What? Where? When? Perhaps even Who?

These are the questions I willy-nilly answer when I write about food. What did I eat? Where was it served? Was there a special occasion? And who was the cook?

And oh yes. Would I recommend it, go back perhaps for a second time…

Today however I rave about some very simple food. Served not at a Michelin Star or a Food Guide Award kind of a place, not at a restaurant of repute, but...

It’s just…another day in Paradise. And the cooking is as close to divine as the Gods will allow.

In this Ashram where in the serving of food, people find solace. In this Ashram, at the feet of this eclectic Sufi (Fakir, he calls himself) who just loves to feed. In this Ashram where the chants of prayer taste exquisite and the flavor of food is the incense of the Gods.

It was Ugadi. And Babaji himself was at the helm in the kitchen. Ammaji was the quintessential right hand with a focus on the paneer. The rest of the team did as told by the Supremo.

When we entered, a friend extended a pre-plated meal in welcome. And that is the wonderful think about the Ashram. Everyone gets a chance to serve (I am being excused because of my unsteady step and old age perhaps, but that’s a whole different story).

Three little plastic cups. Filled with three curries. A plastic spoon. One Paratha. Not exactly a food stylist’s idea of an attractive pre-plate. But I kid you not. I’ve rarely seen sights so appetising.

The three curries. Paneer. Mutter. And aaloo.

The paneer was virgin soft. Un-fried, it melted on arrival. Leaving behind the swirl of flavours with the gentle gravy. The paratha, layered and gheed, flirted with the palate in a game of soft and crisp nuances.

The mutter. Oh the mutter. I was expecting at least a bite. At least the hint of crunch. But no. The curry had been cooked into submission. The mutter (peas) were subjugated into near swallowability. The bite was more for the paratha. But the taste was undoubtedly muttery.

My favourite dish however was the Aaloor Dum. Suddenly I felt a head rush. And I had the strong feeling that my mother was around. Looking lovingly as I dug in. This is a simple Bengali dish, not to be confused with the Dum Aaloo Kashmiri and its sweeter variations. And the key to this dish is the boil. And the cooking.

How well timed the boiled potatoes are. And just how much have they absorbed of the cooking.

This indeed was a meal. Somehow we struggled through some rice and dalcha. Gluttoned on an ice cream from a favourite brand. And then took a few minutes to allow our senses to settle down before we could take leave.

And it’s a different kind of contentment, let me tell you. It’s not just the satisfaction of a full enough stomach. Not the ecstasy of the loving flavors. Nor the deliverance or the moksha kind of feeling blessed.

It’s a contentment that reminds you emphatically, that when love becomes the main ingredient in your cooking, what you serve is not food for sustenance. But food for the soul.

And when sprinkled with the blessings of the Baba and the Saints with him, food suddenly becomes a prayer, and the gentle smile that bids you farewell is the epitome of your prayers answered.

Om Namo Narayana.