Idlis Hitt it out of the Park
Shruti Gokarn visits a fond childhood memory of learning to make khotte and a skill that is etched in her muscle memory.
Photograph by Shruti Gokarn
One of my favourite times in the year as a child was Ganesh Chaturthi. When the god of wisdom and plenty was scheduled to descend upon the abode of my father's maternal uncle and aunt, whom we called Maam and Maami, a brood of us, including cousins, aunts, and uncles, would flock to their house to anticipate Bappa’s arrival. Add to that crowd a host of neighbours, and the Mumbai-based one-room kitchen would fill beyond capacity.
In this overflowing crowd of people, I would find refuge in the balcony: a multipurpose area that was used by my aunts as a study room (and so was strewn with the detritus of their academic pursuits), by a paying guest as his only room, and by everyone as a general dumping yard. But during Ganapati celebrations, it truly came into its own. It challenged the idea that size matters, becoming a storage room for all that was required for cooking and for the pooja.
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I can still see that narrow balcony: kept in a corner are masses of flowers, some in plastic buckets, some still covered in their leaf wrappings, all bought by a flower-crazy aunt. Any remaining space is covered with the leaves of the jackfruit tree: a dark bottle green sea specked with lime green. Some leaves still on their branches, some plucked out. And in the midst of this, an uncle of mine, sitting and folding the leaves with precise and deft fingers. His hands move smoothly: they fold the leaves just so, pick up a thin, supple stick cut out of bamboo, and pin the folds in place. Then they break off the stick and move to the next fold. In no time, a pyramid-shaped cup is ready. Then, the magic fingers pick up the next four leaves, all approximately the same size, and repeat the process.
Photograph by Shruti Gokarn
There's chaos in the hall where the Ganesha idol is kept. In the kitchen, Maami is working at breakneck speed, her default mode. Maam is crotchety, his default mode. Neighbours come and go, laughter rings out to be replaced by someone's sharp admonition to one of the children. Someone gives a shrill, panicky cry at not finding something required for the pooja. But the man with the leaves works quietly through it all.
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No one wanted me coming in the way in the kitchen or in the hall, so I would sit next to him. I would watch. I wasn't allowed to make the leafy cups. When the cups were ready, they would get carted off to the kitchen where they would be dipped in water sprinkled with a few globules of coconut oil which sneakily shifted form each time a cup touched its surface. Then, they would be filled with thick creamy fermented idli batter, a ladleful in each cup.
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Someone would swiftly place these batter-filled cups in the aatti, a copper idli steamer. When one batch of steamed idlis was ready, another would be put in.The khotte, as these idlis are called, would be a part of the medley of items offered to the elephant-headed god.
Also called hitt, they were indeed a great hit at lunch. As streams of women raced out of the kitchen to serve lunch to people sitting in a pangat (seated in a row), they would be greeted with constant cries of, "Khotte! More khotte! Bring more!"
Photograph by Shruti Gokarn
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Photographs by Shruti Gokarn
There would be no demand for these jackfruit leaves on the second day. And that's when I was allowed to play with the leaves. I would imitate my Uncle and make khotte cups of my own. My early works would look like miniature, drunk Bruce Banners halfway turned into Hulk: bulging in all the wrong places, ripping open in some, not even able to balance themselves, let alone hold on to any amount of idli batter. To my surprise, I kept at it. It became a matter of pride to earn the distinction of being the only one among the kids to know how to make khotte. Plus, I think I found it almost meditative, although my 10-year-old self would most definitely have not used that word.
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It would be quite frustrating to see my efforts turning into wonky, misshapen nothings, in comparison to the khotte my Uncle made. They had elegantly tapering sides: capable of giving Denzel Washington a run for his money with their perfect symmetry. Most importantly, they were bootylicious, with a broad firm base.
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Years later, while celebrating Ganapati at my house, when someone spoke longingly and nostalgically of khotte, I volunteered to make them. Years had passed since I had made them, but I discovered that it was like learning to cycle or swim. Muscle memory took over and in no time I had made a shapely, dark green receptacle worthy of dollops of idli batter.
Anyone who eats khotte raves about them, especially the mild, barely there scent of jackfruit leaves. Everyone has their own favourite way of eating them: with a thick porridge-like kheer called mudgane, with pickle made of appe midi mangoes, or with a sprinkling of asafoetida water, chopped green chillies, and fresh coconut.
Despite being known for its taste, I think khotte must be the invention of a pragmatic mind rather than one aiming at putting a new, flavourful spin on an old favourite. It makes its hit guest appearance on only two occasions in the culinary calendar: Ganesh Chaturthi and during the Pitru Paksha when the family gathers together to honour the memory of ancestors. Both occasions draw huge crowds, have an elaborate menu, and ultimately leave the person in charge of the kitchen exhausted. Steaming idlis in these disposable cups means much less work.
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Photograph by Shruti Gokarn
Over the years I have made sure to make khotte every Ganesh Chaturthi and during the Pitru Paksha, even if this means sneaking into someone's compound with a knife attached to a stick to pull down the leaves or being at the receiving end of perplexed looks of auto-rickshaw drivers as I ferried entire branches of trees from a friend's house. I could very well buy the leaves from the market, but part of the fun is in getting the leaves without paying a dime. While others in the family have switched to plain idlis or buying khotte, I take a strange pride in continuing the tradition. It is a precious link to my childhood, a reminder that I persisted even when it seemed impossible to make the perfect khotte. It helps me remember that skill has to be nurtured with practice and helps me relive the satisfaction of a job well done.
So, despite all the effort it demands, every year when the siren song of these jade pyramids calls out to me: "I am all about the base, no treble..." I faithfully answer their call. It really is no trouble, and all enjoyment.