This week, the writer takes us to the nostalgic era of Begum Jaan, who was a master in culinary art. She inculcated her cooking skill in her granddaughter Shamo. Today Shamo, known as Shamira in fine dining kitchens across Karachi, has continued this legacy of Begum Jaan. Read on...
kitchen
She couldn’t have been more than three, when her Nani, introduced her to this aromatic platter of colourful spices with aniseed and cloves ruling the kingdom of turmeric, chillies and salt. Begum Jaan, as she was known, was an authority beyond questioning. Not too approving of the modern and ultra-functional life of her only daughter, she had made Shamo, her granddaughter, the focus.
Begum Jaan was born and brought up in the colonial Calcutta. Her sprawling mansion with courtyards and endless corridors had sheer curtains dividing large spaces for women to sit in comfort. The men ruled the day and the house. Their dictated terms were like divine inscriptions. No one defied or dared otherwise. Women were meant to be happy with changing seasons, weddings, child births, and of course deaths. Deaths were big occasions too, rituals were followed by long periods of mourning and grieving, and special days were kept for prayers. If there was one thread that banded this stream of eclectic happenings, wistfully though loudly, was the gastronomic appropriateness and creativity displayed on dastar khwans, or long dining tables as the occasion would require. This is where Begum Jaan had found her purpose. Her kitchens were her kingdom. She ruled here. She decided how much of mutton bone broth would the weak heart of the Nawab Sahib need. How much fennel to infuse and whether one star aniseed would do justice. She planned the curries and varieties of rice for the robust, roasts and cutlets for the young, and desserts for all the elderlies who found meetha akin to the highest form of gratification post their active lives so to speak. Her kitchens (yes there were rooms dedicated to this section) would smoke up right after Fajr.
Lentils would go up on the roasting plate to be cooked till late afternoon for a soft crunchy sweet. Eggs would be fetched from the coops and dough would be kneaded for flat savoury pancakes to accompany the eggs. Yoghurt beaten with sugar and salt and poured like white snowy silk into silver bowls. Milk on boil to make butter and khoya and butter on heat to make ghee. Potlis (pouches) of cinnamon, cumin, cloves, aniseed, fennel, with a discreet dash of poppy seeds, would be readied for broths, and rice and lentils soaked for perfect tenderisation prior to boil or steam. Begum Jaan always stated how the right heat, spice, and temperament comes together to make a perfect meal.
Meat was cut afresh. The family owned a kind of dairy farm with the only objective of feeding the family and no business otherwise. No Orwellian philosophy resided here. Goats bleated, chicken clucked, and cows mooed. Horses were luckiest for they served the bigger purpose of transport otherwise these carnivores were most weak willed when it came to their choices in protein. This rich meat resource was often complemented by the ‘game’ brought home form hunting escapades. So, a butter fried partridge, stuffed with cottage cheese and aromatic spices would sit on a plate of boiled rice, while a whole roasted mutton leg would lie in wait to be devoured by the family later.
This was Begum Jaan’s life. Selecting proteins, carbs, spices, creating a palette of reds, pinks, whites, browns, and orange for a perfect pictorial and sensory delight three times a day. She loved this role of hers where she would ensure her loved one’s depended on her love and affection for the best culinary options. She revelled in this shining aura and ensured that her favourite Shamo trailed after her, holding on to her silk pallu, peering into steaming cauldrons, and sifting through freshly cut coriander and mint stalks. Shamo loved staring at Begum Jaan’s hands pouring smoked herbs in a potli, stirring large pots, chopping garlic into a fine paste, layering pots with thick coats of flour to make them practical stove top ovens, cutting into meats to see whether they were ready or not, and learnt to enjoy this chemistry of spices, broths, meats, grains, and Begum Jaan.
Shamo, known as Shamira now in fine dining kitchens across Karachi, has continued this legacy of Begum Jaan. Her attire, of faded jeans, or dark trousers, always coupled with a dark top, hastily pulled back hair, sans makeup face could have been a polar opposite of heavily adorned Begum Jaan - whose anklets echoed in the corridors, and jingle of silver and gold bangles accompanied the spluttering ‘yakhni’ and sizzling meats, the emeralds in her ear studs and glistening topaz dazzled the best of smoky rooms - but for the antique - silver earrings, a simple nose ring, and perfect Urdu. The Shamo of Begum Jaan has evolved into this fusion of a masterchef, artist, and a singer, whose search for perfect notes has spread way beyond kitchen walls and has brought in all the diversity in her work.
For all the richness of her cuisine, paintings, and renditions, Shamira is a simple soul. She has neither allowed the revered admiration or her loved ones dependency on her. Fiercely independent, she comes out as a rather vulnerable soul who could break down easily given pressure, but who has resiliently faced life without compromising on her intrinsic moral and professional aesthetics. I use the word aesthetics and not ethics, as Shamira is all about the refinement and perfection.
A beautifully curated apartment, her Begum Jaan’s silverware on one of the consoles, her personally selected pieces of art on the walls, her own canvases of colour and birds, and antique framed mirrors greet you. The sheer white curtains, a remanence of Begum Jaan’s world, flutter softly. Shamira is ready for a new phase in life, where she is saying a fond farewell to so many elite kitchens in town to revive her own eatery soon. Responding to my question on the risk involved, as she had to close it down earlier for lacking business tactics, she gives me that Begum Jaan smile of affection, understanding, and just a tiny bit regal hauteur, and hands me a potli of smoked herbs. “I have had just the right heat, spices, and now the perfect mood to make this work.”
The author is a seasoned educationist, content creator, social worker, and a corporate host. She can be reached at
Shahatariq67@gmail.com
