The Case of the Love Commandos (32 page)

Puri covered his face with his hands.

“By God,” he groaned.

The city was loud—car horns blasting, people shouting. Billboard advertisements showed half-naked, fair-skinned girls. Everyone seemed to be in a big hurry.

The cost of everything was equally bewildering. The bus ticket alone had been more than each of the three women spent on lentils in a week. The price of a plate of subzi and three rotis quoted at a roadside stand had persuaded them to go without food until they returned home to the village in the evening.

An auto wallah quoted them a fortune to take them to the address written on the business card.

They would have to walk, they decided. Poonam knew better than to ask the police for directions. Instead, she approached another Dalit woman and asked her son, but he only pretended to be able to read the address and sent them in the wrong direction.

Finally, as they stood at a busy junction looking this way and that and wondering if perhaps their journey had been in vain, a young woman wearing glasses stopped to cross the road. In her appearance, she was like the village teacher who’d helped them. Poonam summoned the courage to ask her to point the way.

The young woman didn’t speak Awadhi but looked at the piece of paper and nodded. The place was very close, she seemed to say—a five-minute walk at the most.

Soon, the three women found themselves entering a building and then being shown into a strange metal box with a mirror on one wall and some buttons next to the door. A man wearing a uniform asked them where they were going and Poonam showed him the card. He then pressed one of the buttons. Two metal doors slid together. Finding themselves trapped inside, they panicked and screamed. Then they felt a strange sensation as the box moved upward and, a moment later, the doors opened again.

They staggered out and were greeted by a plump, middle-aged woman in a sari, glasses and maroon lipstick. Her name was Kukreja.

She led the three women into a small, cramped room full of papers and books and gave them chairs to sit on.

Kukreja Madam said she was pleased that they had come to see her and said she knew all about their situation. She even had a file on her desk, containing official documents about their village, Govind. They detailed how much rice and lentils the Dalits had been allotted under the government ration scheme over the past year. But when Kukreja Madam read out the figures the women said that they had received less than a quarter of the official count.

“How many days’ work have you completed under the rural employment-guarantee scheme?” she asked.

“None!” they chorused.

Kukreja Madam pursed her lips and then riffled through another file. She found their names listed on another piece of paper and explained that, according to the official record, they had worked for one hundred days each and been paid accordingly.

A young man appeared carrying three cups of tea and a plate of biscuits.

When he was gone, the village women began to giggle, telling Kukreja Madam that no man had ever served them anything before.

She smiled. “I can help you,” she said. “But it’s not going to be easy and will take time. First, I need to understand how things work in your village and the name of the pradhan in charge of distributing the rations.”

His name is Rakesh Yadav, they said, but he’d been arrested a few days ago for processing and smuggling heroin. His eldest son was now in charge.

Would his family come to know about their visit to Lucknow? Poonam wanted to know.

Yes, they would find out eventually. But as Kukreja Madam explained, she ran a charity that would take up their case and place two volunteers in the village. They would monitor the situation and report to the police.

“The police do exactly what the Yadavs tell them to do,” Poonam pointed out.

Kukreja Madam repeated that she was not promising change overnight. But if they were strong, it would come.

The three women talked amongst themselves and agreed that they were prepared to stand for what was rightfully theirs. They believed others in their village would join them.

“Good,” said Kukreja Madam. “Then we will fight them together.”

The city of Lucknow is synonymous with Biryani. The dish is traditionally cooked using the
dum pukht
method (in Persian,
dum
means “to breathe” and
pukht
“to cook”). The idea is to use a low heat and to seal the rice and meat in a pot using dough around the lid, allowing the juices and flavors to slowly infuse the dish. Do this in an earthenware pot with a lid on the stove or in an earthenware dish in the oven.

Marinade

Rice

Garnish

Dum Pukht Seal

Mix the marinade ingredients with the meat and let it sit at room temperature for 2 hours.

Meanwhile, using half the ghee/oil/butter, fry the onions and then the nuts separately in batches until the onions are crispy and the nuts are several shades darker. Drain on paper towels.

Wash the rice in cold water and cook till half done: test by mashing a grain between your thumb and forefinger; it should squish but still have a firm inner core. Drain and set aside.

Heat the remaining ghee/oil/butter in a heavy-bottomed pot (if you’re not using the dum pukht seal method, use a pressure cooker) and fry the meat until sealed. Add the stock, cover, and cook until the meat is tender.

If using the oven for the next step, preheat it to 350°F/180°C.

Mix the dum pukht seal ingredients to form a dough.

Layer the rice and meat in your pot or baking vessel. Cover with dough if using the dum pukht seal method, or cover with two layers of baking foil, shiny side down, and secure with cooking string.

On the stove, cook on medium heat for 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to low and let simmer for 30 minutes.

In the oven, bake for 20 minutes.

Serve hot, opening the dough seal at the table. Garnish with the onions, nuts, coriander, and mint. Serve with yogurt.

Pakoras are to Indians what potato chips or crisps are to Westerners. They can be made with any vegetable, chicken, fish or even bread and can be served with any lip-smacking dip, including the fiery coriander chutney below!

Choose your pakora: cauliflower, onion, spinach, potato, whole chillies … the sky’s the limit, really. Just make sure whatever you choose is bite-size and will cook quickly. You can, of course, mix things like cauliflower florets, peas, and corn kernels.

Sift the chickpea flour. Add the lemon juice, dry spices, and enough water to make a thick batter that sticks to the back of a spoon. Add your meat or vegetables.

Heat the oil in a deep frying pan or wok until a drop of batter sizzles on contact. (Careful, hot oil is dangerous. Never leave it unattended.)

Carefully fry tablespoons of the pakora mixture in batches until cooked and a deep golden color, 5 to 6 minutes. Serve hot with chutney or dip.

Put all the ingredients except the salt in a blender or food processor and chop until smooth. Add the salt and more lemon juice to taste.

Serves 4

Put the ghee or butter in a wok or frying pan on the lowest flame possible.

Once the pan is slightly warm, put the semolina in and stir gently. Keep stirring until the two are thoroughly mixed and the semolina takes on a darker, golden color. Be careful, semolina burns easily!

Meanwhile, separately boil the water and add the sugar and the cardamom pods, cooking it until the sugar dissolves.

Keeping the heat low, pour the sugar water mixture into the semolina mixture, stirring continuously to avoid lumps. Once the mixture is less watery, add the nuts, cover and cook until the water is absorbed.

Serve hot. Good for auspicious occasions like love marriages!

Note:
The rupee exchange rate at the time of this writing is $1 = 54 rupees.