From Orissa, With Love (and a Side of Brinjal)

I have grown up eating brinjal fry—thin slices, crisp edges, golden browns, tossed with turmeric and red chilli, cooked just right in amma’s kitchen. There are a hundred ways to make it, and I have probably tried most of them. I love brinjal in all its forms—except maybe the kind with jaggery or anything sweet in it. I don't even know if such a dish exists, but if it does… that’s the only version I would politely pass.
Everything else? Bring it on. I am a brinjal person, through and through.

But this one I am talking about today—this one’s special.
Not because of how it’s cooked, or what it’s paired with.
But because of the moment it entered my life.

It wasn’t something we ever made at home. In fact, I don’t remember ever tasting anything quite like it anywhere in South India. Maybe I just hadn’t crossed paths with it yet. But that changed during my second year of engineering—when I met her.

She got transferred from another college after first year, and just like every iconic best-friend origin story, we didn’t like each other at first. She thought I was too loud, and I thought, ugh… what a weirdo. But what we both agreed on for each other, without saying it out loud, was: “Boss, this girl’s full of attitude.”

Cut to a few months later—we were stuck to each other like fevicol.
I still laugh when I think about how I turned this sincere, front-benching, answer-writing, assignment-submitting soul into a solid last-bencher. But the real surprise? The more I got to know her, the more I realized—she wasn’t the quiet one. I was. She was the wild, adventurous one, wrapped up in that innocent face. She is the friend who knew I would never finish what I ordered, and still let me order anyway—just so I could have my fun while she quietly cleaned up the rest.

Her family is from Orissa.
And oh, Orissa…
The culture, the warmth, the kindness, and the food; everything about it makes my heart feel full. My friend's family members are deeply devoted to Krishna, and their home follows rituals and values that feel both serene and soulful; something close to ISKCON, but not exactly that.

I stayed over at her home once during Janmashtami. The whole family fasted that day, and I watched, in awe, how beautifully they moved through their rituals—with joy, not with any sense of burden. The next day, they laid out a feast that felt less like a meal and more like a celebration.
Everything was homemade.
Everything was served with a smile.
And everything tasted like it came straight from the heart.

Of all the dishes and desserts and flavours that graced that plate, there was one little thing that caught my eye—a brinjal fry. But it didn’t look like my version of brinjal fry. This one had a texture, a colour, a simplicity that felt new.
One bite—and I knew.
It was comfort. It was familiarity wrapped in unfamiliar clothing. It was love, disguised as food.

Since that day, I have tried to recreate it at home many times. And every time I make it, something in me softens a little. It reminds me of that house, that moment, that season of life. It found its way into my world quietly, gently and stayed.

And maybe that’s how Krishna found his way into my life too.

Thanks to that beautiful family, and that dear friend who brought me closer to him in her own unintentional way. I used to witness her 16 rounds of chanting (1 round = 108 times) mahamantra sometimes and I used to be in awe with their devotion towards Krishna. While I may not chant every single day (which I used to throughout my engineering), but whenever I do, it is at least one round of the Hare Krishna Mahamantra for sure. And on the days I don’t, he still finds a way to slip into my words, into my day, into my breath.

Sometimes, without any reason at all, I’ll just whisper
“Krishnaaaa…” Not a day goes by without his name slipping from my lips—sometimes with intention, but mostly, without even knowing.

Ingredients

• 1 large brinjal (the big, round variety)

• ½ tsp turmeric powder

• ½ tsp coriander powder

• 1 tsp red chilli powder (adjust to taste)

• 1 tsp salt (or to taste)

• ¼ tsp asafoetida (hing)

• Mustard oil, for shallow frying

 Instructions

1. Slice the brinjal into medium-thick circles. Let them rest for a bit, or gently pat them dry with a cloth or tissue—this helps them fry better without turning soggy.

2. In a small plate or bowl, mix together turmeric, coriander powder, red chilli powder, salt, and asafoetida. This is your quiet little masala mix.

3. Rub the spice mix gently but generously onto each slice—both sides. Let them sit for a few minutes and soak it all in.

4. Heat mustard oil in a pan. Let it get properly hot but not smoking. That mustardy aroma? That is the moment you know it’s ready.

5. Shallow fry the brinjal slices on medium heat until both sides are golden and just crisp on the edges. Flip with care. This isn’t a rush job; it’s a memory in the making.

6. Serve warm with hot rice. Or just eat one straight from the pan while no one’s watching. (I won’t tell.)

Srishti’s Secret Tip for the Perfect Fry:

Let the oil be properly hot before adding the brinjal—mustard oil has its own mood, and when you get it just right, it rewards you with that unbeatable earthy flavour and perfect texture.

Srishti’s Healing Tip for the Perfect Plate:

Let the frying be slow. Let your thoughts wander. Some meals aren't meant to be hurried; they are meant to hold space for the things we haven’t said, for the people we miss, and for the peace that finds us when we are just standing over a pan, doing something simple... like making brinjal fry.

Why You’ll Love This

Because it’s simple, but not ordinary.
Because it brings the warmth of friendship, the beauty of a shared plate, and the quiet joy of discovering something new in something familiar.
Because some dishes don’t need 15 ingredients ^_^ they just need a story.