Bengaluru Blues: Blends, Bonds and The Bhelpuri

A few months back, while in the US, seeing the packet of muri that I had brought from the Indian store, my son wanted me to mix a plate of Bhelpuri for him.  As I cut and chopped the onions, the tomatoes, and made the chutneys, between the tang of the tamarind chutney and the aroma of the mint-kotmir chutney,  I slipped back in time to me as an 18-year-old young woman in the old Bangalore, now Bengaluru. It, in a way, stirred me to think about how the Bhelpuri’s blend of various items was also part of my own life, imbued with various bits and pieces as I traversed through life.

The Bhelpuri, as a part of my life’s fixture, turned up only in Bengaluru. Till then, we had as children and teenagers cherished the churimuri, but the Bhelpuri was a much more refined and definitely a cosmopolitan cousin of the  staid, humble, and simple churimuri.

During my undergraduate years in Bengaluru, I became close friends with Meera, whose family had roots in Gujarat and lived just a short walk from the college campus. My visits to her home soon became a daily ritual; any free time between classes was spent with her and her delightful sisters, Hansa and Shanta, who were always ready with a warm welcome and something delicious to eat. I loved their mouth-licking food delicious- be it the soft chapattis, the fragrant curries, the sweet-sour mango pickles, the simple dal, and the tangy khadi. The dish that stole my heart was the bhelpuri. The mix with the pungency of the onions, the tang of the tomatoes, the crunch of the carrots, and the aroma of the mint and kotmir made it a creative blend to be savoured. Soon, I began making it at home, and it became a big hit with my brothers, my mom, and my grandfather.

The Bhel  and I attained new heights when my college had a fest, and we had naively thought of running a bhelpuri stall. We had not visualised the amount of work that it would take, as we would be selling countless plates of it to customers. We realised that we needed mountains of grated carrot, tubs of chutneys,  heaps of cut onions and tomatoes, plus tons of chopped coriander. The task was mammoth. In those days ready made tamarind chutney or dates chutney was not available and hence we had to soak these a day or so before, boil them, extract the juice of the tamarind and grind with the soaked dates. Added to that many of our families were not so tolerant and I for sure knew the displeasure of my father if he saw me cutting loads of tomatoes or chopping bags of onions or running the blender repeatedly. Luckily, my mother was my co-conspirator, and as soon as my father left for work, there I was trying to get at least one task done. With  five other  classmates and Meera, we managed to share the work and run the stall. Our stall became the star attraction of the fest. By the time the fest wrapped up, we were exhausted but triumphant. We had a profit and were happy celebrating part of it in a nearby restaurant, and while enjoying the different  delicacies, the highlight was the ice cream.

The next time I made the bhel at such a large scale  was for my Kamakshi atte’s club event. She entrusted me with making it for the bhel stall she had set up. Seeing my deftness and the artistic way I served the delicacy, I  soon became the cynosure of innumerable women. They not only admired the way I blended the ingredients but, as I later realised, were simultaneously conducting quiet matchmaking in their minds with every eligible young man they knew. At that time, in my naïve way, I just felt happy and delighted with all this admiration and appreciation. Moreover, I had not realized then how I had unconsciously  succumbed to a culturally scripted form of  feminine nurturance through food.

Over the years, the bhelpuri remained a special dish for me. I came to love it for its versatility and its modesty. It never complained if there was an ingredient or two missing. It seemed to adapt to its circumstances and the varied hands that made it. It could easily delight anyone from any class or status, and it helped create bonds and made even the most dysfunctional times harmonious. The bhel also seemed to tell me that my life, too, is this kind of a blend…a mix of different cultures, tongues, habits, emotions, and feelings. In many ways, it has taught me tolerance and acceptance.

So, here’s to bhelpuri-three cheers to this happy, delicious, ever-adaptable companion that I hope provides everlasting ‘masala’ to my life.