The exquisite, elegant Indian tadka

My theory is that tadkas work because the high heat of the oil extracts the inherent umami and other flavours from the condiments, and diffuses it through the food

A casual observer might almost dismiss it as an afterthought: a half teaspoon of cumin seeds and a single red chilly, briefly spluttered in a little oil and tossed over a dal just before serving. It requires neither time nor much attention.

You know exactly what I'm talking about because you would have seen your mother do it every day of your childhood, though perhaps tadka might not have been the word you heard. Depending on your Indian state of origin, the word might have been tadka or chhaunk in Hindi, torka in Bengali, thaalithal in Tamil, oggarane in Kannada. vaghaar in Gujarati, phodni in Marathi and thalimpu or popu in Telugu. When I was young, I concluded it was all cosmetic and that the dish would probably taste the same even sans tadka.

Wrong. The Indian tadka is a deft act of culinary magic that is as unobtrusive and powerful as it is uniquely Indian. Every one of India's 38 distinct regional cuisines has its own variant of the tadka. No other country in the world has anything remotely close. The British, who must have been as baffled by it as they were that anyone would want to be independent of them, dismissed it as mere 'tempering'. I officially began to be in awe of the Indian tadka from my late 30s, roughly the time when poverty had begun to interest me.

I was visiting a friend in Kathmandu, and her cook, from Uttar Pradesh, had served a bhendi dish so compelling that conversation came to a complete standstill around the table. I later asked him for the recipe and was met with a perplexed look. "I've put nothing in it, sir," he said. His 'nothing' turned out to be a mixture of cumin seeds, ajwain, some hing (asafoetida) and some green chillies. In other words, another tadka, albeit one I had never heard of. I asked more questions, and he told me about his farming family back in what is now Jharkhand. While both parents worked bent-backed in the fields, somehow lunch had to happen as well.

A technique evolved, of leaving vegetables cooking over a very low fire for hours, in hot oil that had already entertained cumin, ajwain, hing and chillies. Poverty permitted no other spices. But as it turns out, a brilliant tadka requires no other spices. My theory is that tadkas work because the high heat of the oil rapidly extracts the inherent umami and other flavours from the condiments, and diffuses it through the food. I once added just the oil of the tadka and it transformed the taste just as well as the entire thing. Also, the oil itself is a flavour ingredient.

The same tadka - say cumin and fennel seeds - would taste different fried in coconut instead of peanut oil. For the single and employed in a crowded city, the tadka is your best friend, good for delicious, nutritious, quick-cooking meals. 1. Mustard and urad: Cuisine: Palakkad. This classic garnish is commonest in south Indian stir-fries known as poduthavals. Any vegetable may be used, preferably half-boiled. Wait till the mustard begins spluttering before adding the urad dal, which fries and darkens rather quickly. Optionals are curry leaves, hing and dried or green chillies. This tadka can also be added to curd-rice, raitas, salads.

Anything but desserts. 2. Cumin, ajwain, hing and green chillies: Cuisine: Uttar Pradesh. Cumin and ajwain add a new dimension though not a new taste. The vegetables evolve as they cook over a slow fire. 3. Cumin, fennel seeds, green chillies, ginger: Cuisine: Rajasthani, Marwari. The fennel seeds' delicate taste degrades on too much browning, so be quick and careful. This garnish, supplemented by black salt and garam masala, is the basis of many immersive Marwari curries. 4. Cumin, mustard, fennel seeds, fenugreek and nigella seeds: Cuisine: Bengali. This five-spice garnish sits at the heart of Bengali home food. Fried in a smidgeon of mustard oil before adding the remaining vegetables, or added to the dal before serving, it makes the dish instantly immortal.

The simplest garnish of all - one that I'd die for - is just cumin browned in ghee. I was in Rajgir, Bihar, where the Buddha had preached. In the crumbling circuit house where we halted, the toothless claviger stopped watching violins and violence on the old TV set and shuffled off to cook for us. Aromas emerged, of plain mung dal touched with salt and many tadka kisses from cumin seeds fried golden in ghee; diced bottle gourd (lauki) fried in ghee with hing and cumin and blessed by coriander fairies. Finally, heaven was served with steaming rice on a cracked old plate. I died, smiling as I went straight to god. PS: Please write to me at cygopi@gmail.com for specific recipes.

Here, viewed from there. C Y Gopinath, in Bangkok, throws unique light and shadows on Mumbai, the city that raised him. You can reach him at cygopi@gmail.com Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com

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