An ode to fried food

What is it about the monsoon that puts one in such a mood for food? Not any kind of food, you understand. I’m not talking oats and quinoa here, nor the everyday dal-sabzi. Nor, if you happen to be a Bengali like me, the quotidian maachher jhol. Oh no, I’m talking about the way the lowering skies and the drum roll of thunder and the whoosh of the pouring rain set off a mysterious reaction in your brain and make you crave all things crispy and spicy. I’m talking fritters and fries, eaten hot off the fire, with a spicy, tangy chutney. I’m talking aloo tikkis and assorted pakoras — the humblest among them tasting quite sublime in the suddenly cool, wet weather. 

In short, I’m referring to the seriously sinful, cholesterol-drenched foods that leap to my mind the moment the monsoon comes traipsing in. Stuff that had been successfully banished to the bottommost layer of my consciousness for several months rear their beautiful tempting heads, as if brought back to life by the rains. The clouds come bearing the message of food love to me, and I pine for the gorgeous fried morsels eaten during the rains in my younger days: Thin slices of brinjal, potato or onion deep-fried in a gram flour batter mixed with a sprinkling of poppy seeds; pumpkin flower fritters; delicately spiced fish roe bodas (deep fried balls), sweet palm fruit (taal) bodas, dal kachori, small, spicy keema samosas, and so much else. And then there was the Bengali staple for rainy days — a golden, full-bodied, ghee-infused khichuri (not to be confused with the pallid, sick-bed gruel of North Indian khichdi) paired with some crisply-fried fish, potatoes or brinjal. 

So do I indulge my craving for savoury fried food in the rainy season? The answer is, yes and no. I succumb to their siren call now and then, but when I do, I am so racked by guilt and anxiety at my dietary lapse that I don’t enjoy it. I want to relive that old, transcendent satisfaction of biting into a greasy snack. But alack! Alas! Now every bite makes me think of the oil I’m consuming and the poisonous calories rushing into my blood. The taste dies on me, until, like Wordsworth, I feel like exclaiming: “Whither is fled the visionary gleam/ Where is it now, the glory and the dream?”

It’s as if we’re in a dietary minefield crammed with dangerous comestibles. Lower your guard, relax the constant vigilance, and they'll blow up your chances of living to a ripe old age

I have the deepest respect for scientists and other smart folks who analyse which food does what to our bodies, which keeps us fighting fit and which could give us a heart attack. But fact is, their work has largely robbed us of the simple pleasure of eating and drinking. (A recent study said drinking fresh fruit juice could up your risk of cancer.) It’s as if we’re in a dietary minefield crammed with dangerous comestibles. Lower your guard, relax the constant vigilance, and they'll blow up your chances of living to a ripe old age.

As for the fried stuff, it is, as we know, positively satanic amongst all the evil foods. I googled “fried food” while writing this, and some of the top hits were: “Eating fried foods could increase death risk”, “Too much fried food may shorten your life”, “Fried food may be killing you”…
 

Clearly, the messaging has got to me — even if it has been ignored by the millions who keep fast food chains in vigorous business. I’m attuned to today’s culture of fitness and anti-fatness. Not attuned enough to get me lean and mean, of course, but enough to forever destroy my ability to tuck into fried food with a song on my lips and joy in my heart.

When I dwell on such modern day tragedies, I often think of my grandmother. Every other morning, she’d send out a servitor to the neighbourhood sweet shop to get some freshly fried kachuri and amriti. They were delicious and granny ate them till she died — fat, happy and 88.

I, on the other hand, am staring at a future where perhaps the only things I shall be able to eat with a clear conscience are nuts, fish oil and tofu. It’s not much of a future, if you ask me.  

Shuma Raha is a journalist and author based in Delhi @ShumaRaha