly lost everything and had no means of income started making papad and pickle at home and walked from door to door, selling their produce to the better-off Sindhis in the towns and cities where they – equally displaced and confused – had settled, but not settled sufficiently to be making their own papad yet. Papad-making is a tedious and time-consuming process, and very soon more and more families were outsourcing from the displaced women who made it their profession.
Papad is eaten and enjoyed all over India but for the people of Sindh it has always been a staple. Sindhi hospitality is famous – when a Sindhi family is expecting a visitor, the first thing on their minds is what they are going to serve to eat and drink. A guest to a traditional Sindhi home would be greeted with papad and a glass of water, and this would invariably be followed by something more elaborate.  
Nobody seems to know the origins of papad but in a dry and blazing hot province of very little rainfall, in a time before refrigeration and air-conditioning, before even the waters of the bountiful Indus were diverted into a widespread irrigation system, it’s easy enough to imagine the process of evolution by which papad naturally emerged from leftovers in Sindhi kitchens!
The most common Sindhi papad is made with a mixture of urad dal spiced with lots of black pepper. Some people add jeera, hing and other flavours. The stiff dough is rolled out into circles like extra-thin rotis, placed on mats and dried in the sun. The papad is usually roasted on a flame and eaten, but on special occasions it is deep fried.

Goodies on sale outside Kailash Parbat, Mumbai

Sindhis also make wadi, kheecha and kachri which are different kinds of dried ready-to-fry goodies. Wadis are little nuggets of dal ground up and dried in the sun and they can also be added to gravy dishes. Kheecha are also papad, but made with rice or sago. Elderly Sindhi women relish their memories of eating deep-fried miteranji kachri with saeebhaji-khichdi, one of the most popular Sindhi meals. In Sindh, kachri was made from traditional Indian vegetables like bhindi, gawar, karela and padwal, spiced with salt, chilly powder, amchur and other flavours, and dried in the sun. Nowadays, vegetable kachri is rare and the terms kachri and kheecha tend to be interchangeable.
Roasted papad is a must at each meal in a traditional Sindhi family. Even breakfast of loli or alu-mani, or syel mani is always followed by papad. Papad is such a strong habit to many Sindhis that they absolutely must eat it with every single meal.
Among the Sindhi Bhaiband community which has trading outposts in every port across the globe, papad is rolled, dried, packed in the home country and sent out to the men in distant lands. In the early pioneering days of the community, they bootstrapped in faraway countries, enduring hardship and working to earn money for their families at home. They often had cooks who took care of their meals, but papad was rare. As they became prosperous, they could eat whatever they wanted and often arranged for consignments of papad from home.

Fudge

Fudge, by the very sound of the word and the reverberations it causes between palate and gullet, is the sweetest delicacy ever known. It is the ultimate fantasy of the food-obsessed boarding school child, from Billy Bunter to greedy Edmund in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, to me and my friends; a longing we carried forward into sober, ponderous adulthood.

But at childhood haunts, unfriendly disappointment awaits. King Star and Modern Stores in Ooty no longer make it the way they used to. Times have changed – or perhaps it is only tastes which have become more sophisticated. Going by the theory that there is a fudge-hillstation connection, thanks to the British, Lonavala, now closer to home, beckons but once again disappoints. So-called chocolate fudge can be bought at many shops which also sell chikki and fruit squash. But it is to real, honest-to-goodness, yumptious-scrumptious chocolate fudge as sandpaper is to papad; as sawdust is to molagapodi.

With the onset of the Industrial Revolution, fudge could be manufactured in process batches and took the world by storm. In the early Nineteenth Century, it was the British who monopolised the world of confectionery, a tradition they retained. The perfect fudge can be had at various locations in Britain. One such is Ye Olde Tucke Shoppe, a boarder’s dream if there ever was one, in the little smuggler’s town of Rye. Rye, in the south-east of England, has marshes, a quaint old town wall made of stone, and a lighthouse, and one can all but see lights flashing on the hilltop and Uncle Quentin getting grumpy because he is allergic to Timmy the dog. Perhaps Enid Blyton was never your thing. Enjoy the fudge anyway.

If Rye is too far off, here’s how to make your own chocolate fudge which is just as good. Put equal quantities of malai (skimmed off the top of boiled milk) and sugar, and approximately three tablespoons of cocoa per cup of malai, into a thick-bottomed pot. Cow’s milk malai gives a better flavour – but go ahead and use what you have. Cook on low heat, allowing the sugar to melt gradually.

Stay alert as you mix – this is a task that needs your full attention. Your mixture will soon blend into a molten dark-brown, delicious-looking mass. Keep stirring as it thickens, until the first signs of drying on the sides of the pan which you have to scrape. Don’t wait too long now or the ghee will separate. It will still taste good, but it won’t be fudge.

Pour onto a plate lightly greased with butter. Wait for a bit and cut with a blunt-ish knife while still warm.

Allow the fudge to cool but help yourself as it sets; as creator, you have sole rights to the gooey stage.

Extra: Chocolate cake that helps you make friends:

Mix together, in this order,

0.5 cup oil

2 cups sugar

2 eggs

0.25 tsp instant coffee powder

0.75 cup cocoa

2 tsp vanilla essence

1.5 cup dahi

2.75 cups atta combined with 0.667 tsp baking powder and 0.5 tsp baking soda.

Pour into a greased cake tin and bake at 150°C for 35 minutes.

Some parts of this appeared as A hill station obsession in Times of India, Mumbai on 5 Dec 1998