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WhatToEat.Today

Vegan Indian recipes

Indian dishes with no dairy, ghee, eggs or meat. (681 recipes)

Keri no murabboSweet raw mango preserve

In Gujarat, when the summer stock of pickles goes up in May, murabbo is the gentle, sweet one that children are allowed to dip into freely. Pieces of firm raw mango (rajapuri or totapuri) are cooked slowly in sugar syrup until they turn translucent and glossy, then scented with saffron and cardamom. Unlike chhundo, which is grated and spiked with chilli, murabbo keeps the mango in distinct, tender-firm pieces in a clear, golden syrup; it tastes like candied fruit with a sour edge. Spread it on a warm thepla or rotli, serve it with khakhra at breakfast, or spoon a little beside a Gujarati thali. The common mistake is boiling the mango hard in the syrup, which breaks the pieces and clouds it; keep it at a gentle simmer. It is ready when the pieces look see-through at the edges and the syrup reaches one-string consistency (a cooled drop stretches into a single thread between finger and thumb). With this much sugar it keeps 6 months in a cool cupboard in a sterilised, dry jar, or longer in the fridge. Chef's tip: soak the cut mango in lightly salted water for 10 minutes first; it firms the pieces and stops browning.

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Chana methi nu athanuChickpea and fenugreek pickle

This is the thrifty, protein-rich pickle of Kathiawad and the Gujarati countryside, made in the May pickle season alongside methia keri. Brown chickpeas and fenugreek seeds are soaked until plump, then mixed with salted raw mango, split mustard, chilli and hing and sealed under oil. Over a few days the chana and methi drink up the sour mango juice and soften to a pleasant bite; the methi seeds lose most of their bitterness and turn nutty. The pickle is sour, hot and pungent, with plenty of crunch. A spoonful brightens khichdi-kadhi, bajra rotla or a plain dal-bhaat-shaak lunch. The common mistake is mixing in chickpeas that are still wet after soaking: dry them on a cloth for a few hours or the pickle will turn mouldy. It is ready in 4–5 days, when the chickpeas can be bitten through easily and taste sour all the way in. Because soaked pulses are low in acid, keep this one in the fridge once it is mixed, where it lasts up to 3 months, with the oil always covering the top. Chef's tip: use kala chana (small brown chickpeas); they stay firmer than large white ones.

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Gajar marcha nu athanuCarrot and chilli pickle

Every Gujarati thali, from Ahmedabad homes to Surat lunch houses, has a little bowl of something fresh and sharp to cut through the dal, kadhi and sweet shaak, and in the cold months it is very often this instant carrot and chilli athanu. Winter brings the sweet, deep red desi carrots and fat, mild bhavnagri chillies, and the pickle is mixed in ten minutes: sticks of both coated in split mustard seed, turmeric, hing, salt and lemon, then dressed with warm oil. It is crunchy, juicy and bright, with the nose-tingling pungency of rai kuria and a clean lemon tang. Eat it with rotli, thepla, khichdi or a full thali. The common mistake is pouring smoking-hot oil straight on, which cooks the mustard and makes it bitter; let the oil cool until just warm. It is ready when the mustard has softened and the carrots look glossy, about an hour after mixing, though it is good straight away. With fresh chilli and no long cure, keep it in the fridge and eat within a week. Chef's tip: if bhavnagri chillies are hard to find, use a mix of mild long green peppers and a couple of hot green chillies.

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Kerda nu athanuDesert berry pickle

Ker is a leafless desert shrub that grows wild across Kutch and the Thar, and in April and May, before the monsoon, it is covered in small green berries that families pick by hand. Fresh ker are fiercely bitter, so they are soaked and boiled until the bitterness fades, then pickled with split mustard, split fenugreek, chilli and lemon juice and covered in oil. The berries are firm, pea-sized and slightly chewy, with a sour, earthy, caper-like flavour under the mustard heat. In Kutch the pickle goes with bajra rotlo and buttermilk, or is mixed into khichdi; across Rajasthan the same berries go into ker sangri. The common mistake is rushing the soaking: if the water is not changed several times the pickle stays harsh. Taste a berry: it should be pleasantly sour-bitter, like an olive, not acrid. It is ready to eat after 3–4 days, once the berries have absorbed the lemon. Boiled ker are low in acid, so the lemon matters and the pickle lives in the fridge, where it keeps up to 2 months. Abroad, use dried ker from Indian grocers (they swell back well), or, at a pinch, capers soaked to remove the salt. Chef's tip: add a few cubes of raw mango in season for extra sourness.

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Tindora nu athanuIvy gourd pickle

In Gujarati homes from Surat to Rajkot, tindora nu athanu is the pickle you make on a Tuesday for the rest of the week, not the big summer jar. Thin sticks of tindora (ivy gourd) are tossed with rai na kuria (split mustard seed), salt, turmeric, a pinch of hing and lemon juice, then dressed with warm oil. By the next lunch the mustard has bloomed into a nose-tingling heat, the lemon has softened the raw edge and the sticks are still crunchy, a sharp counterpoint to dal-bhaat, khichdi or a plate of thepla. Choose firm, bright green tindora; once they turn red inside they go soft and seedy. Common mistake: pouring smoking-hot oil straight onto the kuria, which scorches it bitter; let the oil cool until just warm. It is ready when the sticks look slightly glossy and darker and a few drops of juice gather in the jar. Because it is fresh vegetable with little salt, it lives in the fridge and is best eaten within 7 days; throw it out if it smells rotten, turns slimy or grows any mould. Chef's tip: no kuria? Pound yellow mustard seeds coarsely in a mortar; you want cracked halves, not powder.

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Karonde ka acharKaronda berry pickle

When the thorny karonda bushes along Punjab and Rajasthan field edges fruit in July and August, the small green berries with rosy cheeks end up in jars of karonde ka achar. The fruit is very sour and slightly bitter-milky when raw, so it suits a bold mustard-oil pickle: halved berries and slit green chillies are salted, dried for a day, then tossed with crushed fennel, nigella, fenugreek and mustard. After a week the berries turn soft and sour-tangy, the chillies mellow, and the oil smells of saunf. Eat it with paratha, moong dal khichdi or a plain bowl of curd rice. Karonda is hard to find abroad; firm fresh cranberries are the closest substitute in sourness and size. Common mistake: skipping the drying day; wet fruit thins the oil and invites mould. It is ready when the berries yield to the teeth and the spice coat has darkened. Because it holds fresh green chillies under oil, keep this jar in the fridge for up to 2 months, berries always under oil, dry spoon every time; discard if you see mould, fizzing or an off smell. Chef's tip: wear gloves when halving karonda, the white latex is sticky and stains fingers.

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Kathal ka acharJackfruit pickle

In Lucknow, Kanpur and across Punjab, the hard green jackfruit that arrives in spring and early summer is cooked like meat in kathal ki sabzi, and the rest goes into a jar of kathal ka achar. The chunks are boiled until just tender, dried, then coated in a fierce mix of mustard oil, fennel, nigella, fenugreek and red chilli, sharpened with vinegar and dry mango powder. The texture is the surprise: firm, fibrous and almost meaty, soaking up spice like a sponge. It goes with puri-aloo at a Sunday breakfast or alongside rajma-chawal. Boiled jackfruit is a low-acid vegetable, so this version is deliberately acidified and lives in the fridge. Common mistake: boiling the jackfruit soft; it then breaks into mush in the jar. Stop when a knife meets slight resistance at the core. It is ready after 3 days, when the chunks have turned tawny all the way through and taste sour, not bland. Keep in the fridge for up to 1 month, under oil, with a dry spoon; discard if mould, fizzing, sliminess or a sour-rotten smell appear. Chef's tip: rub your knife and hands with oil before cutting raw jackfruit, or the sticky sap glues everything.

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Adrak ka acharGinger pickle

Walk into a Punjabi dhaba in winter and there is often a steel bowl of ginger matchsticks soaking in lemon juice beside the onion rings. Adrak ka achar is the simplest pickle of all: tender ginger, green chilli, salt and lemon, nothing cooked. Young ginger with thin, pinkish skin reacts with the acid and turns a pretty pale pink within a day; older ginger stays yellow but tastes just as good. The flavour is clean, hot and sour, with crunch, and a forkful cuts the richness of sarson ka saag, makki ki roti, chole bhature or a heavy dal makhani. Common mistake: cutting the ginger thick or using fibrous old roots, which stay woody and harsh; slice thin enough to see light through. It is ready when the ginger has softened slightly, the juice tastes less sharp and the slices have taken colour. Fresh ginger in lemon juice keeps in the fridge for up to 2 weeks; discard it if mould appears, the juice turns slimy or the smell turns from fresh-sour to musty. Chef's tip: a pinch of black salt (kala namak) added at the end gives it that dhaba-style sulphurous edge.

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Nadru acharLotus stem pickle

On the lakes around Srinagar, lotus stems are pulled up through the late autumn into winter and sold in muddy bundles at the floating market on Dal Lake. Kashmiri Pandit and Muslim households alike turn some of the harvest into nadru achar, a winter pickle eaten with rice, haakh (collard greens) and nadru yakhni when fresh vegetables are scarce. Thin slices are blanched, dried and dressed with mustard oil, ground fennel, sonth (dry ginger), deep-red Kashmiri chilli and vinegar. The result is crunchy rather than soft, earthy and lacy, with a warm, slightly smoky heat. Common mistake: not washing the hollow channels; mud hides inside, so rinse every slice under running water. Lotus stem grows in lake water and must always be cooked before pickling; never pickle it raw. It is ready when the slices have taken the red colour right into the holes and taste sour through, about 2 days. Keep it in the fridge for up to 1 month, under oil, with a dry spoon; discard if you see mould, fizzing or slime, or smell anything rotten. Chef's tip: buy stems that are pale cream and closed at both ends; open ends let mud in.

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Lingad ka acharFiddlehead fern pickle

In Kullu, Mandi and Kangra, the monsoon brings lingad, the curled young shoots of the vegetable fern that grows along streams and terrace edges. Villagers pick them in the morning and sell them by the bundle; what is not stir-fried with potato goes into a small jar of pickle to stretch the short season. The shoots are blanched, dressed with mustard oil, crushed mustard seed, red chilli and lemon, and the result is green, crisp and faintly like asparagus with a nutty mustard heat. It is eaten with siddu, rice and madra, or simply with a hot roti. Outside the Himalaya, use ostrich fern fiddleheads, which appear in spring in North America and Europe. Fern shoots must always be cooked; raw or undercooked fiddleheads can upset the stomach badly. Common mistake: only flash-blanching them; boil for the full time. It is ready after a night in the fridge, when the coils have dulled to olive and taste tangy. Keep it in the fridge for up to 10 days; discard if you see mould, slime or smell anything off. Chef's tip: rub off the brown papery scales between your palms under running water before you weigh them.

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MiscutRaw mango pickle

Before the monsoon breaks over Goa in late May, the first small, tender mangoes are knocked from the trees in Salcete and Bardez villages and cut for miscut, the pickle Goan Catholic families keep for the rainy months when fishing stops and the table relies on rice, curry and preserves. Unlike Gujarati pickles, miscut leans on toddy or cane vinegar: the mango is salted overnight, then folded into a paste of Kashmiri chilli, mustard, fenugreek, turmeric, garlic and ginger ground in vinegar, and finished with oil. It is sour, hot and garlicky, the mango still crisp, and a spoonful brightens a plate of red rice and dried-fish curry or a simple pez (rice gruel). Common mistake: grinding the masala in water; it must be vinegar only, or the pickle spoils. It is ready after 4–5 days, when the vinegar has soaked into the mango and the raw-garlic bite has gone. Because it contains fresh garlic and ginger, keep it in the fridge for up to 3 months, always covered by liquid, dry spoon each time; discard if you see mould, fizzing, sliminess or smell anything off. Chef's tip: use mangoes whose stones have not yet hardened so you can slice straight through.

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Chinese bhelCrispy noodle bhel

Mumbai's Indo-Chinese carts, parked outside colleges in Dadar and Matunga from late afternoon, sell this street invention that borrows the idea of bhel and swaps the puffed rice for golden fried noodles. Raw shredded cabbage, carrot and capsicum are thrown in with Schezwan sauce, ketchup, a dash of soy and vinegar, and tossed so fast the noodles still crackle when you eat them. Chef's tip: dry the boiled noodles thoroughly on a tray before frying; wet noodles spit and fry up chewy rather than crisp.

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Bhel puri

On Girgaum and Juhu Chowpatty the bhelwalas set up as the sun drops into the Arabian Sea, and bhel puri is what Mumbai eats while it walks along the sand. Puffed rice, crushed flat puris and boiled potato are tossed in a steel bowl with sweet tamarind and fiery green chutneys, then buried under fine sev and handed over in a folded paper cone with a puri for a spoon. It is crunchy, sweet, sour and hot all at once, and it has to be eaten within minutes. Chef's tip: lay out every component before you start, because the mixing takes thirty seconds and the crunch only lasts about five minutes.

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ChurmurCrushed puchka chaat

When you have eaten your fill of puchka at the stalls in Vivekananda Park or outside Gariahat market in the evening, the puchkawala will make you a churmur: the same crisp shells crushed into the same spicy potato filling with tamarind water, onion and coriander, served in a leaf bowl. It is part chaat, part crunchy salad, and puckeringly sour. Chef's tip: crush the shells into big shards, not crumbs, and fold them in last so some stay crisp.

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Club kachoriSmall spiced kachoris

In the narrow lanes of Burrabazar and Bowbazar, sweet shops start frying club kachori before eight in the morning for traders and office-goers, who eat four or five standing up with a ladle of thin, gingery potato curry poured into a sal-leaf bowl. The kachoris are small and puffed like balloons, with a thin layer of peppery ground urad dal inside the crust. Chef's tip: soak the dal ahead (from the night before is easiest) and grind it with almost no water, so the paste is thick enough to roll without breaking through.

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Lebu chaBlack tea with lime

Along College Street and around Esplanade, the tea sellers who pour lebu cha into little unglazed clay cups (bhaar) are the fuel of Kolkata's famous evening adda, the long arguments over books and football. It is weak black tea, sweetened, sharpened with fresh lime and finished with a pinch of sulphurous black salt and roasted cumin, so it tastes sweet, sour and faintly savoury. It is drunk hot in every season and the cup is thrown away. Chef's tip: steep the tea briefly; long-brewed tea plus lime turns harsh and astringent.

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Kulle chaatStuffed cucumber chaat

Kulle chaat comes from the lanes of Chandni Chowk around Chawri Bazar, where a couple of old stalls carve fruit and vegetables into little cups and fill them with chickpeas, pomegranate and lime. It is the cooling chaat of Delhi's scorching summer afternoons: no frying, no yoghurt, just juicy, crunchy cups dusted with chaat masala and black salt. Children love picking them up whole. Chef's tip: season the inside of each empty cup with lime and chaat masala before filling, so every bite is tangy right through.

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Moong dal pakodeMoong dal fritters

When the monsoon breaks over Delhi, the pakora stalls of Lajpat Nagar and the lanes off Chandni Chowk do their best trade, and moong dal pakode are the favourite: light, airy balls of soaked and coarsely ground yellow lentils, fried until crunchy and served in paper plates with grated white radish and green chutney. They are naturally gluten free and vegan. Chef's tip: beat the ground batter hard with your hand for a few minutes; the trapped air is what makes them fluffy inside.

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Lucknowi matar chaatWhite pea chaat

In Aminabad and around the Chowk in old Lucknow, matar chaat is ladled hot out of huge brass handis that sit on embers all evening, especially through the cold months. Dried white peas are cooked until they collapse into a creamy, soupy mass, then each leaf bowl is topped with shredded ginger, green chilli, raw onion, lime, roasted spices and a trickle of sweet tamarind chutney. It is warming, sour and gently hot. Chef's tip: cook the peas until a good number break down; that creamy liquid is what makes it Lucknowi.

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OlanAsh gourd and cowpea stew

Olan is the quietest dish on a Travancore sadya leaf, the banana-leaf feast served in southern Kerala for Onam, weddings and temple festivals. Thin, glassy slices of ash gourd and soft red cowpeas sit in coconut milk with nothing louder than green chilli and curry leaves, and its job is to cool the palate between the tangy, fiery curries around it. The flavour comes from coconut milk added in two stages and a spoonful of raw coconut oil poured over at the end. Eat it with plain rice, or ladle it beside appam on an ordinary weekday. Chef's tip: slice the ash gourd as thin as a coin so it turns translucent in the time the coconut milk takes to thicken.

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ErisseryPumpkin and cowpea curry

Erissery is the golden, slightly sweet pumpkin dish of the Onam sadya in Kerala, and a favourite in homes all through the harvest season when the yellow mathanga pumpkins are piled up in the markets. Soft pumpkin and red cowpeas are bound with a coconut, cumin and green chilli paste, and the whole pot is crowned with grated coconut fried in coconut oil until it turns the colour of cinnamon. That crunchy, nutty topping is what makes it erissery. Serve with rice and parippu, or scoop it up with chapati. Chef's tip: keep the pumpkin pieces large so some stay whole while others melt into the sauce.

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Pazham poriBanana fritters

Pazham pori is what the glass cases of Kerala's roadside tea shops are full of at four in the afternoon: long slices of ripe nendran banana dipped in a sweet batter and fried in coconut oil until puffed and golden. Bite through the crisp, slightly chewy coat and the banana inside is soft, hot and honeyed. People eat them standing at the counter with a glass of frothy, milky chaya, or carry a paper parcel home for the family. Chef's tip: wait until the nendran skins are mostly black; the banana must be fully ripe to turn creamy when fried.

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PehakFermented soybean and chilli chutney

Pehak is the Apatani chutney of the Ziro valley in Arunachal Pradesh: fermented soybean pounded with roasted chillies, ginger and salt into a thick, pungent paste. It goes with nearly every meal, a little at a time, with rice, boiled vegetables or millet. It is savoury, salty and very hot, and it keeps for weeks. Chef's tip: dry-roast the fermented soybean briefly before pounding; it mellows the sharp smell and brings out a toasty depth. Natto or Naga axone work if you can't get local soybean.

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Kerala banana chips

Upperi, the yellow raw-banana chips of Kerala, are fried in huge cauldrons in the snack shops of Kozhikode and Thrissur and handed round in bags at every Onam sadya, where they are one of the first things laid on the leaf. Green nendran bananas are sliced straight into hot coconut oil, and a splash of salted water goes in at the end, so the salt clings to every chip. The result is crisp, golden and faintly sweet, with that unmistakable coconut-oil smell. Chef's tip: rub a little oil on your hands before peeling the bananas; the sap stains skin and is very hard to wash off.

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KootuVegetable and moong dal stew

Kootu sits halfway between a dal and a vegetable dish, and in Tamil homes it is the mild, kind side on a lunch plate next to a sharp rasam or a fiery kuzhambu. Chopped vegetables such as chow-chow, snake gourd, cabbage or pumpkin are cooked with moong dal until soft, then thickened with a paste of fresh coconut, cumin and a little green chilli. It's the dish many Tamil grandmothers give children and anyone recovering from a fever. Spoon it over rice with ghee or serve it alongside sambar and poriyal. Chef's tip: grind the coconut paste with the cumin raw, not toasted; the fresh, sweet cumin flavour is what makes kootu taste like kootu.

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Gongura pachadiSorrel leaf chutney

Gongura, the sour leaf of the roselle plant, is so central to Andhra cooking that it's called the state's own vegetable, and gongura pachadi is its best-known form. The leaves are fried in oil until they melt, then pounded with roasted red chillies, garlic, coriander seeds and fenugreek, and finished with a mustard tempering. It's intensely tangy, hot and garlicky, and in Guntur and Vijayawada homes a spoonful is mixed into hot rice with ghee or eaten with jowar rotte. It keeps in the fridge for a couple of weeks. Chef's tip: fry the leaves until all their water cooks off and they turn dark olive; any moisture left shortens how long the pachadi keeps.

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Surti ponk vadaGreen sorghum fritters

Every December and January, farms around Surat roast bundles of young green jowar heads over embers and thresh out ponk, soft, sweet, pale-green grains that last only a few weeks. Surtis turn the trip into a picnic, eating ponk by the handful with lemon-pepper sev and garlic chutney, then frying the leftovers into these crunchy vada. The grains are crushed coarsely with chilli and ginger, bound with a little gram and rice flour, and fried until the outside is lacy and crisp while the inside stays tender and grassy-sweet. Look for frozen ponk in Gujarati grocers outside the season. Chef's tip: crush the ponk only roughly; whole grains popping through the crust is what makes these vada special.

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ChakhwiJackfruit seed and papaya stew

Chakhwi is a Tripuri festive stew cooked at weddings and family feasts around Agartala, where the defining ingredient is 'khar' or soda, made by filtering water through banana-plant ash. It softens vegetables and gives a smooth, gently alkaline taste. Pork chakhwi is the best known; the vegetarian version is cooked with raw papaya, jackfruit seeds, bamboo shoot and long beans, with ginger and green chilli. It is soupier than Assamese khar and has no lentils. Chef's tip: use bicarbonate of soda if you have no ash water, but only a pinch; you should be able to taste it, not feel it.

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AvakayaRaw mango pickle

Every April and May, when the hard, sour green mangoes arrive, Andhra homes turn into pickle factories. The mangoes are cut, stone and all, with a heavy cleaver, then mixed with freshly ground mustard, fiery red chilli powder, salt and a flood of sesame oil, and packed into ceramic jars to mature. Avakaya is fierce, pungent, salty and sour, and a tiny piece mashed into hot rice with ghee and dal is many Telugu people's idea of perfect lunch. A jar lasts the whole year. Chef's tip: every piece of mango, every knife and the jar must be bone dry; a single drop of water can turn a whole batch mouldy.

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Amritsari aloo wadiyanPotato and lentil dumpling curry

Every winter, rooftops in Amritsar's old city are covered with trays of wadiyan: little cones of spiced urad-dal paste studded with black pepper and dried in the sun until rock hard. Punjabi homes break them into chunks, fry them until they smell nutty, and simmer them with potatoes in a mustard-oil gravy. The wadiyan soften into chewy, spicy, almost meaty pieces, and the potatoes soak up their pepper. It is everyday comfort food, eaten with hot phulkas or rice and a raw onion on the side. Chef's tip: wadiyan are already salted and spiced, so add salt only at the end, after tasting.

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Monji haakKohlrabi and greens in mustard oil

Kohlrabi, monji in Kashmiri, grows in almost every kitchen garden in the Kashmir Valley, and families cook the round bulb and its leaves together in one pot. Like its cousin haak, it is a dish of very few ingredients: mustard oil, dried chilli, a pinch of asafoetida and salt, simmered with a splash of water until the bulb turns sweet and tender. It is eaten through the cold months with plain rice and a bowl of yogurt, and Kashmiris will tell you it tastes best in autumn when the bulbs are young. Chef's tip: buy kohlrabi with fresh, perky leaves attached; if the leaves are tired, add a handful of spinach instead.

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KafuliSpinach and fenugreek curry

In the villages of Garhwal, kafuli is what goes into the iron kadhai when the terraces are full of palak and methi in late winter. The greens are blanched, ground roughly on a stone and simmered with a spoonful of soaked rice paste, which turns the curry silky without any cream. Mustard oil and a few dried chillies give it a sharp, warm edge, and the iron pan darkens it to a deep forest green. Eat it with mandua ki roti or plain rice and a dab of ghee for those who want it. Chef's tip: grind the greens in short pulses so you can still see flecks of leaf; kafuli should have texture, not look like a smooth soup.

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KhambirLeavened wholewheat bread

Khambir is the everyday bread of Ladakh: a thick, round wholewheat loaf with a dent pressed into the middle, browned on a griddle and finished in the heat of the kitchen stove. In homes in Leh and Kargil it appears at breakfast, torn into chunks and dipped into salty butter tea, or spread with apricot jam made from the region's dried apricots. The crust is chewy and toasty, the inside dense and slightly sour. Bakers in Leh's old town still sell it warm in the mornings. Chef's tip: let the dough rise until truly doubled; under-risen khambir is heavy and gummy in the middle.

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Patodi rassaGram flour squares in spicy gravy

Patodi rassa (also called patwadi rassa) comes from the dry, hot districts of Vidarbha around Nagpur and Amravati, where gram flour often takes the place of vegetables. Gram flour is cooked thick like a polenta, spread on a plate, scattered with coconut, sesame and poppy seeds and cut into squares. Just before eating, the squares go into bowls and a spicy, thin rassa of roasted onion and dry coconut is poured over them so they soak it up. It's a dish for a Sunday lunch or a wedding feast in the region, served with jowar bhakri or chapatis and rice. Chef's tip: pour the rassa over the patodi at the table, not in the pot; simmered together, the squares fall apart.

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KhatkhatemMixed vegetable and dal stew

Khatkhatem is the vegetable stew Goan Hindu families cook for Ganesh Chaturthi and wedding feasts, when onion and garlic are kept out of the kitchen. It takes whatever the monsoon garden gives: pumpkin, sweet potato, raw banana, corn on the cob, drumsticks, yam and the long Goan cucumber, simmered with a little toor dal in a ground paste of coconut, red chillies and coriander seeds. The flavour comes from tirphal, a dried berry from the Western Ghats with a woody, citrusy, slightly numbing bite. Serve it with rice and a crisp papad as part of the festive spread. Chef's tip: add the vegetables in stages, hardest first; khatkhatem should have every vegetable tender but whole, not a mush.

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Til pithaSesame rice rolls

Til pitha is the essential sweet of Magh Bihu, the January harvest festival, when Assamese homes stay up late around the fire, frying and toasting. Fresh flour of soaked bora (sticky) rice is spread thin on a hot pan into a round, filled with roasted black sesame and jaggery and rolled into a cigar while still soft; it crisps as it cools. Tins of til pitha are carried to every house visited during Bihu. Chef's tip: the flour must be freshly ground from soaked sticky rice and still slightly damp; dry shop rice flour won't fuse into a sheet.

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Kothimbir vadiCoriander and gram flour fritters

When the winter coriander in the Nashik markets comes in huge, fragrant bunches for a few rupees, Maharashtrian kitchens make kothimbir vadi. A batter that is mostly fresh coriander, held together with gram flour and sesame, is steamed into a cake, cut into squares, then shallow-fried until each piece has a crunchy shell and a soft, herby middle. It's a tea-time snack in Pune homes, a side on the festive thali and a favourite in tiffin boxes because it's good at room temperature. Serve with green chutney or tomato ketchup. Chef's tip: dry the coriander well after washing; wet leaves make the batter loose and the vadi soggy.

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Raja mircha chutneyGhost pepper chutney

Raja mircha, the king chilli or bhut jolokia, is grown in the hills around Kohima and Dimapur and was once ranked the hottest chilli in the world. Naga households pound it with tomatoes smoked in the embers, ginger, garlic and salt into a thick red chutney that is fruity, smoky and ferociously hot. It is eaten in tiny amounts with rice and boiled vegetables, and at the Hornbill Festival there are eating contests. Chef's tip: one king chilli is plenty for this amount; wear gloves, open the window when roasting, and keep the seeds if you are brave.

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Ou khattaElephant apple chutney

Ou tenga, the elephant apple, is a hard, sour green fruit that grows across Assam and turns up in every winter market in Guwahati. Ou khatta is its sweet chutney: slices are boiled until tender, then simmered with jaggery and panch phoron until glossy, sticky and sharp-sweet. It is served in a little mound at the end of a festive Assamese lunch and at Bihu feasts, the way Bengalis end with tomato chutney. Chef's tip: outside the Northeast, use a mix of very sour green apple and a little tamarind; it gets surprisingly close.

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GalhoRice and vegetable porridge

Galho is Nagaland's comfort food, a soft, loose rice porridge cooked with seasonal vegetables, greens, ginger and chilli, sometimes thickened with a spoon of fermented soybean (axone). In Kohima homes it is the dish for cold evenings and for anyone unwell, and in restaurants it is often made with pork; this vegetarian version uses mushrooms and axone for savour. It sits somewhere between khichdi and congee, thick but spoonable. Chef's tip: stir only occasionally; galho should be soupy with distinct grains, not a smooth paste.

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KharRaw papaya and lentil dish

Every traditional Assamese lunch begins with khar, a mouthful of it mixed into the first ball of rice to settle the stomach. The defining ingredient is khar itself, an alkaline liquid filtered from the ash of dried bhim kol (seeded banana) peels; it gives the dish its soft, slightly soapy, earthy taste. Raw papaya and a handful of lentils are cooked in it with mustard oil, garlic and green chilli until silky. At home in Guwahati or Jorhat it is made several times a week. Chef's tip: outside Assam, use a small pinch of bicarbonate of soda in place of khar; too much tastes metallic, so start with ⅛ tsp.

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Morok metpaRoasted chilli and onion mash

Morok metpa is the chilli relish on every Manipuri table, from Imphal homes to roadside eateries: fresh chillies roasted over the fire until blistered, then crushed with salt, raw onion and herbs. Many versions add ngari (fermented fish); the vegetarian one here gets its depth from charring the chillies and a little roasted garlic. A teaspoon of it lifts plain rice, kangshoi or boiled vegetables. Chef's tip: roast the chillies directly over a flame until the skins are black in patches; charred skin is where the flavour is.

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SingjuCabbage and lotus stem salad

Singju is Imphal's favourite evening snack, sold from stalls at Khwairamband market and Thangal Bazar: a pile of finely shredded cabbage, lotus stem, banana flower, onion and fresh herbs, tossed with roasted chilli and toasted gram flour. Most stalls add a little ngari (fermented fish); vegetarian Meitei homes skip it and use extra roasted perilla or sesame and toasted gram flour, which give a nutty, savoury depth. It is crunchy, hot and herby. Chef's tip: shred everything as thinly as you can, almost like hair; the dressing clings better.

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Mirchi vadaPotato-stuffed chilli fritters

In Jodhpur, the day often begins at a roadside kadhai: huge, mild green chillies stuffed with spiced potato, coated in gram-flour batter and fried until golden and blistered, then eaten hot with sweet milky chai. Stalls near the Clock Tower and Sardar Market make them all day, and during the monsoon the queues grow longer. The chilli adds a fresh, green bite more than heat, and the filling is tangy with amchur and fennel. A common mistake is frying in oil that is not hot enough, which makes the batter heavy and oily. Chef's tip: fry each vada once until pale gold, rest it for a few minutes, then fry it again for 1 minute just before serving—this is the stall trick for a crust that stays crisp.

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Neer dosaThin rice crepes

Neer means water in Tulu and Kannada, and that is the whole idea: a batter as thin as milk, poured onto a hot pan where it sets into a soft, lacy crêpe full of tiny holes. In Mangaluru and Udupi homes it is made fresh for breakfast or a Sunday lunch, folded into quarters and eaten warm with coconut chutney, a vegetable sagu, or simply with grated coconut and jaggery for children. Unlike most dosas, the batter is not fermented, so you can soak rice in the morning and eat by lunchtime. The crêpes are pale white, never browned, and should be tender enough to fold without cracking. Chef's tip: stir the batter from the bottom before every single dosa; the rice settles within a minute, and a batter poured from the top runs too thin and tears.

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Sattu sharbatRoasted gram flour drink

On scorching May afternoons in Patna, handcarts with steel pots and heaps of lemons sell sattu sharbat by the glass: roasted gram flour whisked into cold water with black salt, roasted cumin, lemon and a bit of raw onion and chilli. It is filling enough to stand in for lunch and is the drink rickshaw pullers and farm workers swear by to beat the loo, the hot summer wind. It tastes savoury, nutty and sharp all at once. Chef's tip: whisk the sattu into a little water first to a smooth paste, then dilute it; tipping it straight into a full glass leaves dry lumps.

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Dal pithaLentil-stuffed rice dumplings

Dal pitha is the comfort food of Bihari winters, made on cold evenings and around Makar Sankranti: soft rice-flour dough wrapped around a coarse filling of chana dal, garlic, ginger and chilli, shaped into half-moons or little pouches and cooked in steam. People in Mithila call it a Bihari momo, and it is eaten hot with tomato chutney or a dribble of mustard oil. The dough tastes gently of rice, the filling is savoury and filling, and leftovers are excellent pan-fried the next day. Chef's tip: knead the rice dough while it is still hot; if it cools before shaping, the pitha crack and the filling leaks out.

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Bore baasiSoaked rice with onion

Bore baasi is the summer meal of Chhattisgarh's farmers: cooked rice soaked in water, either for a few hours (bore) or overnight (baasi), then eaten from the bowl with its slightly sour water, raw onion, green chilli and a pinch of salt. It is cooling, filling and easy on the stomach in the heat, and in recent years the state has made 1 May, Labour Day, the day to eat it as Bore Baasi Tihar. Many families add a ladle of buttermilk or curd and something fried or roasted on the side. Food safety matters with any cooked rice left standing, so this version cools the rice fast and soaks it in the fridge. Chef's tip: cool and cover the rice within an hour of cooking; rice left warm on the counter is the real risk, not the soaking.

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