Chicken Bharta Recipe

I cook most of the time for my brother. He loves chicken Bharta, which indirectly means that I have to either buy him the dish from a restaurant or cook for him myself.
Chicken Bharta is a Mughal dish where the shredded chicken is cooked in wide range of spice mix. This recipe is perfect for a party and can be best complemented by Biriyani, Laccha Paratha and Jeera Rice.
Due to haste, I have used chicken pieces. But it is preferable to use shredded chicken.

Enjoy the recipe! J

Ingredients:

500 grams chicken

4 cloves

4 black cardamom

2 bay leaves

2 medium sized onions made into paste

1 teaspoon ginger paste

1.5 teaspoon garlic paste

1.5 teaspoon red chilli powder

1.5 teaspoon coriander powder

1 teaspoon All spice mix (Garam Masala Powder)

1 teaspoon Tandoori Masala

4 tablespoon tomato puree

4 teaspoon cashew paste

3 teaspoon curd

1.5 teaspoon butter

3 teaspoon fresh cream

Procedure:

1)      Wash the 500 grams chicken and put it into a pressure cooker. To the chicken, add 4 Cardamoms, 4 Cloves, ½ inch Cinnamon and salt. Cook till three whistles. Take out the chicken from the pressure cooker and preserve the stock for the gravy.

2)     In the meantime, boil eggs, remove the yolk and roughly chop the egg whites. In a separate bowl, mix the yolk with some water. Keep it aside for the gravy.

3)     Take a non-stick pan. Heat 3 tablespoon of oil. Add to the hot oil, onion paste, garlic paste, ginger paste, Cook until they are lightly brown in colour. Now add to it, coriander powder, Chilli powder, Garam masala, Tandoori masala, Turmeric powder. Fry the spices until you get a pleasant aroma.

4)     To the onion-spice mix, add tomato puree, Curd, chicken pieces and left over chicken stock. Put salt and sugar to taste. Adjust the thickness of the gravy.

5)     Lastly, add 1.5 teaspoon butter, 3 teaspoon fresh cream, the smashed egg yolk. Mix thoroughly.

Garnish with egg whites, coriander leaves and chopped cashew nuts.

Note: 

1) Before making a paste, soak the Cashew in water for 15 minutes.

Love comes with a demand...!

Presently, Kolkata is vibrating with the thrill of the upcoming Durga Puja. The fragrance of the ever-lasting Shiuli phool permeates through the whole of Kolkata. Shops are full of new clothes and shoppers can’t wait to update their wardrobe.

I, sitting in my room, am lost in my loneliness. It has become like a fire that has spread through all cells of my body, almost ready to engulf me totally.  

Few years back, by this time, my hands were full of shopping bags and my organiser was filled with “To do during the puja” list.

But that was me in past; me in a different time.

I have changed. The realities of life have changed me. The beauty of the city of joy, Kolkata, has died in front of my eyes; though the reason is unknown to me. When all the pretences, like addas, Paro Ninda Paro Charcha (P.N.P.C.), phuchkka treat, Durga Puja, of Kolkata are removed, I see a city which is hugging tightly the trends set by the forefathers of the bygone age; a city which has become stagnant; a city not ready to welcome a change.

Yesterday, I tried I really tried to talk to my mother, thinking of making her see the world from my eyes.

Alas! I have yet again been proved wrong. After all, there is no point in talking to a stone, Right?

My mother told me “I am doing everything that you wanted! I am giving you the things that you desire! Can’t you do this little thing for me?”

She has been doing this since forever; whenever, I thought of doing something differently, she stopped talking to me. I should have been indifferent but sadly, I was affected. Her words, like a thorn, pierced my heart. She made me realize that love comes with a price.
This illumination shattered my illusions and made me realize that nothing comes free.

I told myself “I am fine! I don’t need her!”

But my weak heart failed me; its only weakness being that it loves her too much, much more than she can ever imagine.

Who am I?

How does it feel to get lost in a crowd of ten thousand where I will not be “Aishwariya Sarkar” or “Mumpi”?

I don’t know how it feels as I have never experienced those feelings but if I get the chance I will welcome them with my arms open.

Though, last year, I had a major accident, I somehow pulled myself out of it. Still I feel a part of me is missing. I don’t know whether it is because of losing my love or because of being a physically challenged. All I know is that I want to leave the country where I have grown up; where I have my family, friends; where I have my heartwarming memories.

I want to leave them all behind; I want to run away; I want to go to a place where I will be a “Nobody”; where people will not come to me with their advices; where people will accept me with my failures; where I don’t have to pretend to be somebody to meet the expectations of others.

Last night, my mother asked me “why do you desperately want to go to USA?”

I told her “Maa, I don’t feel anything here. A part of me has died.”

She reprimanded me by saying “you should be ashamed! When everybody is coming back to their own country; you don’t even have an ounce of respect for it!”

I kept quiet, not because I was guilty but because I knew that she will never understand me. The truth is that a part of me has died during the accident; the pain, the suffering and memories are too much for me to bear. In my homeland, I feel like a foreigner. I want to go to a place where I will be just like anyone else; where people will accept me with my failures and not judge me by my mistakes.

How will I tell her that the part that has survived is struggling through a phase of identity crisis? How will I tell her that I am trying to build myself again? How will I tell her that I don’t know who I am? All I know is that this country is not for me.

Fake Modernists (Part 2)

These days, going to the pub, drinking and smoking has become quite common. Almost everyone does it.

But the problem arises when someone heavily indulges in them.

My best friend, S, told me that two of her friends, P and N, are alcoholics. They often finish two three bottles of beer in empty stomach; as a result, on their way home, they become unconscious. The responsibility, to take them home, falls on the person who is accompanying them.

Sohu has a big heart; therefore when she got to know about this, she was horrified. She was scared that somebody will take advantage of them, in their delicately unconscious situation. Out of goodwill, she decided to voice her opinions. She warned her friends to reduce their alcohol intake and told them about the dangers attached to heavy drinking.

Sadly, her good suggestions were ignored. Few days later, she got to know that her friends have tagged her “Miss Old fashioned”. Moreover, she got to know from a common friend that P and N don’t consider her to be a good influence to their group. She was too prude to be considered a “Sophisticated Modernist”.

That night, when I called S, she informed me about this incident; she was morose and heartbroken. She had already started to doubt her morals.

I loved her too much to leave her in that condition. I knew that she was not wrong. After talking for hours, I finally succeeded in cheering her up. I told her to ignore P and Nat’s scathing opinions about her. When I saw that she has finally come back to normality, I relaxed and kept the phone.

I was so angry at those two girls that I could have killed them for making fun of my best friend and her great worldly morals. But as I started to calm down, I only felt regret, not for thinking of killing them but for their childish immature behaviours.   

A “Modernist” is not the one who indulges in smoking or drinking; it’s the one who takes the best of the east and the west. The mixing of the goods of the two different cultures makes a person “Modern”.

On Taking the First Step....1...2...3

“No change will come! There is too much of disparity! One person can’t make a difference!”

I have often heard these pessimistic statements. When I first decided to join social services, people thought that I have gone mad. My parents went forward and said “Pagli” which means “Mad Girl”. They could not believe that their day dreaming daughter finally wanted to do something good and thought that this was another of my whims.

Though I was self conscious at first, I slowly indulged myself into activities. My brother, Hirak, was my pillar of strength. Hirak is three years younger to me but we are friends.

One week prior to joining the NGO, My brother and I were deeply engrossed in an argument, where I was the pessimist and he was the optimist.

He told me “Didi (elder sister), You can make a difference!”

I pessimistically told him “One person cannot make a difference”.

He was hurt by my hopeless words as I am his source of inspiration and guidance. My words crushed his spirits and made me look small in front of him.

He told me wearily “Didi, a house starts with a brick. Imagine that the first brick is not there. Then....Can you build the house?”

I was shocked when I processed what he wanted me to say. He wanted me to understand that I am the first brick; he wanted me to take the first step towards doing something for my Country. His thoughtful words resuscitated my broken spirit and gave me the direction to a good cause.

I realised my mistake. I quit thinking what other will think about me. I just followed my heart. I joined a NGO that deals with the upliftment of the under- priviledged children. This whole new feeling of experimenting with my life makes me dizzy with joy. It has made my life adventurous and worthwhile.

These days, when people tell me those gloomy words; I laugh and tell them “Anyone can Make a Difference. It’s all about taking the first step. The rest will follow.”

Bedazzled by the Message of the movie “Barfi!”

I am not much into bollywood films. As most of them lack substance; either they are about some love story or about the monstrous portrayal of misplaced comedy. The last movie that I actually enjoyed and loved is “Three Idiots”. The movie talks about the ingrained desires of the Indian parents that they try to force on their children; the movie was simple but it had a powerful message.

Recently, there is a hype about an upcoming movie, BARFI!. It released yesterday. This morning as I opened my Facebook account, I saw that my news feeds are filled with BARFI reviews.

As I am a religious Wiki fan, I immediately went to the Wikipedia to read the plot summary. While reading, I came by an interesting note that says:

 “A heart-warming tale of selfless love and about finding happiness in the smallest things in life; that tells you no matter how tough your life may be, “Don't Worry, be Barfi!””

I wondered “Is it really this easy to find happiness?”

The simplicity of the message and the uniqueness of the title intrigued me. Though my SAT exam is approaching, I have decided to re-organise my memo and give this movie a try.

I hope I won’t be let down! (Fingers crossedJ)

Fake Modernists (Part 1)

Few Sundays back, I had an interview with a NGO, Make a Difference. Having reached early, my interview got over soon. I saw no point in waiting there. As I was about to leave, it started raining. Reluctantly, I stayed back.

I saw that few girls were sitting and chatting on the floor. To kill time, I introduced myself and joined in their conversation. Initially, the topics vacillated from colleges to college campuses.
But after sometime, two of the girls in the group, Mandy and Shinjini, started talking about smoking.

Mandy asked Shinjini “Hey! You smoke right?”

Shinjini replied “Obviously! Duh!”

I was irritated by their tone. In order to draw their attention, I said “Smoking is injurious to health!”

They gave me a perplexed look and mockingly told “There is a thrill in doing things that sound bad.”

I subconsciously knew that they will answer me in their typical disinterested tone.

(Frankly, I don’t have anything against smoking. It’s just that I don’t find any pleasure in it. There was a time when I really wanted to smoke; not because I liked it but because I found the idea of me holding a cigarette and puffing out smoke quite inviting. I could not last a day. I had my first puff and found out that it was not my cup of tea. My throat was burning and I was having a weird irritation in my nasal cavity.)

I was irritated not because they smoke but because they were trying to flaunt their dirty habits. They had this weird thinking that by smoking profusely; they will be given the badge for being the most sophisticated. Not once, I heard them talk about something good. All they had to say was how the Indians are bad; how smoking is good; how the western world is the best. Lastly, they added that they will happily leave India at the first opportunity.

I was astounded to see that they considered their dirty habits as being “Modern”.

There was a time when I fell into this trap. When I thought that I can make myself ultra modern by hitting the disc, smoking or drinking. But I was wrong.

Now, if somebody asks me “What is Modernism?”

I will answer that it is the freedom of thought; it is the equality between the sexes; it is the equal share of rights. I don’t think that there is any “Modernism” in conforming to the dirty habits of the Western World. I don't consider their fake behaviours as being “Modern”!