Silver Leaf Laced Ricotta Carrot Halva [Gaajar ka Halva]

Years and years ago when I was a graduate student doing fieldwork in Hyderabad, I would find myself in the galis (small side roads) around Charminar listening to the dull metallic rhythms of the vark workers–thap-thap-thap, tha-thip-ip-tha-thip-ip-tha-thip-ip–hitting bits of silver into wafer-thinness in unplanned harmony. I hear that people living near such areas complain of the incessant repetitive sound, but for me it always had a strangely hypnotic, telling musicality. It’s a work sound: a day-long repetitive, monotonous rhythm that adds sparkle and delight to food. Somebody’s costly livelihood, someone else’s costly pleasure.

I stopped once–my entry pausing the thap-thap-thap of the shop briefly–and bought myself a stack of vark foil, each paper-thin leaf sandwiched between two uniformly cut pieces of newspaper. Being not much of a cook at the time, I had no particular plans for the vark, except maybe New Year cards or a little painting. So it was that the stack traveled with me to Houston, and then back to Pondicherry a decade later, safely stored with fieldnotes and old address cards, forgotten–and then rediscovered just the other day in a mad spate of cupboard cleaning. It had been with me, like all the little-little ideas and stories that never made it into my dissertation or my book, for nearly 20 years.

Silver leaf, or chandni vark, is used in some types of Indian cookery — to decorate desserts, sweets, and nut meats mostly, but also to lace paans (betel leaf and areca nut ‘wraps’), and the odd savory dish.

[Yes, I know, you’re thinking: they eat silver? But stop. Some say it’s beneficial, and the quantities are minuscule so…]

Back then with an old Yashica and limited rolls of Kodak film, I never paused to take photographs of the workers, but I found these videos so I know that those same galis with the same guys are still all around Charminar, producing stacks upon stacks of vark leaves daily–stacks which disappear fast during Ramzan, Deepavali, and other local festivals when the demand for sweetmeats is high.

“Aren’t you afraid your fingers will get hit by the mallet?” asks the young man interviewing the worker,  whose left hand-and-finger movements in between each right rhythmic hit are both deft and disconcerting. He shakes his head–but the bade mian (older worker interviewed next) shows a badly contorted finger that had clearly suffered hits more than a few times.

“How many years have you been doing this work?” {thap-thap-thap-thap}

{thap-thap} “Four or five years” {thap-thap-thap}

“Married?” {thap-thap}

{thap-thap-thap} Shakes his head.

“Mazaa ata hai? [Is it enjoyable?]”

{thap-thap} Smiles. The shop owner is presumably around, the last to be interviewed.

“Will you want your children to continue this work?” {thap-thap-thap-thap}

Looks down {thap-thap-thap-thap} and shakes head vigorously. {thap} No. {thap-thap}

“But if you don’t do it then who will?”

Looks down again. {thap-thap-thap-thap} Clearly wants to avoid the question. {thap-thap} “There are people who will.” {thap-thap-thap}

“Can this work be done by a machine?”

{thap-thap-thap-thap} “Never.” {thap-thap} Shakes head again. “Not at all.”

He works with a stack of 100 “German paper” (a sort of better grade of butter paper) sheets which hold small, carefully placed bits of already-flattened silver. It takes three hours to complete one stack. He does about three stacks a day.

You can see the whole meticulous process here:

And sit mesmerized listening to the sounds of vark-making here:

Twenty years on, my silver leaf had barely tarnished but for a few top sheets. They say there is aluminium adulteration in the industry, and the way to tell pure silver apart from aluminium-mixed-silver is by noting its manner of disintegration: silver melts into thin air, whereas aluminium becomes a small tight ball. After my first sheet disappeared into apparent nothingness, I decided not to test any more.

Made halva instead. Two sorts: beet and carrot. Process for both is the same.

Indian sweets can be sugar bombs (which is why they’re consumed in small quantities, never any large slices), so I used ricotta to add some texture and tartness. Not being one for shortcuts of any kind, I boiled my carrots and beets down from fresh milk–but if you’ve the luxury of living near a khoa supplier, you could just cook carrots down with barely any milk and add khoa instead to cut your cooking time in less than half.

The halvas are pictured here in a shot glass set I found at the Rosebank Craft market in Johannesburg, the wooden holder crafted by the woman selling them out of distressed wood. I figured good halva, like good alcohol, is best enjoyed in small, neat portions.

But these shots are not for straight gulps.

To enjoy them properly: go slowly, remember the rhythms that produced them, and take your sweet time with all their various tastes. 

Silver Leaf Laced Ricotta Carrot Halva [Gaajar ka Halva]

Ingredients

• 2 lbs carrots (or beets), finely grated.
• 1 liter of milk
• 2 cups of sugar (or to taste)
• Small tub of ricotta cheese (the equivalent of a cup or a bit more)

For flavor and garnish

• 2-3 cardamom pods, seeds removed and powdered
• 1/4 teaspoon of nutmeg
• 2 tablespoons ghee (or unsalted butter)
• 2 tablespoons broken cashews
• 1 tablespoon chopped pistachios
• 2 tablespoons raisins
• 1 sheet vark (optional)
• Note: the amounts given above are really general guidelines. You can prepare this halva with really just about any quantities you have–with still delicious but varying results. See the Method below to know how.

Method:

• Measure out the carrots in cups and place in a heavy-bottomed pan. Fill with just enough milk to cover (you needn’t use the whole liter if you don’t need to).
• Bring the mixture to a gentle boil over medium heat, reduce the flame slightly and let the mixture be, mixing periodically, until the milk is mostly absorbed (about a half hour or so, depending on the quantities you’re working with).
• Add sugar: for each cup of carrots, a half cup of sugar. This is a rough measure, based on my taste. Taste–and if you like it sweeter, add more. If you prefer less, add and taste, half-cup by half-cup, until you reach your desired sweetness. Indian sweets need to be sweeter than your average tea-cake, so keep that in mind, but don’t feel like you have to aim for sugar bombs either.
• Once you add sugar, you’ll see the carrot-milk mixture become watery again. Leave it on a medium-low flame to cook down once more, another half hour or so, mixing periodically.
• Now add the ricotta–taste again and adjust sugar if needed–and stir well to incorporate any lumps. Continue cooking and mixing over a low-ish flame. You’ll soon see the fats and oils from the milk and ricotta start to glisten. Once this happens, keep stirring for another 7 minutes or so (more than 5, less than 10!), then turn off the heat.
• Add the powdered cardamom, and nutmeg.
• In a separate little pan, heat the ghee (or unsalted butter). Drop in the broken cashews–stir–follow with the raisins (but not the pistachios). Once the cashews brown and the raisins plump, pour this along with the pistachios into the carrot mixture (reserve a few bits for garnish). Mix and allow to cool.

To serve and garnish:

• Scoop out small servings of halva into any single-serve dishes you have. If you don’t have any, fill a tiny cup (even an egg cup will do, or the equivalent) with the halva, and invert onto a dish to serve.
• Working with a tweezer, tear off bits of vark and lay these on top of your cup or mound of halva. Sprinkle whatever chopped nuts you have in reserve, and serve warm.
• Halva (sans the vark garnish) keeps well refrigerated for a week or longer. Just skip the garnish and store in tupperware. To serve, re-heat gently in a microwave, garnish, and enjoy.