The political histories of significant events are passed down to generations in various forms, formal and informal. We have often heard of grandma’s tales as oral histories that we inherit. I have been close to all my grandparents and hence each of their histories has been imprinted in my heart. Here I want to tell the story of family history, conflict and migration through the story of the Iranian kebab and my grandmother. Food cultures carry our identities much more deeply than we realise.
My maternal grandmother (Nani), popularly known by her nickname Rani, belonged to the Sikh community rooted in Zahidan, Iran. Rani was the eldest child and her father’s favourite. So tied was she to him and his memory, that to her dying day she would utter “Haye Mere Bouji!” (Oh my Father) as opposed to “Haye Rabba” (Oh My God!) or other such expressions in various situations. Pampered and cherished, she spent a childhood in Iran filled with the richest of foods, be it dry fruits or meat or anything else. It is said that she would stop every single vendor who passed by her street and would buy goodies to eat. Soon after the Partition of 1947, Bouji’s darling Rani was married to my grandfather who belonged to what is now Pakistan. The married couple, both rooted from their homes due to Partition, eventually settled in Delhi in Lajpat Nagar which was then emerging as a Partition refugee colony.
As everyone built a life here, people would always run into old neighbours and friends and that gave them a sense of home. These communities had carried over their practice of the community tandoor into their Lajpat Nagar life. So both my grandmothers would actually take their atta dough to the colony tandoor, where women took turns to make rotis. It was at such a community tandoor that Nani ran into the paternal side of my family, who were her acquaintances from Zahidan. And thus with the weekly mutton dishes and community tandoors, Rani and other partition migrants held on to a sense of home through food practices.
The community tandoor was long gone by the time I came into this world. My paternal grandmother (Dadi), Mahinder-e-Shah, originally from now-Pakistan, would often tell us go make rotis at the tandoor when she developed dementia in her final years. Nothing would convince her that it no longer existed. To my mind it brings out how the community tandoor stayed with her as a piece of home even as her memory faded.
So while the community tandoor was a thing of the past, in the 1990s when I was growing up, the conflict in Afghanistan was at its peak and Lajpat Nagar which had by now settled into the status of a middle-class locality of Delhi, found itself providing home to a second wave of refugees. Rani, fluent in Farsi and an empathetic, yet enterprising woman, had a quite a few Kabuli tenants over these years. This wave of migration also brought Afghani Naan shops to Lajpat Nagar. I have been addicted to Afghan/Iranian version of Naan for a long time now. You can just heat it up and add some butter, and it’s more appetising than any gourmet meal. I remember the oldest shop, where Rani went frequently to buy Afghani Naans in bulk. Her siblings, cousins, relatives also requested some of these Naans to be packed for them when they came to visit. As one generation of refugees had become residents, these new refugees brought for them a taste of home- the modest but most beloved Naan. When Rani was a teenager in Zahidan, she would go to buy the Naan for the family meal and use the opportunity to pass messages between her elder cousin and her fiancé. The versatile Naan and its romantic functions!
In the past decade, with the US military action in Afghanisation and increasing violence, Lajpat Nagar has seen a huge inflow of Afghan people – a third round of refugees finding home here. Renting homes, buying shops and restaurants, the presence of the Afghan people feels more long term this time around; as much as they still long for home. One section of the Lajpat Nagar market is known as Little Kabul as it is filled with Afghan restaurants, shops, supermarkets and so on. Indeed it would not be wrong to say that the economy of Lajpat Nagar significantly depends on the Afghan residents. These restaurants were meant to provide the Afghan community food suited to their palate but have become popular as sites of exotic food for Delhites as well. Earlier when I visited these restaurants, I was looked upon as an aberration but now these restaurants see a mixed group of customers regularly. Kiosks selling Afghani Burgers, Chicken soup and Afghan Chips (French fries) are quite the rage. Thus some restaurants have expanded to Iranian and Uzbek cuisine and marketed themselves to the people of Delhi, not just Afghan families. This latest wave of refugee movement brought to me the Iranian Lamb Koobideh – a lamb kebab that melts in your mouth and has the perfect blend of spices. Served with sumac-flavoured rice, tzaziki sauce, grilled tomato and grilled chilli, and pickled carrots and beets, the Koobideh has won many fans. The first time I was able to try the Koobideh was 2018 when Iranian cuisine started emerging in the Afghan restaurants. My Nani had passed in January 2015 and I missed my chance to share the flavours of her home with her. My aunt Teji tells me she often spoke of Koobideh and how some of our extended family still occasionally prepare these at home.
The Afghan displacement crisis, unfortunate as it is, brought Little Kabul to Lajpat Nagar and reminded us of our refugee roots. It brought me the Koobideh, a little taste of heaven, a little scent of my Nani. As Lajpat Nagar has stood witness to these shifting refugee populations, the community tandoor, the Afghani Naan and now the Afghan/Iranian restaurants with their Koobideh and other culinary staples have perhaps given a fragment of home to people who came here knowing they were here to stay and could never go back home.
All these remind me of the histories of my grandparents which I have heard but can’t quite imagine, as I have always belonged to Lajpat Nagar. As I have lost grandparents over the years however, a piece of my heart and home has gone with them. So their roots, their food cultures are how I remain connected to them.
The Lamb Koobideh always manages to enchant my senses, but more importantly it connects my soul to Rani, that lover of meat whose palate I inherited. Not everyone is so lucky that missing their Nani translates into eating kebabs! But that was Rani Nani- unique, fiery and one who believed in living to the fullest, no matter what the circumstances. And every time I eat the Koobideh, I can hear her voice addressing me as “Mera Chiku”. Till we meet in another world or perhaps another life, the Koobideh shall keep Rani and her Chiku together!
*This article does not claim any historical, cultural or culinary accuracy. It is based on my experiences and observations alone and the responsibility of any errors lies solely with me.
Well penned !👏🏼