Batata Vada

Back in the eighties, I watched lots of Indian movies. I probably watched about 30 a year, maybe more, until I got married. Then, since my husband didn’t watch them, I didn’t see as many. For the first couple years, the Indian store was a couple of miles away, so when my husband was on call over the weekend, I could rent a flick. But then again, I could also go out with friends, and three hours really is a long time to focus on one story (as opposed to network television, where you could watch four sitcoms and an hour show – well, maybe not over the weekend, but you know what I mean. Sitcoms are great for the scattered mind). I guess the fact that I would rather watch with other people so I wouldn’t dwell on the bad acting or predictable storylines may have factored in as well.

Back then (and probably even still now), the same actors and actresses would star together in the same story with different titles, different outfits, and different songs (all else being pretty much the same). So I have no idea what the name of the movie is, or, for that matter, what it’s about. But what I do remember is a song titled “Batata Vada,” in which the guy and girl are drunk or high (I can’t remember which) and dance around with a giant fried doughball that’s probably five feet in diameter. And I remember one line of the song:
Batata vada, Batata vada
Dil nahin dena thha, dena para.
Which translates roughly to:
Spicy fried potato-filled dough ball (x2)
I didn’t plan to give away my heart, but I had to.
I would say that it loses something in translation, but really, it doesn’t. It makes no sense in Hindi either (at least not to me).

This song has been in my mind all week. And if it would fade, it would return every time I opened the refrigerator, where, on the top shelf, sat a Ziploc bag filled with – yep, you guessed it – batata vada.

Back then, I had no idea what batata vada was. Never had it, never saw it on a menu at an Indian restaurant, nothing. So the song really meant nothing to me. But then I married a Gujarati (someone from the state of Gujarat, India) and learned. My mother-in-law is an excellent cook. And one thing that she makes very well is batata vada. It is, as in the song’s translation, a spicy fried potato-filled dough ball. Boiled potatoes are mashed, mixed with spices, cashews, and raisins, and rolled into small balls. They are then dipped into a batter made of gram flour and spices and fried. With ketchup, they are delicious. My younger son gobbles them up, even when my tongue starts to protest the level of zing (my elder one refuses, saying it’s “too spicy.”).

I am Bihari (from the state of Bihar – which my husband likes to refer to as the Arkansas of India), and while I married into a Gujarati family, and am learning to cook many Gujarati dishes, and can understand most of what my in-laws say in Gujarati, and my closest friends in Cleveland are Gujarati, I am still a Bihari. The Gujarati community of Cleveland knows people as either Gujarati or non-Gujarati (it could just be my husband), lumping all people from the umpteen other states and provinces of India into one. (My husband explains it as being from LA or New York, and everywhere in between.) I have not exactly displayed my Bihari pride, but despite my husband’s insistence, I am not, and never will be, a Gujarati. (So much for a peaceful vacation; he’s going to be pouting about this one all week.)

So what’s the point? I married what seems like the most bull-headedly pro-Gujarati Gujarati in Cleveland, despite growing up in the shadow of their Gujju Pride and well-organized group with fancy dances that won competitions and socialized all on their own, barely aware of the existence of the large non-Gujarati community all around them. I knew all this, and still married in. And love it. And the food.

Batata Vada, Batata Vada
Dil nahin dena thha, dena para.
Spicy fried potato-filled dough ball (x2)
I didn’t plan to give away my heart, but I had to.