Butter Chicken in Ferozepur : In Jugaad Country
From Amritsar, our plan was to head to Bathinda, the long way around. Item #1 on the agenda was the local train to Khem Karan near the Pakistan border. From there we were to travel by road to Ferozepur (about 40 km as the crow flies) and thence to Bathinda. But before we did any of that, there remained the task of finding breakfast.
We headed out on to the street, only to find it deserted! At 845 in the morning, outside one of the busiest stations in the country one would expect a fair crowd but none of that here. For a second the scene reminded of grainy TV images from the late 80s, when terrorism was at its peak and firings, bomb blasts and curfews ensured that people kept indoors. Mercifully, it wasnāt the case ā perhaps Amritsar too liked to sleep late on Sunday mornings.
After some hunting we did manage to find a hole in the wall, which was selling some kulchas (a kind of bread found in north India) and paneer curry. The paneer curry was about the worst weāve ever had. The paneer was best described as vulcanized rubber and the kulchas were perhaps a few days old. Not wanting to embarrass the owner by throwing up in his shop, we scooted as fast as our queasy stomachs allowed and crossed the road into the station.
We bought ourselves some sickly sweet tea and bought tickets to Khem Karan from a counter manned entirely by pigtailed girls barely out of school. One of them was pretty cute and I tried my best 'Pindu' Punjabi (village dialect) on her. For a second she looked at me with amazement and then probably dismissed me as another one of those NRI types trying to impress her. Heartbroken, I turned around to see Bharath looking as if I had probably conversed in Klingon with the lady. So I had to explain the difference between the various dialects of Punjabi spoken around the various districts including the nuances of some, which when spoken - sound more like a Gatling gun on full chat.
We headed back to the platforms to board our train. The line to Khem Karan curved to the left leaving the lines going towards Atari and onwards to Lahore in Pakistan. We were in the lead coach right behind the driver and chose the emergency window, which allowed us unrestricted view of the bucolic landscape. Snaking out of the city, the train left behind the ubiquitous factories and into the fields that are the real deal.
Being paddy season, you could spot the occasional lady bent over with her sickle transferring the saplings - bringing to mind those famous lines from Wordsworthās āSolitary Reaperā. Every now and then we rumbled over a canal where naked kids could be seen splashing around with the buffaloes, while tiny little stations cropped out of nowhere with romantic names like 'Dukhnawaran', 'Gohlwar Varpal', 'Jandoke' etc
We made friends with the granthi (priest) of a Gurudwara (Sikh temple) who was travelling to Rattoke Gurdwara just before Khem Karan. As we discussed our travel schedule, he grounded them by telling us told us that there was no road connection from Khem Karan to Ferozepur. Khem Karan town is hemmed in the by the mighty Sutlej river and Pakistan on the other. The only road crossing which would allow us to head to Ferozepur was at the Harike Barrage. And the nearest railhead to Harike would be Patti from where we could get a bus to Ferozepur. That meant we had to abandon all plans of heading towards the border.
Patti was also one of the few large towns on this route, boasting of a huge grain market. Walking through the bustling bylanes and the busy bazaar, the two of us were certainly a novelty for the town. Patti also had a large number of shoemakers crafting exquisite examples of the Punjabi Jutti (chappal / slip on). Reaching the bus stand, we had another brainwave and instead of taking a bus, we decided to hire a car and travel to Ferozpur through back country roads.
The Taxi-stand at Patti had the swankiest set of cars available. The moment we approached the stand, hordes of drivers descended on us each tugging us in the direction of their vehicle. It had automatically been assumed that we were NRIs and the only logical place we wanted to go was Delhi Airport. So without asking, sums totalling several thousands were being thrown at us.
Much to their disappointment, we haggled for a Hyundai Santro for 700 rupees and off we were to the beat of the most tubthumping music Punjab could throw at us. The first few kilometers were on the state highway, which led to the famous Harike Barrage over the Sutlej, which is the start point of the famous Indira Gandhi Canal project. A project, which has turned parts of the Thar desert to the south into a verdant patch of green bringing hope and joy to the rain-starved farmers. As we approached the barrage, we spotted pickets manned by CISF to protect the barrage. Busy clicking pictures of the barrage I almost missed the fat board screaming the usual "Photography Strictly Prohibite.d"
Quickly, I hid my camera as our car pulled into the hallowed compound of the famous Ishardham Nanaksar Gurudwara, which is built on the banks of the Sutlej. The Gurudwara is part of the Nanaksar branch of Sikhism and does not fly the traditional Khalsa flag that one normally associates with any Gurudwara. This Ā is a symbol of the sectās apolitical stance. We parked the car and covered our head as is mandatory before entering any Gurudwara. There were hardly any devotees present at that time and we paid are respects in front of the holy Guru Granth Sahib, the holy book of the Sikhs which contains the teachings of Guru Nanak. Apart from the Prasad, which consisted of 'Mishri' (crystallized sugar) we were also treated to a sumptuous 'halwa' prepared in pure Ghee. And by the way, the Pure Ghee in Punjab is what Pure Ghee is, the rest is all clarified butter!
Despite the fact that we make our own Ghee at home from milk that comes from my relative's own dairy farm fresh from the buffalo's udders, the taste and richness of the milk in Punjab has to be tasted to be believed. A week's stay here could give you all the calcium you need for the rest of your lives!! After roaming for a while in the peaceful environs of the Gurudwara we set off again and left the highway and onto a bumpy back country road which cut across a lush paddy field.
The next 15 minutes were a stomach churning ride through buffalo stables and brick kilns. As if that was not enough, we had to contend with buses teetering at Newton defying angles. They hurtled towards us at scary speeds, covering us in a cloud of dust as they passed. Then there were the 'Marutas' also called 'Jugaad' in certain parts. For the uninitiated, these are locally made contraptions fashioned out of an old Jeep chassis fitted with a Greaves diesel engine normally found in tube wells. These are mated to a rudimentary steering & suspension setup and depending on the kind of body you want (designed by the Pininfarinas, Gandinis & Giugiaros of Punjab) - Ā you can choose between a passenger only model, a load only model or a mixed body. It is another matter thought that all 3 body styles can and are used for all 3 duties. If nothing else, the Maruta is a living example of Punjabi ingenuity. At a cost of just 12-15 paise per kilometer, the Maruta can carry 15-20 passengers or nearly 1.5 tonnes of cargo. What else can a farmer want?
Another thing we noticed, or rather did not notice was the presence of oxen for tilling the fields. The image of a pair of bullocks yoked together to a plough is perhaps the most common scene in rural India. Yet, there was no sign of them in Punjab. Perplexed, we asked our driver who told us that almost all of the cultivation in Punjab is now mechanized with tractors and harvesters ruling supreme. "But not everyone would be rich enough to buy a tractor?" we countered. He replied that farming equipment is mostly rented and that it is really hard to come by bullock ploughed fields these days.
Just then, we came across a Tata Sumo running dangerously parallel to a maroon Maruti Esteem bedecked with flowers. As we drew close, we saw a video camera sticking out of the Sumo trying to capture the first journey of a newly wedded bride to her husband's place. The driver of the Sumo was literally drawing circles around the Esteem while both the vehicles were in motion. The cameraman was leaning precariously out of the vehicle trying to capture this epic journey from every angle possible! It took a liberal dose of honking and some choicest Punjabi abuses to get the cavorting pair of vehicles out of the way and we cruised along merrily to the tunes of Surjeet Bindrakhiya and his ilk.
Word here about Punjabi expletives; while cuss words in other languages are direct and to the point, Punjabis don't believe in any such thing. Try pissing off any true blue Punjabi and be prepared for a deluge of invective directed at you, grandpa, the village dog and a whole bunch of relations you never knew existed.
On the other hand Punjab is also full of idyllic scenes for the trainspotter. Lush green fields lined by eucalyptus trees provide a perfect backdrop to the railway lines. Smoky engines bring back memories of the 'Ghar Aaja Pardesi' song from Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge. Following the railway line, we were soon at the outskirts of Ferozpur.
Entering the city, we took a flyover that crossed the line and dropped us in front of Ferozpur Cantt. Station. Getting off, we thanked the driver for such a wonderful ride and began our search for suitable place to eat as our tummies had begun growling. The sultry weather however necessitated the intake of a cold beer before lunch and we hailed an auto and asked him to take us to a place where we could get some food and drink.
Our auto, an ancient Lambretta chassis powered by a hand cranked diesel engine topping out at 600rpm shook violently with every turn of the cranky and 500 meters into the ride we were wondering if we'd be Parkinsons patients by the end of the ride. A few minutes later, the auto halted in front of 'Dharma Hotel', which in fact was the traditional north Indian Halwai (Sweet Shop) with a backroom housing a clump of rickety chairs and benches. A shiny steel counter showcased typical north Indian sweets such as Burfis, Gulab Jumans, Jalebis and some radioactive looking Yellow laddoos! The shop owner, an enormous man with moustaches as wide as his shoulders sat in a dirty white singlet and dhoti boiling milk on a huge tawa. Punjabis love drinking milk, which is slowly boiled for hours over a slightly concave tawa, rather than in a bowl.
Unfortunately that wasn't what we were looking for. We explained to the driver that we wanted to go to a place where we could get some alcohol along with some decent food rather than munch on a burfi!! Instead he pointed to a local liquor shop (country brew) and a shady looking hole in the wall joint serving some weird chicken dishes! Exasperated; we told him to take us to some BIG hotel and after much coaxing we were shuttled to Ferozepur city, past Shaheed Udham Singh Chowk and dropped outside 'Hotel International Beer Bar & Restaurant'. Not having the energy to consider and further options, we paid the autowallah and staggered inside to find ourselves in a dimly lit dining area, which had certainly seen better days. The place was almost empty and even before we had taken our rucksacks off, a couple of Thunderbolts had been ordered for.
For those who have had one, there is nothing quite like Thunderbolt, stronger than most lagers with a near 10% alcohol content, it is surprisingly smooth and a first timer may commit the mistake of having one too many.
After a bottle or two, we ordered that famous Punjabi dish, Butter Chicken. Having eaten nearly 24 million varieties of this dish across the country, I hoped that at least an eatery in Punjab would live up to expectation and produce an example that was true to the original recipe. In a couple a minutes a huge bowl filled to the brim was plonked on the table along with hot tandoori rotis and fresh onions. The already dead chicken didn't stand a chance; it was devoured within minutes along with heaps of delectable curry. The Butter Chicken was by far the best ever I have had in my entire life and you can take my word for it.
The after effects of the lunch soon made their presence felt and even moving an inch required considerable amount of effort and willpower. However, the clock was ticking and our connection to Bathinda was just about to arrive. Slowly we tumbled out into the harsh sunlight after thanking the cook profusely for what was perhaps one of the best meals we had ever had and hailed another Parkinsons inducing auto down which dropped us at the cantonment station a few minutes later.