Barhara, Bihar, India – 1867

At the end of the village, just past the sweeping steps of the ghat, flows the Ganges. The holy Ganges. The purifying Ganges. The mother Ganga. Ever changing. Ever the same. Shimmering watery portal between heaven and earth.

Nearby, its waters are replenished by the mighty Ghaghara, whose own origins lie high up on the Tibetan plateau. On monsoon days such as this, the river runs perilously high.

The villagers look on, surveying the surge with a wary vigilance, monitoring its ceaseless flow, anxiously rolling and twisting prayer beads between their restless fingers.

They place their faith and hope in the twin guardians of the riverbank: one of the earth, the other of the heavens.

The first, a colossal banyan tree that’s been standing there since time immemorial, its age a testament to longevity and survival. In its sturdy trunk, the villagers see a wizened and steadfast sentinel, whose splayed roots and branches shield them from the rising waters.

Further on lies the second, a shrine to Lakshmi, deity and nurturer of the sprawling wheat fields that have sustained the village for centuries. On days when the waters swell high, you can find assorted piles of puja offerings planted at the goddess’s feet: golden sheaves of wheat and ripe purple aubergine.

The boy enters the shrine. Mounds of produce copiously carpet the floor, so much so that there’s barely space where he can lay his own offerings down. He picks his way carefully between the piles, eventually finding a tiny patch to place his sheaves. He whispers a few incantations, then turns round and makes his way out into the downpour.

Rain lashes down in curtains of water that appear to hang in the sky, as though Mother Ganga herself is retracing her watery descent from the heavens.

He bursts through the door, mud splattered across his shins, and flings the empty damp basket onto the stone floor, close to where his mother, grandmother, and sisters all sit cross-legged, themselves caked in atta flour as they knead dough for the roti.

‘Careful, boy!’ scolds his grandmother, before offering a more searching look.

‘Still high,’ he says, as if reading their thoughts.

‘It’s always worse on the full moon,’ mutters his grandmother. ‘Better that we devote ourselves to the dal puri, than fret about what may or may not come…’

The family continue to work the dough, throwing in some aromatic ajwain, nigella seeds, and salt, before slicing them up and rolling them into little balls.

Round and round between their palms, the dough is cradled and caressed, formed and reformed, until spherical perfection is broken by an impromptu finger pressed into its doughy centre, like the belly-button of the Buddha himself. Into this little hollow, the dal is spooned, before a twist of the fingers closes up the rim, encasing the filling in its little pouch.

One of the daughters gathers them up and transfers them to a counter, where she proceeds to pound them out into neat little discs, before repeatedly rolling and rotating them until suitably flat and symmetrical.

She lights the firewood under the chulha, and heats up a splash of oil in the karahi, swirling it round and round until wisps of smoke rise up and drift away like momentary ghosts.

The roti is then lowered in one by one, each greeted by a ferocious sizzling, a crescendo of tiny bubbles and beads of oil that fizz out like firecrackers. She flips them over, and another wave of cackling and spitting bursts forth from the pan.

Before long, she’s spooning them out, and the comforting aroma of frying dough fills up the home.

Suddenly, these ancient rhythms are punctuated by an abrupt call outside the door. The family look around at each other, wondering who could be about on a day such as this.

‘Go on then,’ snaps the grandmother to the boy. ‘See who it is.’

Out the boy dutifully steps, and shortly ushers in a tall smartly-dressed man, well-groomed with a sharply-manicured moustache, surprisingly unruffled despite the deluge outside.

‘Greetings to you on this wettest of days!’ he calls out amiably. ‘I am sorry to disturb you. I have come all the way from Patna, and if it’s not too much trouble, I would be grateful for a moment of your time…’

 

*

 

India Office, Whitehall, London – 1867

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk… The lonely footsteps echo metronomically along the sweeping corridor, halting abruptly at a solid oak door. There’s a knock, and an invitation to enter. The steps tentatively resume, before being promptly smothered by a carpet of deep burgundy.

‘Well come on in. Don’t dawdle!’ the superior bellows, beckoning him with a faint wave of his fingers.

The junior closes the door behind him and gingerly proceeds to an imposing desk, on which he places a neat bundle of papers.

‘S-sir, the latest report on the recruitment for Trinidad,’ he announces a little tremulously. ‘I think you’ll find everything in order this time.’

‘Well I jolly well hope so!’ barks the superior. ‘Last month was an absolute debacle. Imagine the governor of Trinidad’s face when he found out you’d inadvertently sent his boat to bloody Guiana!’

‘Erm, yes sir. V-very sorry again for that..”

‘Yes, well… It could be worse, I suppose. Never liked that governor much, myself. Far too full of himself… Still, better get those coolies to him as promised. Those sugar canes aren’t going to pick themselves, you know.’

‘Erm, yes sir, most definitely sir,’ the junior nods obsequiously.

‘Those plantation owners really are a surly lot,’ continues the superior. ‘Still harping on about their halcyon days when African slaves worked the fields – but that was over a generation ago! At least with these Indians, they’ve got people who actually want to do the damned work. And for barely a penny at that!’

‘Yes, sir. Very true, sir.’

‘Look at that recruiter of yours in Patna,’ points out the superior. ‘Very dependable fellow, isn’t he? Always meets his targets. Sends over the most reliable sort too. No dissenters. Hardy types.’

‘Yes, sir. His recruits do seem to get through the voyage in fairly good nick, sir. Of course, there’s always a few who, er, don’t quite…’

‘Yes well,’ interrupts the superior. ‘At least my new incentive scheme for the ships’ captains seems to be paying dividends.’

‘Yes sir, one rupee for each Indian that survives the journey, and ten rupees if they manage to get the whole lot over in one piece,’ the junior recounts with an air of satisfaction, recollecting how it was his idea that had been taken up by the superior and presented at the departmental meeting, where it had gone down a triumph.

‘And if I can add sir, the rate of mortality has indeed tailed off considerably – from seventeen percent a decade ago to now only half that.’

‘As I expected, thanks to my scheme. Of course it does help we’re giving them a bit more sustenance for the journey. One doesn’t want them to waste away before they’ve even arrived!’

‘No, sir. The new food allowances are all here on this latest chart, sir. If I may…’ At this, the junior rifles through the papers and plucks one out from the middle, as a conjurer might a card. He points a finger and drags it down a list of numbers. ‘As you can see sir, for each recruit we’ve allocated a daily ration of twenty ounces of rice, one of salt, four of dal…’

‘Dal?..’

‘Oh, curried lentils, sir.’

‘Of course, good thinking! I’m sure they’d like that,’ agrees the superior, before eyeing up some of the other charts and tables. ‘We still have the issue of keeping the coolies out in Trinidad once the tenure’s up. I know we technically offer them a return voyage and all that, but we don’t really want them popping back up in India like a bunch of badgers do we?’

‘No, sir. Better to keep them out there on the plantations. But, permit me just a moment, sir. There is one thing you could possibly consider,’ the junior replies, feeling rather more emboldened.

‘Well? Out with it!’

‘What if one were to recruit more women, sir?’

‘Women?‘

‘Er yes, women, sir. I’m sure it’d help the labourers out there, settle them down a bit, you know. And in the meantime, the women might also take up some work on the estates too – at a lower rate, of course.’

‘Hmm…’ replies the superior, his eyebrows knitted into a pensive frown. ‘Yes, I’m sure there’s always a need for cooks, I suppose…’

‘And maids and seamstresses…’ the junior pipes up.

‘Yes, quite,’ replies the superior. ‘The hardier ones might even work the fields too, you never know. How many women are you suggesting exactly?’

‘Well sir, for each boat, one could set a minimum of 40 women for every 100 men?’

‘Sounds reasonable. And how many more boats can we get over to Trinidad this year?’

‘Well sir, we’ve got two more due from Kiddepore docks before the monsoon’s end – The True Briton and The George Seymour. Each boat carrying up to 354 recruits. After that, we’ll need to wait a while, from Calcutta anyway. The boats can only launch in the monsoon season, when the Hooghly runs high.’

‘Of course.’ The superior proceeds to flick through a few more figures, before setting the bundle back down. ‘Right then, off you go then. Keep me informed!’

‘Thank you, sir.’

 

*

 

Lothians Estate, Savanna Grande, Trinidad – 1873

‘Oh Ma, what would you think if you could see me now..?”

The young woman kneels before a little murti of the goddess Lakshmi. A single candle burns beside the statue’s feet, kindling memories from long ago.

In the flame she sees her old village temple beside the Ganges. She fondly recalls the times when she and her sisters would drape garlands of golden marigolds around the murti, and delight in how the incense suffused the air with the sweet scents of cinnamon and rose.

How far away that all seems now: if only she could see her family again, even just for a day.

She starts to lose herself in her whispers, wishing that the winds would somehow carry the words all the way home.

‘I still remember the day I left, Ma. Your face, our tears, the embraces goodbye…’

A flurry of images from the journey then flash before her eyes – a kaleidoscope of details, trivial even, and yet so remarkably vivid:

The smoky, pungent smells of carp frying in mustard oil, wafting from the kitchens of the indenture depot in Calcutta, where she waited for weeks on end in trepidation of the journey ahead.

The salt etched into the fine grooves of wooden decking, repeatedly assaulted by wild surges of stormy overspill.

Flocks of brightly coloured birds swooping over this land, as it jutted abruptly out of the waves.

She recollects her distinct amazement and relief on seeing the island, especially after such endless weeks of water and infinite oppressive skies. It was as though Hanuman himself had stolen a mountain-top and mischievously dropped it into the sea.

‘I still remember how strange it was when we arrived here, Ma. All these different people. Not just Indians, but white people, black people, Chinese.

‘Stepping onto the plantation for the first time, entering the women’s barracks, knowing it was going to be my home for the next five years. A home without you or any of my family, but filled instead with these unknown faces staring back at me.

‘How things have changed since then, Ma. Those faces are now my closest friends. We’ve been through so much together – setting up life in this new world, working long days in the fields, spending our nights singing and chatting by candlelight.

‘Life is tough here, Ma. And I don’t know where I’d be without their friendship. But I do know I’m one of the lucky ones. I still hear such awful stories from the new jiharis: some are tricked into getting onto the boats, others practically forced to leave their homes. And when they get here, things just get even worse.

‘Managers and overseers often beat them till they black out, or take their leave passes from them for weeks on end. I couldn’t bear to be confined like that, missing out on the Sunday strolls in the warm sea breeze. How precious those moments of free time are.

‘I’m lucky our estate is not that bad: Mr Darling, the manager, seems to be one of the better ones. He pays us on time, and recognises the extra work that we do. I’ve done so much weeding though, my fingers are starting to look like bhindi!

‘But I do like having a bit more money in my pocket: the choices it gives me when I visit the market, or pop into one of the Chinese shops in town.

‘And yes, we still make the dhal puri on the full moon. In fact not just then, but at other times too – festivals, parties, any gatherings really.

‘Dhal puri is quite different here though. The flour isn’t brown, it’s white. And we add in this powder, which makes the roti so light and fluffy.

‘Meanwhile the split peas are cooked with garlic, curry leaves, roasted jeera, and also a herb called chadon beni, which is a bit like coriander. We then leave the dhal a little crunchy before grinding it up and spooning it inside the dough. After that, we cook it flat on the tawa, instead of frying it in a karahi.

‘Don’t frown, Ma! I can imagine what you’re thinking. Honestly, they’re really rather good. So soft and comforting. Even if the little sprinkles of dhal do tumble out and get everywhere!

‘I also love how we all come together to make it, all of us women gathered around these long tables just outside the barracks. It gets hot when the sun beats down, but there’s such a lively atmosphere, it hardly seems to matter. I think you’d like it, Ma. It reminds me of when we used to make it at home…’

At this, she suddenly recollects sitting cross-legged on a hard stone floor, monsoon rains hammering against the roof, kneading a little ball of dough round and round in her hands.

She feels her eyes start to well, and before long, tears are trickling down her cheeks in cool meandering threads. She puts a calloused hand on her swollen belly.

‘I-I still miss home, you know. I think of you all the time. And even though I know it’s a bit silly speaking to you like this, it does help me feel closer to you.

‘But things are different for me now, Ma, with the baby… and Caleb. He’s a good man, you know. A kind man. He’s got a good job, a driver on the estate. It’s not easy being a black man on the plantation. But he works hard, Ma, and one day he’ll be an overseer, I’m sure of it.

‘Anyway, Ma, what I really want to tell you is that they’ve offered us some land, five acres in all. Enough to build a home, grow some crops, raise a family.

‘But it means giving up my return voyage. Giving up on coming back to Barhara. Giving up on ever being with you and the family again.

‘What am I supposed to do, Ma? It feels like I’m being asked to choose between my right and left hands. Between the past and the present.

‘And when I think about it, life was hard in Barhara too, you know. We weren’t free there really, not truly.

‘I can’t forget the voyage either, how awful it was. How many times I thought I’d die. The relief on reaching land. How can I take that risk again? I can’t, especially not with the baby. And it would mean leaving Caleb too. How can I split up our new family? I don’t think I can go through all that pain again.

‘I don’t know what to do, Ma. I’m so torn… but I think it might be best to stay here. For Caleb and I to see what we can do with our lives, to make the very best of things for our child.

‘I can’t believe I am choosing to be away from you, and I know how upsetting this will be for you too. You will still be in my heart though, and there’ll always be a piece of Barhara in our child’s heart too. I’ll make sure of that.

‘Maybe one day, it’ll be possible to get a message out to you, and then you’ll know for sure that I’m okay. That our family continues. And I hope you’ll understand why I can’t come back. And perhaps, somehow, you will forgive me too. I’m so sorry, Ma. I will always love you. Always and forever…‘

At that, the young woman gently kisses her thumb and fingertip, moistening them slightly before reaching down and pinching out the flame. She then slowly clambers up off the floor, and steps out into the light of the midday sun.

 

*

 

A Few Words…

Dhal puri roti is not my dish; its story is not my story. I’m not Trinidadian, nor Indian. I’ve never even been to the Caribbean.

But it is a story I felt compelled to learn and write about, ever since I visited such wonderful outposts of Trinidadian cuisine as Clapham’s Roti Joupa and Brixton’s Fish, Wings & Tings.

It was the moment when yellow sprinkles of powdered dhal tumbled out of torn roti that made me think, ‘okay, I did not expect that!’, and I was immediately curious to find out more.

So I scoured the literature for everything dal puri roti, and spoke to chefs and a friend from Trinidad. It soon became clear that one cannot separate out the story of dhal puri roti from the murky history of indentureship, so entwined are their stories.

To my shame, I’d never actually heard of the term ‘indentureship’ before – this Victorian-era system by which various colonial powers, and particularly the British, recruited, transported and exploited cheap labour from all around the world.

This may well reflect my own ignorance on the matter, but it also points to the wider lack of discourse on colonialism in our society, as well as its neglect in school curricula. Yet indentureship reshaped much of the 19th century world, involving a mass shifting of populations, and a legacy that continues to exert its impact in many countries today.

From India alone, for over the best part of a century, two million men, women and children were dispersed around the globe: from Guyana to Kenya, from Fiji to Mauritius.

In the Caribbean, they effectively took up the downed tools of the emancipated African slaves, and laboured on farms and fields for cotton, cane or cocoa, or whatever commodities were still needed to satiate the appetite of the colonial powers.

The British were very much the key players in this system. They organised everything to a tee, developing a highly systematised production line of mass migration, with everything tightly controlled down to the very last lentil on each and every ship. (The details in the civil servants’ dialogue above are based on actual documented data and protocols.)

Later on, limited attempts were made to prevent people being coerced into indentureship, with recruits having to satisfy a local magistrate that they were signing up willingly. There were also measures to try and improve conditions on the sea voyages, and to bar any estate with an excessive mortality rate.

Still, abuses were rife. After all, in replacing slavery, indentureship borrowed some of its key facets – the mass transportation of people for labour, the binding of oneself to a master, the restrictions on freedom, and the frequent and inhumane mistreatment of workers.

The system did admittedly bring opportunities for some recruits. Ultimately though, there was always an overarching power imbalance between master and labourer, between colonial powers and colonised nations, which meant that exploitation was pretty much inevitable.

 

*

 

Also inevitable was how the distribution of people to all four corners of the globe led to a mixing of food cultures. At first, respective immigrant communities would inevitably adhere to their heritage cuisine, dishes that offered a reassuring sense of identity and continuity in an ever-changing and often inhospitable world.

But on the edges, and over time, as people mixed and assimilated, and with exposure to new produce and ingredients, dishes would invariably evolve.

In dhal puri roti, what was an Indian dish became Trinidadian. And from Trinidad, out to places like London, Toronto and Los Angeles, as the dish was brought by diaspora communities of the Windrush generation and beyond.

Rather than just a dish for celebrations, it also developed into a popular street food, with roti shops commonplace all over Trinidad.

And in London, Roti Joupa is one such incarnation. Stepping in and you’re immediately greeted by a mural of azure waves lapping a crescent palm-fringed beach – an evocative memento of the mother country.

Meanwhile a banner of illuminated turquoise stretches over the open kitchen, displaying an illustrated menu of Trini specialties: doubles, pholourie, bussup shot, and a stupendously rich macaroni pie smothered in tamarind sauce.

But it’s the unassuming dhal puri roti that captivates me most – particularly satisfying when scooping up tender morsels of curried goat, and where the dry earthy filling is a perfect foil for that deeply rich gravy.

Yet weaved into its doughy fabric isn’t just a sprinkling of split-peas, but a story of migration and colonialism, of courage and adaptation. A story of Trinidad.

 

*

 

Acknowledgements

Firstly a sincere thanks to Trinidadian video-artist Professor Richard Fung, for kindly sharing with me his fascinating documentary, Dal Puri Diaspora. It’s a real labour of love, and a very singular endeavour, as Richard travels around Trinidad and Bihar in India, exploring the history of the dish, and interviewing historians and academics, chefs and homecooks. It became a real inspiration for me when writing this piece.

Also wonderful is the book, We Mark Your Memory – a collective of stories and poems by various writers, many Trinidadian, all descendants of indentured labourers, and reflecting on indentureship as experienced by their ancestors.

A big thanks too to Robin of Roti Joupa, and Brian of Fish, Wings and Tings for offering their time to discuss dhal puri roti. And to my Trini friend Melissa, as well as Shikha and her mum, for kindly reviewing drafts of this piece.

For more reflections on colonialism, including the issue of provenance of (food-related) objects in The British Museum, feel free to check out my previous piece, A Brief History of Food in 5 Objects.

 

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Dhal Puri Roti at Roti Joupa

dhal puri roti

dhal puri roti

dhal puri roti

dhal puri roti

dhal puri roti

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