Spring has arrived, draping the world in its gentle embrace – albeit short-lived in our part of the world (the Middle East). The sun is kind, its warmth neither harsh nor overbearing, and the evening breeze carries with it a whisper of nostalgia. As I step outside for a run, my feet move steadily, but today my mind wanders.

By the time I turn towards home, the call for prayer – Azaan – spills into the air like poetry. It is Ramzaan, the holy month when patience, devotion and generosity intertwine. As I pass the neighbourhood mosque, most days, I pause to exchange warm smiles and accept the labaan – a watery yogurt-based drink that is either salty or sweet in flavour -that  the people settling down for Iftar kindly offer. But this evening, I am restless. There is something I need to find.

I step inside home and  dive into my journals, my fingers fumbling past old papers and ink-smudged pages. Somewhere among them is a paper, a relic from a rainy afternoon in Calcutta (Kolkata), my hometown – and hers too. It holds a recipe,  her recipe.

I can still hear her voice, rich with warmth and laughter. “Iss baar, main tumhe kuch achha khilaungi [I’ll feed you something nice this time],” she had declared that day, pulling me into one of her signature hugs before I could even set my umbrella down. That was Naseem Aunty – always loving, always giving.

Naseem Aunty taught me the essence of Ramzaan. Her words still ring in my ears: “Beta (child), there’s no one particular season for doing good. We must try to do good and stay on the path of good all-year round. The special thing about Ramzaan is how the community comes together – to pray, to engage in community service and of course to share meals.” She would also say fasting, which is at the core of Ramzaan, must also come from within. One must feel a genuine urge to fast and must be in the right health condition to do so, she would add.

Back to that rainy afternoon in Calcutta,  I remember a soft knock on the door, and the way the room instantly filled with the scent of spices. A tray appeared, carried by a tall girl with kind eyes. The Shami kebabs or meat patties glistened, paired with mint chutney and my beloved roshogolla (famous Bengali dessert)

“Jaldi kha lo. Thanda kebab khane mein koi mazaa nahi hain [Eat the kebabs when it’s hot; there’s no fun in eating cold kebabs],” Aunty ordered, like all mothers do.

One bite, and the world outside ceased to exist. The Shami kebab was tender, infused with the perfect balance of spices, love and some history, as I would learn later.

I asked for the recipe, unaware then that I was asking for a piece of Naseem Aunty’s legacy.

“Beta, my mother-in-law taught me this. She knew I wasn’t much of a cook, but she had patience. She was also quite firm about delivering the promise made to my father that I would complete my education even after marriage. She made sure I never missed a single class, and I learned to cook as well.”

Naseem Aunty fondly spoke of the morning scooter rides to college with her husband, of the wind in her pallu, of laughter that once filled their home. Her voice trembled only for a moment, “Your uncle is gone now, but those memories are mine to keep.”

I quickly moved close to her and gave her a hug. I had no idea that it would be the last time I would hug her, the last time I would feel the warmth of her embrace.

Born on March 15, 1955, in Calcutta (now Kolkata), Naseem Alauddin – who I fondly called Naseem Aunty – completed her Senior Cambridge (now ICSE/ISC) from Loreto Dharamtala before earning her English (Honours) degree from Loreto College. English was her favourite subject. Even in the age of WhatsApp, her messages were always composed in flawless, impeccable English. A voracious reader, she devoured everything she could get her hands on – newspapers, magazines and even the books her children borrowed from the library. She often reminisced about her time teaching English at Don Bosco, one of Calcutta’s premier schools. Although she could not pursue a B.Ed degree, teaching was her passion. A true educationist at heart, she dedicated herself to mentoring young children in her community, never once turning away a student in need. That is Naseem Aunty’s legacy – a lifelong commitment to education, love and generosity that will continue to live on. Every year, on Eid she would tell me that my Eidi (Money given as a gift to younger ones on the Muslim festival of Eid) is growing, and she is waiting to give it to me. I didn’t get the chance to get my Eidi from Naseem Aunty – she left us quite suddenly, leaving a vacuum that can’t be filled.

Every March, I used to send yellow roses to Naseem Aunty on her birthday, except this year. This year, she is not here to receive them. Instead, I will honour her by making some Shami kebabs.

I finally found the fragile, oil-stained paper. Holding it, I realised she has left more than a recipe with me. She has left a story, a history, a tradition that must not fade.

In our kitchens, in our homes, in the quiet corners of our everyday lives, so many women like Naseem Aunty weave legacies. They teach without classrooms, nurture without conditions and leave behind more than just memories. They leave behind pieces of themselves, waiting to be carried forward. This is not to romanticize their struggles, but to acknowledge them.

As I prepare dinner in my kitchen, I wonder is this how all mothers are? Do they always give, so effortlessly, so completely, that we don’t even realise the tender weight of their love until years later?

Perhaps this is why food is more than sustenance. It is history. It is love. It is remembrance. It is a huge connector.

And tonight, as I shape the Shami kebabs with my own hands, I know that Naseem Aunty is here. In the aroma that fills my kitchen. In the recipe that has passed from one woman’s hands to another’s. In the quiet, unseen ways that women build the world around them.

This is for her. For all of them.

Naseem Aunty’s Shami kebab recipe

Naseem Aunty, like most of our mothers, believed in “andaza” – approximation or eyeballing. So, a lot of the measurements mentioned in the recipe I’ve adapted to the quantity and palate. Aunty made it a point to add that she always bought mutton from the neighbourhood butcher, but I buy from the supermarket. The ghee that she used was Jharna Ghee, a very popular variant in Bengal. I usually have a bottle of Jharna ghee in the pantry, but if it runs out, I use any other desi ghee.

Over to the recipe:

Ingredients

• Minced mutton – 500 grams
• Chana daal or Bengal gram – 1/2 cup (soaked in water for a couple of hours)
• Cinnamon stick – 1 inch (slightly pounded)
• Cloves- 4 (slightly pounded)
• Green cardamom – 4 (slightly pounded)
• Black cardamom – 1 (slightly pounded)
• Mace – 1-2 small twigs (optional)
• Black peppercorns – 15-16 (slightly pounded)
• Dried Kashmiri red chilies – 1
• Bay leaves – 2
• Cumin seeds – 1.5 teaspoons
• Onions – 2 large (1 roughly chopped and the other finely chopped)
• Ginger – a little more than 1 inch (slightly pounded)
• Garlic – 8-10 cloves (slightly pounded)
• Indian hot green chilies – 4-6 chopped (increase or reduce as per taste & heat tolerance)
• Fresh coriander leaves – ½ cup (chopped)
• Fresh mint leaves – 2 tablespoons (chopped)
• Salt – 1.5 teaspoons or as per taste
• Ghee – 2 tablespoons
• Oil – approximately ½ cup for pan frying
• Water – 1 cup (I use warm water)

 

Directions

1. Add minced mutton in the pressure cooker or instant pot or a thick bottomed pot (as I do). Drain the soaked chana daal and add to the vessel along with the roughly pounded spices, ginger and garlic and the roughly chopped onion. Add salt and warm water. Use a ladle to give the mixture a good stir and close lid (if using a pressure cooker or instant pot). Cover and cook, if using a thick bottomed pot.
2. Turn on the stove and adjust the temperature to medium first until the first whistle. Thereafter, turn the flame to low and pressure cook for 5-6 more whistles. This should take no longer than 20 minutes. If using an instant pot, set it to high pressure and cook for 15 minutes. Let the pressure release naturally.
3. Open the lid of the pressure cooker or instant pot, check if the mixture is done well. It should be soft in texture, easily mash-able. Dry off any extra moisture.
4. Let the mixture cool down slightly, so it can be mashed using a ladle or by hand (I prefer the latter). Transfer the mixture into a large bowl to be mashed properly into a smooth paste. But before mashing, pick out the bay leaves and cardamom pods from the mixture. A food processor can also be used to make a smooth paste.
5. Add the finely chopped onion, green chilies, coriander & mint leaves and ghee to the mixture. Adjust salt, if needed. Knead the mixture gently and let it rest in the refrigerator for a couple of hours.
6. Take the mixture out of the refrigerator and make small round kebabs, flatten them slightly using the palms. I usually prefer making them small in size (approximately 35 grams each).
7. Place a heavy bottomed pan or a griddle or a non-stick pan on the stove. Adjust the flame to medium-to-low and let the pan or griddle heat up. Once its warm, add 3-4 drop of oil and spread it. Let the oil warm up before adding the kebabs. Don’t overcrowd the pan – I like to place 3-4 kebabs at a time so there is enough space to flip. Let the kebabs cook for 3 minutes on one side, flip (using a flat spatula) and repeat until the kebabs turn nicely golden brown. Adjust the flame, if needed, to avoid burning the kebabs.
8. Once done, enjoy the kebabs with a chutney of your preference. Squeeze some lemon juice on the kebabs, if you like.
9. The kebabs can be frozen too for days and months, although I always make it a point to consume the frozen kebabs within 4-5 days.

Yields – 12-15

Notes: I prefer Indian mutton, but any other meat can be used. The meat should be at room temperature. I like to use a lot of garlic, but a little less than what I’ve mentioned would be good enough. I like to soak the chana daal for at least 2 hours; less soaking time would be alright too. I use a stone mortar & pestle to pound the whole spice along with ginger and garlic, but a food processor can be used too. I use dried Kashmiri chili minimally so I’ve mentioned one, but a couple of more can be added. Finally, I have fallen in love with slow cooking, which is why I prefer letting the mutton, chana daal and spices cook in a large thick bottomed pot that takes approximately 2.5 hours, so patience is key if someone is keen to follow this process. Importantly, along with the one cup mentioned under the ingredients list, I add at least another 1.5 cups until the meat, daal and spice mixture is properly cooked. The easier alternative is using a pressure cooker or an instant pot.

(The views expressed in this article are the author’s own. Content can be used with due credit to the author and to ‘Zariya: Women’s Alliance for Dignity and Equality’)

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