It was a really hot summer afternoon a decade ago. Jiggs Kalra had been away from the limelight for a few years. He didn't give many interviews, instead chose to be an inspiration for his son Zorawar. Yet, he was the encyclopedia on food. He knew every kabab, every recipe, and every story. And he was more than happy to share them. From the smell of baking naans, to the dainty sheermal and the succulent kababs, Kalra was just the repository dishes and flavours.
He came out a few minutes later in a tiny, snazzy, fast wheelchair. His hair was his signature style and he had plenty to say. I was writing a story on Royal Kitchens of India and dishes that had disappeared, and Kalra had spent decades writing authoritatively, and unpretentiously, always passionately, about food. He loved food, he was interested in it and loved talking about it. During the afternoon I spent with him—still vivid in my mind—Kalra told a fascinating, fantastical legend about the kakori kabab that has been etched in my mind. He was a raconteur par excellence.
“It was like this,'' Jiggs Kalra began recounting the folklore about the kakori kabab. The kakori, a moist mutton soft kabab—has become the perfect go-to roll, with just a hint of mint chutney wrapped in the rumali roti, thinner than a wallet during demonetisation. Now as common as the McChicken burger, there was a time its fame and flavour was limited to a tiny dusty dot on the map of Uttar Pradesh.
Kakori, as Kalra, pointed out, shot into prominence because of the kakori kand or the train robbery. On August 9, 1945, Indian revolutionaries, including Chandrashekhar Azad, Ram Prasad Bismil, and Ashfaqulla Khan, part of the Hindustan Republican Association, looted a train carrying cash. They stole Rs 8,000 and escaped to Lucknow. It is also famous for a sufi shrine. This is where the kabab came in. There was one family who made the kabab, and was the keeper of the recipe. There was nothing for miles, he said. Except this kabab, which had to be tied with a string. And all those who flocked to the shrine, stopped to eat. In Jigg Kalra's 'Classic Cooking of Avadh' with Pushpesh Pant and Raminder Malhotra, he writes that legend has it that kakori kabab was invented to cater to the aged and toothless pilgrims who flocked to the shrine in Kakori kasba.
Kalra, who had heard of this story, apparently, went to find the family. The younger son still made the kababs and wouldn't be persuaded to make them for a festival that Kalra wanted to organise. He wasn't interested in money, Kalra was told. However, Kalra soon found his weakness. Alcohol. He plied him with it. After hours of him sleeping off his high, the kababs were produced for Kalra at the venue where he was holding the festival, he laughed.
Kalra, who became synonymous with Indian cuisine, lived at a time before the world of food exploded and gourmet writing became a thing. He had spent years, listening to stories about cuisines and recipes, travelling across India like a detective followed every lead to finally discover the recipe. He was a celebrity before chefs had stardom. He is responsible for making the galouti kabab, out of the wilderness and establishing it firmly into every Punjabi shaadi menu in winter. The soft melt-in-your-mouth kabab was brought to prominence courtesy Kalra's recipes and later his restaurants. He loved his food. He also loved to talk. He loved to share. With him vanished this incredible memory of magical dishes, of cooks who withheld their recipes and just warm-hearted kartirdari (hospitality). Kudi tu khayegi kya, was his constant refrain during the conversation.