Readers' World: Masala manners

Amy Heydenrych juggles 'Delhi belly' with some spicy specialities on a cooking course in Udaipur

Shashi slaps a blood-red bindi on my forehead and ties an apron around my waist.

"Sit down over here," she gestures towards her dining table. "Let me tell you about myself."

I had found Shashi Sanadhya's details on a rushed Google search before my trip to Udaipur. It had always been my dream to learn to cook Indian food in the kitchen of an authentic Indian mama. And an Indian mama I had found.

Born into the highest Indian caste, the Brahmins, Shashi faced a predicament three years ago when her husband died. Her high caste banned her from earning a salary by performing menial tasks such as cleaning for others and, with no tertiary education, she had few options for supporting herself and her children. Her sons suggested she turn her famous home-cooking into a business and offer lessons to the many foreigners visiting the city of Udaipur.

"At that point, I spoke no English," she recalls. Her first lessons were therefore purely demonstrations. Each time a client visited, they would e-mail her their notes and recipes in their own language. Soon, she had notes for her classes in English, Italian, German and Spanish and she started to learn basic English.

She asks me what my profession is and whether I am married (a matter of constant concern in India). Then we get cooking.

First we make pakora, a fritter prepared by coating thin slices of potato and red onion with a spiced chickpea flour batter and deep frying. This is accompanied by home-made coriander and mango chutneys, placed in small dipping jars next to the pile of pakoras.

"Eat!" She orders. I layer the two chutneys over one pakora slice as per her instructions. I bite into the crispy, salty coating and savour the aftertaste of coriander and sweet mango. Unfortunately, my appetite is not sufficient to appreciate such bounty. After five days of constant curry onslaught, my stomach has become troubled, groaning ominously each time I try to swallow.

"Eat more! Or I will think you don't like my cooking!" says Shashi, visibly hurt. I decide now is the time to mention my digestive setbacks. "Ah, many of my students come to class like this. It's from restaurants that take short cuts and don't serve fresh curry. Have a glass of water and let's carry on."

Next up is a basic masala sauce. I am tasked with preparing the garlic-and-ginger base by smashing the spices with a pestle and mortar. My spindly arms only make meek progress. Shashi, a good 30 years older than me, puts me to shame by destroying the mixture in a few solid slams.

The masala sauce is incredibly versatile. We use it as the base for aloo gobi, a potato and cauliflower curry. We then stir it into a paneer butter masala, adding some ground cashews and ghee for extra creaminess.

"You stir with your left hand?" she says.

"Yes, I am left-handed."

"So is my son. But we put a stop to that. In our culture, the left hand is a dirty hand."

"Oh, is it considered bad luck?"

"No, not bad luck. Just dirty."

With that, I turn the hand to mixing naan and chapatti doughs. She teaches me to combine the ingredients with one hand, while using the other to hold the bowl still.

Rolling a chapatti into a perfect circle is a highly specific skill. It takes me several tries, and by the time I have finished I have cooked enough chapattis to feed a rugby team. The naan is more successful; Shashi teaches me to fill the spongy dough with spiced potato or sweet coconut, folding it over to make sweet and savoury parathas.

I am inspired, beaming and covered in flour after three hours in Shashi's kitchen. However, before I leave, there is the matter of actually eating the feast we have made.

As if on cue, my boyfriend arrives to collect me, ravenous after spending the morning visiting temples in the countryside. When he sees what I have prepared, he invites our taxi driver in to join us. My poor appetite and I are off the hook! - ©Amy Heydenrych

• See http://shashicookingclasses.blogspot.com/
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