PEETHAL

Ingredients: gram flour, water, oil, onion, garlic, turmeric powder, cumin powder, mustard seeds, coriander leaves, salt to taste

Method: Take a cup of gram flour in a bowl, slowly blend in a tablespoon of oil, half a teaspoon each of powdered cumin, turmeric, salt and a cup of water, mixing it with the flour, a little at a time, to make a thick batter with a creamy consistency.

Heat one tablespoon oil in a pan, temper a few mustard seeds, brown one chopped onion with half a teaspoon garlic paste, slowly fold in the batter, stirring continuously till the batter thickens and leaves the pan. Garnish with fresh coriander leaves.

Peethal, also known as pithle or zunka, is made in liquid form or dry, according to personal preferences in a family. Dry peethal can be also cut into bite-size pieces.

When made dry and thicker in consistency, peethal is known as zunka and often served with bajra bhakhras or chapattis.

Optional: Roast gram flour before mixing the gram flour batter for peethal.

Dal–rice is the staple diet of most Indians, including Bene Israel Jews. It is made almost every day in Indian homes.

There are many varieties of lentils like toovar, moong and chana.

Chana dal and doodhi, or marrow, is often made as the main meal and served with rice.

Chana atta or gram flour is used to make peethal.

Chana is delicious when eaten green, raw, roasted, cooked, boiled, made into dal or even as a batter to fry bhajjis or vegetable fritters.

A favourite Indian pastime is to munch chana, roasted or deep fried. Dal dishes offer many possibilities and variations.

Gram flour is also used to make a home-made face mask with milk, turmeric, rose water and powdered almonds. It cleanses and whitens the skin and lends a glow to the face.

When Rachel’s sons, Aviv and Jacob, came to Danda with their families, the house would resound with laughter. Sometimes, distant relatives from Israel, Bombay, Pune or Ahmedabad, like Malkha and Esther, came to see Rachel.

With family around her, Rachel enjoyed cooking. After all, she had grown up in a big family, married into a bigger family and raised a fairly large family herself. When her guests left, Rachel felt sad and lonely and spent a listless week feeling out of sorts, till she got back to her day-to-day rhythm around the synagogue. It was one of those normal sort of days, when Rachel was not expecting any guests. She was sitting in her chair on the veranda and brushing Brownie when an autorickshaw stopped at her gate and she saw Mordecai standing at her door. He was one of the members of the synagogue committee. Rachel knew him well as he was one of Aaron’s childhood friends.

He often came to meet her, as she was the unofficial caretaker of the synagogue. Her house, being closest to the synagogue, was the ideal place to keep the keys. He had noticed that she kept the synagogue clean, as though she was preparing for the arrival of a congregation.

Mordecai was in his seventies and walked with a stoop, his hands folded behind his back. He had a square jaw and innumerable warts on his face. He lived in Bombay and always wore loose white trousers, white bush shirts and black sandals.

Whenever Mordecai visited her, Rachel never failed to notice his hooked toenails. Although he was very polite and respectful, she disliked him, though she could never say what it was about him that made her feel that he was evil. But when she spoke to him, she made sure that her expression was polite. Not being a very sensitive man, he never noticed the slight change of expression on her face.

On this particular visit, Mordecai was carrying a packet in his hand. It looked like a gift. Rachel was suspicious about him, knowing that he always had something up his sleeve. She especially disliked his small, shifty eyes. She noticed that the cylindrical plastic box he was carrying had a flower inside.

She was annoyed. It had the colour and fragrance of lavender, the type she always associated with her husband. It reminded her of his aftershave lotion and Rachel felt that Mordecai had invaded the privacy of her memories.

She threw an annoyed look at the flower asking, ‘Were you buying flowers in Alibaug? I have heard they grow these very English flowers there. How come you are interested in them?’ She narrowed her eyes and gave him a cynical smile.

Mordecai was not one to be defeated by a woman. Especially Rachel. He had known her for too many years and was rather wary of her sharp tongue. He left the flower with its mauve and red speckled petals on the parapet saying, ‘It is a gift from Mr Chinoy. He has a farm in Alibaug.’

‘A what?’ asked Rachel.

‘A farm where he grows exotic flowers like orchids.’

‘Is that the name of this flower?’

‘Yes. Aren’t they beautiful?’

‘This one looks sort of fancy.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘I have never seen a flower like this before, so I cannot give you an opinion. I am not even sure if I can call it a flower.’

‘Well, these are special flowers and have a big market. They say the Alibaug air is very good for flowers.’

Rachel stared at the flower. ‘So, how will it affect our lives?’

Mordecai saw that Rachel was not impressed; she had been watching the orchid from a distance as though it was a demon.

Mordecai smiled. ‘The flower is a gift for you from Mr Chinoy.’

‘Ah!’ said Rachel. ‘What do you think I am going to do with a flower like this?’ She doubled up with laughter. ‘At my age, you do not expect me to stick it in my hair like a sixteen-year-old.’

Then, throwing him a suspicious glance, Rachel asked, ‘I know you have not come here to discuss flowers, so tell me what is on your mind.’

Rachel sat regally on her chair, head covered with her pallav, legs crossed, hands clasped in her lap.

Mordecai spoke in an even tone. ‘Mr Chinoy has offered a very good price for the land around the synagogue. He is going to pay us well. So we may accept his offer and sell this land to him.’

With a look of distaste, Rachel asked him, ‘And what happens to the synagogue?’

‘That,’ he said with a deadpan face, ‘will be Mr Chinoy’s property. He will perhaps make it into a greenhouse or he could even level it down. After all, it is almost a ruin and do you think it will ever be of any use to us? Look, most Jews have left for Israel.’

Rachel threw him a suspicious glance. ‘This Mr Chinoy of yours, has he seen the land?’

‘Yes. While he was driving past, he just had a look at it. For a man of his experience, one glance is good enough. He knows what he wants. And, now that his business is growing, he would like to expand it around here. You see, he is a very busy man, but one of these days he will come to meet you. In fact, I told him about you. He is also interested in your place as it faces the sea. I think he is planning to make a health resort along the seashore. Actually he could employ you and you could live an easy life.’

‘Employ?’ she asked, her temper rising. ‘At my age? Are you suggesting that I work as a servant for Mr Chinoy? My husband and children have seen to it that I live a comfortable life. Does he think I am the caretaker of the synagogue just because I am poor and need the money? Has anybody ever paid me a salary? Or have I ever asked the trustees for money? Do you think I am employed at the synagogue and that I need a job? All these years, I have been a servant of the Lord, not of your synagogue committee. How dare you suggest anything like this or assume that I want to sell my land!’ She stood up angrily, picked up the tea cups and said, ‘I have no intention of selling my house.’

‘Mr Chinoy is a very good man. He would not even harm an ant. Even if he buys your house, he will give you another flat in Alibaug. It will be a very good deal.’

Rachel shot back, ‘Why are you discussing my house without my permission?’

Mordecai explained hurriedly, ‘I am just trying to help.’

‘No need,’ she said and went into the kitchen and whiled away some time washing the cups, hoping Mordecai would eventually leave. She peeped out of the window and saw he was sitting there, hands resting on his knees.

Rachel returned and asked, ‘Now what next?’

Mordecai gave her a sideways look and understood that convincing Rachel was not going to be an easy matter. He wondered how Aaron had spent a lifetime with this stubborn little woman. He had known Aaron since they were boys, and had always known Rachel to be his obedient wife. Little had he realized that Rachel was a self-willed, strong woman and that the synagogue had become the mission of her life.

It was already lunchtime, the sea was a shimmering sheet of silver, but Rachel was not thinking about food. Normally she offered him lunch of vades, puris, bhajis, batata-poha or whatever she had in the house, but today she did not say anything. Mordecai sensed her resentment, but he was hungry. So he asked her if there was some place where he could get a thali. He had left Bombay early and it would be hours before he got back.

Rachel almost felt like telling him to take an autorickshaw to Murud, where he would get a thali at a roadside restaurant. But she could not be so rude. Instead, she said, ‘I am sorry, I should have offered you lunch. But you gave me such a shock when you spoke about selling the synagogue that I wasn’t even thinking about food.’

‘Really Rachelbai, you must not be so sentimental about such matters. Do you think the synagogue will ever be of any use to anybody? It is a ruin,’ he said with a tone of finality.

Rachel ignored his words and changed the subject. ‘Since my husband died, I rarely cook lunch. I start thinking about food in the evening. Let me see what I have in the kitchen. I have some chapattis. Or perhaps I can make some peethal for you.’

Mordecai smiled. ‘I often remember those good old days when Aaron used to insist that I eat lunch before leaving for Bombay. I remember, you made the best peethal I ever had, just like my mother’s. But my wife refuses to make it for me, saying it gives me acidity. Actually, she is a Bombay girl, so she thinks peethal is food for farmers.’

A compliment always worked well with Rachel. At last she smiled. ‘Of course, it is food for villagers. Let me see if I have any flour in the house.’

Rachel opened the bottle of gram flour and saw that she had just enough for the peethal. She chopped an onion, peeled the garlic and made the batter. As she sprinkled turmeric and stirred it in, the golden-yellow colour of the batter reminded her of fresh mustard fields. They were part of her childhood. When she was a child, her mother was always worried that she was darker than the other children.

Rachel was then not yet thirteen. She was tall, thin, knock-kneed and scraggly and looked like a girl of nine. When she reached puberty, Rachel felt she had breasts under her blouse, small and taut like raw green mangoes. When the first menstrual blood had trickled down her thighs, her mother had helped her wear a cloth and proclaimed in a curt, hard voice, ‘Now you are a woman and ripe enough to have a baby.’

Her mother’s serious expression had frightened Rachel. That was one of the main reasons that Rachel had not told her mother that curly hair had appeared between her legs, and her body had a delicious smell. Rachel had assumed it was all because of the blood.

Whenever Rachel tried to broach the topic about her body, her mother’s face hardened with distaste. Rachel avoided asking her mother the questions that crowded her mind. Since she had felt the wetness of her own blood between her thighs, there was a certain distance between them. Instinctively she sensed that the subject was taboo.

Once she had been taught to wear the cloth, no more discussion was encouraged and she was expected to work out her problems with sisters, girlfriends or cousins.

Rachel remembered that when her wedding date had been fixed she was depressed. Every morning, she looked into the mirror and felt she was much too dark to be a bride. Brides were supposed to be fair and beautiful. Her mother would look at her disapprovingly and say, ‘You must do something about your skin.’

Rachel would burst into tears and her mother would scrub her face with a good soap, rub the skin with a towel till it hurt and apply a paste of gram flour mixed with fresh milk and cream. Perhaps one day she would become fairer. Yet, there was no denying that on her wedding day Rachel looked beautiful.

Much later, Rachel had tried the same remedy on Zephra. Rachel’s mother had taught her to make a batter of gram flour, turmeric, cream, rose water and crushed almonds, which she applied on Zephra’s face and neck to lighten her skin. Far away in Israel, Zephra cherished those distant, tender moments. Rachel ached for her daughter whenever she made a batter of gram flour.

This was one reason she had become an expert at mixing peethal to its right consistency. Rachel’s mother had taught her early in life that when there was nothing else in the house peethal was easy to prepare. It was simple, quick, easy, nourishing and heavy, and stayed in the stomach for a long time. But it had a tendency to give gas, so it was necessary to take long walks after eating peethal.

Her mother had also taught her the mantra: ‘When chana atta is used to clear the skin, never allow it to dry so much that it pulls at the skin and hurts. When it dries, remove it with a sponge or wash it under the tap while it is still soft. Then study your face. If not fair, it will definitely soften your skin like a rose petal and your husband will love you.’

For years, Rachel had applied gram flour to her face before her bath, wondering if there was a certain type of chana that would transform her colour from black to white.

Rachel had fond memories of the night before her marriage. Her cousins and girlfriends had surrounded her for the mehndi ceremony, wrapping her in a half sari from bosom to thigh and applying a paste of freshly ground turmeric to her body.

With their ribald jokes Rachel had glowed and her mother had been pleased. Sitting on the wooden stool, Rachel had caught the look of appreciation in her mother’s eyes and asked, ‘Is this the magic of chana?’

Her mother had taken a handful of the paste and applied it to her forehead, saying, ‘It is the spice of life.’

Rachel stirred the peethal with a vengeance and offered Mordecai a plate of peethal and chapattis, hoping that, by the time he reached Bombay, he would get an attack of acidity and his wife would scold him for eating something as ordinary as peethal.

But before that she would remind him to take back his precious flower to Bombay. She did not want it in her house.