It’s May 1981. Three sari-clad women are entrusted with the job of making East Indian bottle masala in my grandma’s backyard. Thump, thump, thump goes the rhythmic beat of three larger-than-life wooden pestles as they pound a mix of chillies – Kashmiri, Bedgi and Madrasi – plus an assortment of 30-odd spices into a fine powder in a humongous conical vessel called an ukli.
My Nana oversees the entire process as my four-year-old self plays hopscotch on the black-and-white checkerboard tiles in her kitchen. The air is redolent with the spicy fragrance of kilos of chillies, spread out on old bedsheets, ready to curl up and dry under Bombay’s blazing sun.
They are masters of their craft, they've been making this masala mix every summer they can remember – just like their mothers and grandmothers before them. Once the chillies and spices are dry roasted, they are pulverised to a fiery red powder. The spice mix is sifted and poured into dozens of old brown beer bottles which have been sterilised and dried for this very purpose. Ergo the name 'bottle masala’.
My Nana then divides and distributes this bounty among her eight children who'll use it to flavour every East Indian dish from and to and for the entire year.
Each extended family has their own version of East Indian bottle masala, but getting an East Indian “aunty” to part with her secret recipe is futile. She will gladly give you a bottle – but will take her recipe to the grave!
This spice blend can power a pork vindaloo.
If you’re thinking “East Indians, who are they?”, let me give you an abridged history lesson. Firstly, no, we do not hail from the east coast of India. In fact, we are some of the original inhabitants of Bombay (now Mumbai). Time travel , when Bombay (meaning “good bay”) was colonised by the Portuguese. for their roaring spice trade and “rewarded” the local upper-caste Hindus with Christianity and a side serve of last names like Alves, Pereira, Fernandes and Rodrigues. It was evident that they had every intention of monopolising the spice trade within India.
Once the British arrived, the Portuguese handed over the seven swampy islands of Bombay to them as dowry for the marriage between . The Bombay Catholics, who were farmers and fisherfolk, then learnt English and in the ’s growing network of railways and steamships. The name ‘East Indians’ stuck and the rest, as they say, is history.
But getting back to my story. As an East Indian born and bred in Mumbai, I didn’t give my heritage a second thought; it was in every fibre of my being without even realising it. It was in the way I got a convent education (those strict nuns!); in the way we dressed in “Westernised” clothes; in the way we spoke English as our first language; and in the way we had Anglo names instead of Indian ones.
They are masters of their craft, they've been making this masala mix every summer they can remember – just like their mothers and grandmothers before them.
But mostly it was in the food. While my Hindu friends were mainly vegetarian and definitely didn’t eat beef, and my Muslim mates considered pork and alcohol to be off limits, my community of East Indian Catholics ate and drank everything long before ‘nose-to-tail dining’ was a thing. Our calendar was marked not so much by the months but by upcoming feasts – Easter, Bandra Feast, and, of course, Christmas. And where there were feasts, there was food: a bounty of East Indian dishes all on a sliding scale of spicy; all finger-licking delicious, all made with – you guessed it – bottle masala.
After years of being apart thanks to COVID, my parents in Mumbai are getting ready to visit us in Sydney this Christmas. There’s one thing that’s on the top of my list for them to bring me. Any guesses?
Spice world
Pork vindaloo (goan banquet)
