Rain has a smell. Not the rain itself — the moment just before it. That petrichor that hits you and your body already knows what's coming.
In Mumbai, the monsoon arrives like an announcement. I was in seventh standard, maybe twelve or thirteen, and when the rain hit the windows of our flat my mom would already be moving toward the kitchen. Not because anyone asked. Just because that was what rain meant in our house. Onion pakoras. Dry batter, crispy at the edges, clumped together the way only someone who has made them a hundred times knows how to do. We would sit with chai and eat them hot, straight from the pan, burning our fingers and not caring.
That was Mumbai. We moved to Chennai before tenth standard. Years later I was at Spaces, EA Chambers 2 — the office wing of the Express Avenue Mall Complex in Chennai. I don't remember exactly when. What I remember is the glass window, a cup of chai, and heavy Chennai rain coming down outside. I wasn't eating pakoras that day. I was just remembering them. The chai in my hand, the rain on the glass, and in my head — my mom's kitchen, Mumbai, seventh standard.
What pulled me back was the rain. What the rain pulled me back to was always the pakoras.
When I finally did look for something fried and comforting in Chennai, what I found was not a pakora. It was a bajji. Same instinct, different city, completely different technique.
Mumbai taught me pakoras. Chennai taught me bajji. Both are made for rain. Both belong here.
Two recipes for rain
- 2 large onions, thinly sliced
- 1 cup besan (chickpea flour)
- 1 tsp red chilli powder
- ½ tsp cumin powder
- ¼ tsp turmeric
- ¼ tsp ajwain (carom seeds)
- Salt to taste
- ~2–3 tbsp water — just enough to bring it together
- Oil for deep frying
- Slice the onions thin. Thinner than you think. This is what gives the pakora its texture.
- Salt and rest. Add salt to the onions and mix well. Let them sit for 5 minutes — they will release water.
- Make the dry batter. Add besan, chilli powder, cumin, turmeric, and ajwain directly to the onions. Mix well. The onion's own moisture should bring it together. Add water only one tablespoon at a time if needed. The batter must be dry and clumpy — not smooth, not wet.
- Fry on medium heat. Heat oil in a deep pan. Drop small rough clumps of the mixture in — don't shape them neatly. The rough edges are what get crispy. Fry 3–4 minutes, turning once, until deep golden.
- Drain and eat immediately. Drain on paper towels. Eat with chai and mint chutney.
- 1 raw plantain (vazhakkai), peeled and sliced into thin rounds
- 1 cup besan (chickpea flour)
- ½ tsp red chilli powder
- ¼ tsp turmeric
- Pinch of asafoetida (hing)
- Salt to taste
- ~¾ cup water — enough for a smooth coating batter
- Oil for deep frying
- Slice the plantain. Thin rounds, about 3–4mm thick. Uniform so they cook evenly.
- Make the smooth batter. Combine besan, chilli powder, turmeric, hing, and salt. Add water gradually, whisking until smooth and thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. This is the opposite of pakora batter — smooth and flowing, not clumpy.
- Dip and fry. Heat oil until hot. Dip each plantain slice fully in batter, let excess drip off, and slide gently into the oil. Fry in batches 2–3 minutes each side until golden.
- Drain and serve hot. Serve with coconut chutney or just as they are.
The thing about rain food
There is no technique in either of these recipes that is difficult. The technique is in understanding what makes them different from each other. Pakora is a dry batter — the onion provides the moisture and the besan just holds it together. Bajji is a wet batter — the coating is separate from the vegetable inside. Same chickpea flour. Same basic process. Completely different logic.
Both taste best eaten standing in a kitchen while it is raining outside. This is not optional.