Chinta Chiguru Pappu

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The title of this post sounds like the title of a story that might’ve appeared in Tinkle magazine, no? Pappu being our hero bumpkin character who creates all sorts of chaos and confusions by the very nature of his being and the imbecility of the things he says–but who, favored by fortune and circumstance, moves ahead always blissfully unaware of the unrests he foments. [In fact, we do have a certain political family scion whom we call “Pappu,” not without derision but also a good measure of distress over the power he, or, more like, it his family, could potentially wield, who might have been much more a source of entertainment and comfortable enjoyment had he been simply a character in a Tinkle magazine…]

But no, leave all that aside, this pappu is a special dal made with the first tamarind leaves of each new growing season, and every single Telugu person you meet and then anyone related to them will affirm it’s a delicacy. Nothing village bumpkin about it at all. If there’s a tree close to you, whether there are new leaves or old, chinta chiguru pappu will be mentioned, all manner of emotions evoked and legendary cooks cited and conjured. You have a tree? Well then there’s this dal you can make, and it’s a delicacy, and our mothers and grandmothers excelled at preparing it. Speaking of this dal is like cordoning off of beloved, sacred territory. It wouldn’t at all be a stretch to say that chinta chiguraaku [tender tamarind leaves] are the quintessential Telugu emotion-inducing green, far, far more than the much-touted gongura.

Having spent a good portion of my childhood in the shade of tamarind trees, both in Tamil Nadu and in Andhra Pradesh, nibbling on tender leaves and chintakaya [tender tamarind] in equal measure, I both understand this devotion and find it an utter puzzlement that Tamil cuisine doesn’t embrace these common arboreal offerings as widely as Telugu cookery apparently does. And while I’m the last to debate the distinction of this dish (or that dal is incontrovertibly an Indian art form), the secret to what makes this dal quite so special has always eluded me.

Asking folks wasn’t going to do it, nor was following recipes–there are plenty out there, and they all sing praises while making this dal look, in the end, much like many others. I gathered that this must be one of those preparations best learned in the guru-sishiya system, both through direct instruction and through the many silences of just being and working together in a kitchen.

Opportunities to learn, however, are few as this is the ultimate seasonal and foraged dal. Tender tamarind leaves are usually too delicate to survive picking, storage and transport to markets. They’ve to be found and gathered when the season is right and the dal has to be prepared right away.

So it happened one day on the road to Mailam we paused for vegetables, and I found tamarind trees with branches hanging low enough with plenty of light green, fresh leaves and my mother-in-law with us. I knew at once the moment to learn this dish properly had finally arrived. Amma and I gathered a few handfuls and I demanded a lesson the following day. The following is an account, in pictures and stories, recipe steps and miscellany and diversions.

[For those of you wanting just-the-recipe-damnit, it’s at the end, too.]

The foraging

Tamarind leaves are beautifully frilly and delicate. Do you know how they came to be so? There’s a story told about a tamarind tree that grew over the hut of Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana during their years of exile from Ayodhya. The tree had large leaves then, providing the trio with reliable shelter. But Rama, being Rama and ethical to fault, knew their exile was not to be a protected and easy time but a hardship and a travail—so he asked Lakshamana to pierce the leaves with his arrows. So it was that the puli maram came to have these beautiful pinnately compound leaves that look like frills in the morning light.

The tamarind tree we have sits conveniently on the border of our property and the farm next door. It produces new growth after a spate of rains, so we usually see tender leaves appearing, then the dainty little bird-like flowers and the green raw tamarind in the latter half of the year, August or so onwards, and into the winter months. The fruit ripens and is ready for harvesting as the seasons turn hot again. These last two lockdown years have turned things topsy, however, and our tree as well as others nearby seem to have had many growth spurts with all the rains. After years of deprivation, we’ve had rather our fill of such seasonal treats.

You’ll want to find a tamarind tree growing in a place you can access–and one that’s clean enough to forage in. This may be trickier than it sounds. Many harbor fears about pulia maram ghosts, so the tamarind tree is rarely a backyard feature and much more a public fixture. Tamarind trees used to line most roadways in Tamil Nadu and other southern states, so much so that the felling of these trees for “road widening” development projects directly affected the price of tamarind! Nonetheless, it means that the best source of a foraging tree might be one along a public road in a reasonably clean or isolated spot.

I always feel a little guilty foraging tender tamarind leaves. I mean, this is the tree’s new growth after all and here we are, plucking it all off. Chances are, however, that you’re only reaching the lowest branches, and a handful or two is all you will need for dal to serve 6–so it’s unlikely you’re harming the tree by picking these leaves.

Pick only the freshest, youngest, lightest green leaves. Anything that’s darkened is already too old to use. These may be slightly red-tipped, or they may be a light, lush paddy green. The flowers are edible, too, but leave those mostly to fruit! The leaves are what you’re after.

Keep in mind that these are very perishable. They will wilt and wither if left out, and will keep well even refrigerated overnight and not much more. Plan your foraging accordingly.

When Amma and I were picking leaves from the roadside trees, some men nearby asked what we would use them for. I answered truly dutifully that they made this dal that was a delicious Andhra specialty, the leaves acting as souring agents in a dish that therefore needed no more than spice and tempering. The men listened, but didn’t appear overly impressed. Local Tamils have a great fondness for puli kuzhambus, and therefore perhaps a bias to the fruits far more than these leaves which are left to children and their play.

The Prepping

As with most dals and rasams, the work is in the collection and the preparation, and greens always demand their due share of cleaning care. The rachis of the tamarind’s pinnate leaf (the central stalk) is twiggy and inedible; it needs to be removed or the dal will have a layer of inedible and unpleasant sticks. This can be tricky because it, too, is tender and snaps easily while pulling leaves off. So this is slow, patient work. Think of it as a pause and a lull before the true bustle of cooking begins.

Amma works at the speed of light; it was difficult to capture her hands at work with sufficient clarity. Her deft, expert movements reminded me again and yet again of how I’d learned to physically be and move in the kitchen only after I came into this family, from Amma and her sister in Toronto, whom I’d known even longer to be, as another cousin described it, an “expert bustler.” Bustling: there is an agility to kitchen movements that’s as necessary as knowledge of spice and taste and proportion. It has its own sequence and thinking and logic. Once you have that, the kitchen is your own private swirl. I’m still in awe.

The Cooking

Tender leaves separated meticulously and the pile picked over again, yet again for any smaller rachis fragments, the leaves are ready to be rinsed. They pile into a pressure cooker along with toor dal (rough proportions: 1 handful of tamarind leaves to 1/2 cup of dal), green and dry red chillies, garlic, an onion, and some turmeric powder.

Don’t be afraid of chillies here. Their spice is necessary to balance the sourness of the tender tamarind leaves, and without them you might just wind up with an unpalatably sour dal.

In it all goes with water enough to cover the dal and then some, for four whistles or about 10 minutes. After all the prep work of cleaning the tender tamarind leaves, this becomes quickly a 1-pot wonder dish that can be finished in 15 minutes flat–if you’ve the kitchen agility thing down, that is. And note the technique of speeding up the pressure cooker cool-down in the bottom left image in the collage below.

While that’s cooking, you might get ahead and prep the tempering: another small onion, some crushed garlic, mustard seeds, urad dal [see aside below], dry red chillies [more for smoky flavor here than heat], curry leaves.

Me: Amma, you use urad dal in seasoning here?

Amma: Yes, we always do

Me: Oh, never us. Only jeera and mustard seeds.

Amma: you can do that if you want.

The Mashing

Once the dal is cooked and the pressure cooker cool enough to open, all the contents are stirred and mashed. Amma wasn’t too happy with the dry-ness of the dal; it needed to have been cooked in more water. It took an addition of more water and some vigorous stirring and mashing to get it right–corrections, she insisted, her own mother would never have had to make, and would not have been pleased to effect.

Mashing dals with a wooden “smasher” called a pappu gutti is no corrective treatment, though. Most kitchens are equipped with these implements but a potato masher works just as well when said pappu gutti is being used to crush garlic instead, or is otherwise occupied.

With a little hydration, mechanical intervention, and heat, the dal comes together right quick and perfectly. Like so:

The Tempering

Finally, heat a few teaspoons of sesame or peanut oil in a small tempering pan. Add mustard seeds, urad dal, dry red chillies, and when these splutter, drop in curry leaves, a few cloves of lightly crushed garlic (can leave the skins on for this), and another small onion, diced. Fry this all until the onions and garlic are barely beginning to brown and pour on top of the dal.

Mix well to capture the flavors within the body of the dal. And really that’s it, you’re done.

The Artform

Who says dal isn’t an artform? All you need now is a soft, hot rice, and a few drops (and maybe a few more) of a good ghee.