Dad's Daal Torka

I love all things Italian: pasta, pizza, pesto and also their particularly edible men (think David Rocco, though I am told he is not classic Italian). So yesterday evening I thought: let me give myself a treat-some nice pasta in a creamy, cheesy spinach sauce with a side of garlic bread and all this washed down with a glass of Other Half’s fiery ginger wine. But while pottering around for the ingredients, I found that I was out of garlic. Since spinach sauce without garlic is like sambhar without curry patta, I perforce had to abandon the idea. While scouting around for alternative inspiration, I happened to open the refrigerator door and was immediately confronted with the baleful glare of three glass bowls full of left-over daal. The triple glare succeeded in their intended effect and I had to acquiesce: chalo, I told myself, let me go desi today, let me make 'Torka'.

Daal Tadka always takes me back to my Dad. Growing up, I had adored daal tadka, but of the kind my Dad made, from left over yellow daal; though I did not call it Daal Tadka then. My Dad called it simply 'Torka' and like a true blue Bangali, his ‘o’ was pronounced with a mouthful of roshogolla. Torka was a Baba special, made on days my mother was too exhausted or too busy supervising our homework to make the evening’s torkari. She of course always made the chapatis herself, soft and perfectly round and we gorged unashamedly on Dad's warm torka accompanied by Mom's hot chapatis fresh off the iron tawa.

My Mom is a woman with her feet planted firmly on the ground, a bit too firmly at times. Dad, in stark contrast, was the most laidback human being that I have encountered till date. He lived in his little comfortable cocoon, at peace with himself and the world at large and took life as it came. He never planned for a rainy day nor for the future and he did not know what ambition or competitiveness were. I have inherited this facet of his personality as also his love for birdwatching. I have no ambition and the rare instance when a bit of feeble ambition rears its head in my brain, my lack of both drive and devotion along with my humongous laziness is enough to nip this ambition in the bud. There is another thing that I have inherited from him and that was his love for good food, and of course cooking. He was a superlative cook and so good that he was famous amongst our family for this skill. In fact when an older cousin sister got married, Dad was the one who cooked the mutton for the wedding feast; and I remember him clearly as if it were yesterday, standing in his checked lungi over the charcoal chulha, stirring a red bubbling delicious curry with a long iron karcchi. He also always cooked the sacred khichudi prasad (we call it bhog) for our annual Saraswati and Lakshmi Pujo; and of, course he made Torka.
As I chop the onions over my wooden board, I think about my Dad a little more. He was a tiny man with a thin moustache who wore his thick, black-framed spectacles 24/7. He had a deep bass voice so superb that it sounded like Amitabh Bachchan’s when recorded and played back on our tape recorder. He was a skilled story teller too and often, if we managed to complete our homework to the satisfaction of our martinet Mom’s exacting standards, we were allowed an hour of story time before dinner and bed. He spun stories of a superhero called Gattum Singh who with his side kicks Dhurwa Singh and Hatia Singh (if you are from Ranchi or have been there, you would know that Dhurwa and Hatia are two suburbs of Ranchi) vanquished numerous villains, had tea with Queen of England and tamed three witches called Hawa Buri, Kutu Buri and the third whose name eludes me. Perhaps he left a streak of this storytelling ability in me. Perhaps.

Coming back to Torka, this was very different from the dal tadka that is on the standard menu of every north Indian dhaba and restaurant. Unlike the dal tadka, Dad’s torka had very little oil and almost no chillies. It had the consistency of shrikhand and was spotted with flecks of green from the palak that he would add as a special touch. I loved it to bits and even today, if I close my eyes, I can taste that yellow silk on my tongue and smell the faint aroma of garlic and ginger that he used, to temper the daal.
So yesterday I cooked the Torka and then, because it would be a sacrilege to eat Torka with the morning’s stale chapatis, I made them afresh (a novelty for me because I hate making chapatis). We then sat down to eat, Other Half and I. I tore a bit of the chapati and scooping some torka with it, placed it in my mouth. Instantly, a flood of favours inundated my palate, bathing me in a flash of old, happy and very precious memories.

I was quite pleased with the quality of my Torka and am quite sure Baba would have liked it to.

PS
Recipe for Dad’s Daal Torka

Ingredients
Any yellow daal- arhar/mung/masoor (dhuli) cooked/left over.
Onions, diced fine
Ginger garlic paste
Spinach, chopped fine and blanched
A little whole cumin
Hing
Few green chillies (to taste)
An egg, beaten
Mustard oil (you may use any other oil, less olive)

Method

Temper mustard oil with hing and cumin. Add the ginger garlic paste and fry till it loses the raw smell. Add the onions and bhunno till golden. Add the spinach and stir it around for a bit. Then pour in the cooked daal, add the chillies and let it bubble and reduce over a low flame. Don’t forget to stir well periodically. Once it has attained the consistency of mishti doi/shrikhand, add the beaten egg and stir till the egg has merged with the torka. Serve with hot fresh chapatis and one green chilly.

Bon appetit!

And if you would like to hear a Gattum Singh story, inbox me.