Puli-inji, inji-puli: quick tamarind ginger pickle

When my father returned home after a miserable week in ICU and hospital ward following chemo treatment that his body simply could not take, he asked my mother for two things: inji-chaa [hot ginger water] and puli-inji. Inji [ginger], he thought, in the two forms he most relished, would restore his appetite and bring him to normalcy in ways the hospitals and doctors just couldn’t.

Appa was both right and wrong. Ginger is very much used to rev sluggish appetites and promote digestion, more gently in chaa or tea, and more pointedly in puli-inji, what Keralites will sometimes call inji-puli, that lip-smacking tamanrindy-spicy-salty-sour-sweet quick pickle that is a must-have at every Onam sadya–and which was always a standard offering at my parents’ table. In fact, it was what we used to call an “Appa special,” because he made it, because he relished it, because somehow it was emblematic of him. But now he was trusting it with his life, that seemed a lot to ask of this little condiment in the face of all that was cascading and going wrong inside him.

Still, his logic seemed to be: fix appetite, fix digestion, and all else will set itself straight. That’s an application of the Tamil aphorism unave marunthu, marunthe unavu–food is medicine, medicine is good–if I ever saw one. It’s the answer to a healthy life, no doubt … until life itself wants to cease, I suppose, at which point the body will, as my father did, simply reject both medicine and food.

Now the story that’s typically told of Indian kitchens is that girls learn to cook from their mothers; children are nurtured in their grandmother’s kitchens. In the genre of cook-bookery, particularly the “ethnic” ones, there’s a separate, special warm corner for texts of this lineage. 

I don’t derive from such stock. Both my grandmothers were no more by the time I arrived. My mother was a reluctant cook, at best, and often neglected to feed us at all. There’s no romance here–nor any remorse. Just no fairy tale, that’s all. 

My lineage is wider. Lots of women in it, but also some men. In particular, Appa, who planned for food with a sort of self-interested pragmatism that is not much valorized in our mythologies, but from whom I’ve learned a thing or two about cooking, adapting, surviving. How to make the best mango pulisseri when the ripest mangoes are in season, how to cut a jackfruit, how prepare the best uppma odaisal–a pre-made mix that is easily stored and delivers steaming uppma in a pinch, like on your first night as an immigrant in Toronto when there’s only a Red Lobster flashing red downstairs and a craving for home–and how to make a few simple fresh pickles that can transform the blandest of meals into a deeply satisfying cultural experience. He knew how to make it easy. In fact, he wanted always to make things easy–for himself and for those around. Perhaps he outsourced the harder parts of any task or compromised too quickly as a result, or declined to fight the good fight at times, but this was his approach, unabashedly. Simple and straight. And there are times when you are worn-to-the-bone-tired or stretched to limits, or you just want to concentrate energies elsewhere, and it’s then that such methods come to the rescue.

Puli-inji, or inji-puli, which simply translates into “tamarind-ginger,” or “ginger-tamarind” is one such. Its star ingredients are just those two, tied together with green chillies, jaggery, and seasoning. It’s quick to cook. It requires very little effort and lasts a week or so. It goes incredibly well with curd-rice on a hot day, or steaming dals on cooler ones. It makes a South Indian meal when there really isn’t one. It’s a perfectly proportioned hot-sweet-tang condiment. It’s almost addictive. It represents a cross-over between Kerala and Tamil cuisines: seeing as my father’s Tamil lineages trace to Palghat, the cross-over always to my mind represented him. Represented us, really. 

Prepping for puli-inji

The big work in puli-inji is prepping young ginger, which Appa usually outsourced to maids. I don’t have that luxury, but I also don’t mind the company of young ginger and its lingering smells on my fingers. I also want to make sure the ginger is scraped only lightly [so much of its fragrance is just beneath the skin] and chopped ultra finely–big chunks are unpleasant. The scrapings go into my morning cuppa chai, or to feed a gingerbug if there’s one bubbling, so nothing gets wasted. 

The other star ingredient is tamarind, and you’ll need lemon-sized ball of it, soaked in a cup or two of warm water for about 15 minutes. Squish with your hands to release as much of the pulp as possible. Set this aside. 

Green chillies are also necessary–but they’re not the highlight of this chutney. The more the merrier, but their role is to add flavor as much as spice, and to highlight ginger’s natural bite. Use as many as you please, or as few. Since the spiciness of green chilies can vary wildly, I will often start with a handful and add more later as needed while taste-testing.

Jaggery, on the other hand, is a mediating taste that links sourness with spice and renders them compatible. Salt, too. It’s a pickle, so you’ll need a touch more salt than you’d add to a dish of the same size–and then maybe a touch more. 

There are many recipes for puli-inji that use onions, or other spices, including roasted methi/fenugreek which is pretty typical for pickles. But all that is unnecessarily complex, and makes a simple chutney into a thokku really. I stick to the minimalist simplicity of my father’s cookery: ginger, tamarind, chillies, jaggery, salt, turmeric, mustard seed+hing+curry leaf seasoning. Nothing more. 

Cooking puli-inji

Heat a few tablespoons of cold pressed sesame oil oil in a heavy-bottomed, stainless steel pan until it’s nearly smoking. Drop in a teaspoon of mustard seeds. These should crackle right away — then follow with a sprig or two of curry leaves. Once these are done sizzling, add the ginger. Stir it in, follow with the minced green chillies. 

Then the tamarind water, removing, squeezing out, and discarding the pulp. Add a 1/2 teaspoon of turmeric, 1 teaspoon of salt, and the jaggery. 

Allow to simmer for a few minutes and pause to check tastes. Adjust salt and sweet–but don’t try to add more salt if it’s sourness that’s missing. Just mix in a bit more tamarind water in that case. (Yes, you may need to soak more tamarind for this, but you can allow your chutney to simmer while you get that ready. This is a very forgiving and patient chutney). 

Once you’ve your tastes right, let the saucepan simmer until the mixture thickens slightly and the raw tamarind taste is gone. Enough to stay a tad runny, but not liquid like water and definitely not jammy. The whole process shouldn’t take longer than about 15 minutes.

Eating puli-inji

Puli-inji isn’t for toast and tea. Nor is it really for the faint-of-heart: be warned. Ginger is fiery and chillies only make it more so. This chutney is best paired with foods that balance and cool it down: classically, curd-rice, or a simple dal (like this one) served on hot steaming rice, maybe even a poriyal (like this one) and rotis. With a bowl of yogurt on the side, maybe! You’ll also not want to help yourself to spoonfuls. A touch at a time is what this chutney is all about. 

Puli-inji stimulates both appetite and digestion. Some version of it is served at the-day-after-the-wedding meals among Vallalars in Tirunelveli, along with sodhi kuzhambu [a coconut milk and mung dal-based vegetable stew] and maapillai samba rice, supposed to confer strength and virility to bridegrooms. But red rices are harder to digest than white and wedding feasting will already have burdened the feasters: puli-inji to the rescue.

So serve it when you’re hungry or when you’ve eaten too much, and it’ll sort you either way. It stores well in the fridge for a week or more.