Monsoon Cornucopia!

July has to be the soggiest month of the year here in Mumbai – a month when life as we know it, with all its inherent rushing about and stopping to breathe only on Sunday, suddenly comes to a standstill as endless curtains of rain curtail all normal activity. It is a month of endless waiting in blocked trains and traffic snarls, a month when everything seems damp – damp clothes, damp hair, even the air seems damp (and redolent with the smell of mould thriving in corners deprived of sunlight). A month of days with no maids, no vegetables, no electricity or sometimes all these together! A month of unexpected guests turning up at your door dripping wet, stranded by rain, and a month of budgets going awry (as one is forced to take a cab, fix that leaky ceiling, etc.). It brings out the best and the worst in Mumbai’s denizens, such as cabbies who play on the misfortunes of commuters and double their fares.

But it is also a month of romance, and I don’t mean the kind found in Bollywood movies. I mean a romancing with the elements. This is the month of “petrichor” – that aroma of parched earth soaking up the first showers. It creeps up on you, unnoticed, bringing with it the first burst of rain that leaves the city washed and new. It is a month of forced moments of solitude – when urchins dancing in the spray of broken water pipes make you forget your wet discomfort and awaken within you the happy side of the monsoon. Little girls twirling their umbrellas with all the aplomb of models walking the runways. Little boys splashing through puddles, swinging their umbrellas everywhere, ensuring every inch of them is dripping wet. It is also a month of sudden guilt-free holidays – and delicious, spicy food.
   
July is a month of hot, spicy treats that are delicious year-round but especially so at this time of the year. Piping-hot crispy fried pakoras (fritters), steaming-hot coffee or masala chai, succulent spicy kebabs, butter-laden paav bhaji spiked with green chili, spicy samosas turgid with the promise of potatoes, hot maggi kissed with green chili and hot ghee-doused khichdi are just a few of the favourite monsoon treats we look forward to warming up and drying out with. But the treat I MOST look forward to is “bhutta,” the local word for corn on the cob, against the backdrop of the monsoony sea we are surrounded with in Mumbai.

Bhutta, or “makkaai,” as it is called in Hindi or Marathi respectively, is more than just roasted corn on the cob. It is an icon of the monsoon. And there is a certain urgency in sinking your teeth into a hot cob of corn when the sky is pregnant and grey, threatening to let go of its heavy, watery burden, and when the sea is looking malevolent and angry seems to be readying itself to whip into a frenzy and throw waves taller than skyscrapers at mere mortals.

A bhutta has to be made by a bhuttawalah – a street vendor who comes into the open in the monsoon and is found parked by the roadside, in playgrounds, outside gates of schools and colleges, on beaches and promenades by the sea... just about anywhere he can find a crowd to tempt with the aroma of his delicious charcoal-roasted bhutta, an aroma so enticing that people are drawn to him in spite of themselves.

And he reigns supreme from behind his wooden cart piled high with fresh ears of corn. In the middle of that fortress of corn that separates him from us milling addicts is a small coal stove. He seemingly thumbs his nose at those of us who have the temerity to question his wares by opening the husks of cobs and squeezing a few of the kernels with sharp nails to see how fresh and ripe the corn is. But eating a bhutta is not as straightforward as it sounds. This is an experience, and the perfection of it lies in choosing the right cob – one that is neither too hard to chew nor too tender to get a grip on with the teeth.

Once you have the right cob, you hand it to the bhuttawalah, who will put it on his hot coal stove. Then you stand back and wait as he applies all his skills, dexterously turning the cob, fanning the coals, sending embers dancing into the aromatic air, until an individual black spot blooms on each kernel as he roasts the cob to perfection. And then the perfect aromatic, roasted corn on the cob is ready. But the best is yet to come…the zesty end to the bhutta story. The bhuttawalah will take half of a freshly cut lime dipped into a mixture of hot red chili powder and salt and deftly massage the entire length of cob, coating each tender roasted kernel with the sour-salty-spicy mixture and leaving trails of it in the furrows between the rows.

And just as you are beginning to lose the last threads of your patience, he will hand you the steaming bhutta wrapped in a couple of green corn husks, taking the money you have had ready for ages. And you are so busy juggling the cob whose heat is singeing your fingers through the husk that you almost forget to take your change! And the pleasure of biting into that bhutta is something you need to experience to understand. Really!

Some will attack their bhutta, but I like to eat mine neatly and efficiently using my teeth to pry whole kernels into my mouth without actually biting into them (thereby avoiding getting things stuck in my teeth). But to do this, you first need space above or below a row of kernels to get a grip. And the only easy way to clear the initial space you need (all you need is a few kernels) is to take the first bite! As the cob comes closer to your mouth, its savoury aroma, carried by the steam rising from it, hits your nose, and your mouth waters in anticipation. You get a grip on a few kernels near one end with your teeth, keeping your lips away from the cob – it is still hot, but you cannot wait any longer!

But you have braved the heat and got those first few kernels into your mouth! The rest of your cob is now open to being eaten any way you like! My favourite way is to insert my teeth between the row of kernels immediately above the space I cleared with my first bite (or the row above if I am in the mood for a bigger mouthful) and then with gentle but firm downward pressure, tumble the kernels into my impatient mouth. I will proceed to eat the rest of the cob, one bite at a time, following the flow of the rows of kernels and drawing out the pleasure to the last tender kernels right at the tip of the cob. And when you are done, the feeling of satiation is right up there with that of getting that last bit of marrow from a bone or that elusive bit of sweet flesh from a crab claw! Your lips are aflame from the direct assault of the sour-salty-spicy mixture that was spread on the corn, but your mouth is still savouring the last of the same flavours that have been diluted by the sweet juices of the corn kernels. And as you walk away, the elements let loose behind you – almost as if they were waiting for you to finish so that the first raindrops would land on your lips as if to soothe away the flames.