The wave of mourning on the demise of Pandit ji, a Brahmin cook of my family, is nothing less than extraordinary. He died peacefully on 10 June at the age of 91 in his village near Ayodhya in Uttar Pradesh. He touched the lives of countless others and left everyone with delicious memories of rich indulgences and simple pleasures. He blessed our home with the watchful gaze of a caring elder and gave family and friends a taste of a bygone era.
My earliest memories are of my parents, grandparents, Panditji and Baba. Devi Prasad Pandey (Panditji) and Uday Raj (Baba) were part of my maternal grandmother’s house. He brought up my aunt and my father and then my mother also became a part of the household. Baba passed away before I moved to America at the age of 20, and Panditji, who retired decades ago and returned to his village, came to enjoy his retired life at our home in Delhi.
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A stern man dressed in a white dhoti and kurta, always composed and correct, Panditji’s attentiveness seemed to be based on paternal grace.
His elder brother, Thakur, was part of my grandmother’s house, and upon his departure, Panditji, who was then 11 years old, came to visit him. He learned to cook his own food on behalf of his mother and under the tutelage of his mother’s home cook. It was from Grandma that she learned hacks and tricks that made her cooking skills stand out from others.
He credits his parents’ house in Kurwar, Uttar Pradesh, to managing big parties, anticipating a household stir with family members, and an ever-evolving list of last-minute guests. When fatigue and anxieties would be visible on the faces of others and the guests sitting at the table might have soured the experience, Panditji extended the warm welcome and pleasant hospitality and raised the issues.
My cousin Vikram said, “Pandit ji was principled in his practice. He was almost like the Buddha in the third act of Hermann Hesse’s (novel) Siddhartha (1922). They had found a way to renounce their worldly possessions and live a light, chaotic and simple life, while others grapple with the filth of materialism. Whenever I came to India from San Francisco, he would greet me at the door with a big smile and instead look at me with a delicious glass of the tastiest lemonade and a gentle, enlightening look on his face.
Deewani hai How many memories of my life are in the fertile land from where Panditji came. His life filled me with comfort and security, food and knowledge. He connected me with the history, lore and legend of my family, no matter how insignificant in the bigger picture. He portrayed it in such a way that it made me proud and respected as a young boy.
All credit goes to Panditji for giving me the training and stamina that is required to find the patience and perseverance that turns a cook into a cook and a cook into a better cook. His culinary arts were deeply rooted in tradition, layered with sophistication, executed with devoted passion. They cooked food for the gods and served them lovingly for humans, combining family learning, human tradition and thoughtful thinking, always aware of the healing powers and mind-changing abilities of food. The lessons I learned by watching them carefully for the better part of a dozen years have made my daily cooking as a student in Manhattan look like gourmet treasure for classmates and food critics. Gave. Free from shortcuts, full of flavor, fresh, deliciously light, rich in texture. My cooking – which was originally taught by Panditji to Ghar Ka Khanna – enthralled everyone with its simplicity and clarity of taste, which was full of delicious joy and delectability. My first cookbook begins with the approval of my teacher, Panditji, and to this day I find myself in awe of him, even as I mourn his passing.
My earliest memories connect me to food and prayer – both of which connect me to her. Every afternoon of my childhood, Panditji used to rest in his room for a few hours, the time of which was fixed like clockwork. As soon as he was ready to be put in the kitchen again, no one, not even his grandmother or mother, could disturb him. But the door was always open for me. I would enter his room and gently disturb him; He would wake up and ask me if I would read Ramayana with him.
We’ll start from where we left off the day before, and move on to the heavier and deeper meaning of a poetically written religious text. He taught me to sing with impeccable care the three different styles of verses, punctuation marks and poetic meters found in this sacred text. Years later, I can still sing Chaupai, Chhand and Sorath, as they are sung only because of Panditji’s patronage. Before and after our Ramayana lessons, he would feed my hungry, young mind with picturesque details, rich details, interesting metaphors and stories in allegorical layers. It kept me excited, inspired and connected to my family’s past and India’s rich, syncretic history.
Our family tables, living conditions and gatherings – no one will be the same before he is gone. Now an era has passed, a chapter or even a book has been read and digested. Now, it’s time to celebrate its story, teachings and storyteller. Panditji is on my mind whenever I put on my chef’s hat, or cry for someone, especially the one whom society and most of the world consider to be “others”, directs my mind.
Pandit ji had a modest beginning, lived a big and welcoming life and left behind a huge legacy. His three children, his children, my mother and siblings, my nephew and in-laws and everyone who has ever come to our family home or read my books or dined with any of us, all belong to Panditji. . inspired by glory. This is the man who was born in a small Muslim-majority Indian village to an only Brahmin family, and who lives on and forever with deep love and affection for its delicious food, teachings of Hinduism and other beliefs. Will be I will always bow to him when entering the kitchen, preparing dishes in his head, or singing songs of devotion and cordial peace.