Raindrops, Laughter, and Onion Pakoda: A Childhood Memory

The rain is falling heavily in Hyderabad today, the kind of rain that takes me straight back to my childhood. It’s the first summer rain this year, and the air feels crisp and fresh, almost like the world is being washed clean. I sit by the window, watching the droplets race down the glass, and I can’t help but smile. The rain has always had a way of making me feel cozy and at peace; a feeling I haven’t quite found in the chaos of adulthood.

This weather, this very moment, brings back memories of simpler times, of carefree days filled with laughter, love, and mischief. The kind of memories that, when you look back, wrap you in warmth like a soft, comforting blanket.

I remember how, every year when the rains arrived, water would collect in a little pool on one side of the main entrance balcony. And since my pednanna’s home was right next to ours, I had the privilege of calling both balconies mine. Those were my playgrounds. I would rush outside barefoot, feeling the cool water splash around my feet, my heart racing with excitement. But, of course, that excitement didn’t come without its fair share of tumbles. I must have slipped more times than I can count; landing in the water, hurting myself, crying, and then bursting into laughter all in the same breath. It was like I had an internal switch that made me go from tears to giggles in an instant. I remember feeling so free, so alive in those moments — nothing mattered except the joy of being in that perfect, chaotic space. And through all my scrapes and falls, there was always my amma, who would appear like a guardian angel with a warm, reassuring smile, and the promise of something comforting.

On rainy days, she would make make some crispy onion pakodas or anything that soothes your soul; the scent of them frying would fill the house, wrapping around you like a hug. My amma, though no professional chef, had this magical way of making every dish feel like it was made with love. The simple act of frying the pakodas became a ritual in itself. She would hand me a warm plate, the pakodas golden and crisp, and I would feel the weight of the moment settle in — my heart full, my belly warm, and my spirit content.

As a child, I wasn’t exactly the “bookish” type. Books were never my friends, but nature, laughter, falling, crying, getting scoldings and sometimes beatings were. My days were filled with running through puddles, chasing the sound of raindrops on the roof, and finding joy in the simplest of things. I was the child who would take a tumble, cry, and get scolded, only to be back at it again in a matter of minutes; never letting anything stop me from finding joy. The world was my playground, and every new day felt like an opportunity for a new adventure.

Once the rain would stop, I would rush up to the terrace to watch the world change before my eyes. From one side, I could see the hustle and bustle of the main road, the cars splashing through the wet streets. On the other side, there was a large government office, a tribal museum that fascinated me as a child. I remember gazing at the building, my imagination running wild. After watching Titanic for the first time, I was convinced that one side of the building was the back of a giant ship. And every time I saw it after a heavy rain, I could literally imagine a big ship coming up from behind the building. My heart would race, and I would scream, “Amma! Amma!” and run down the stairs like there was a ghost chasing me. It was all in my head, of course — the ship wasn’t real, and neither was the ghost — but those moments, filled with childish fear and wonder, were the very essence of being a kid.

Eventually, I realized that my imagination was a gift. It could create terrifying ghosts or beautiful ships — but no matter what, it could transport me to places that felt so real. And sometimes, just for a few seconds, I would let myself be lost in the magic of it all.

Now, whenever it rains, it’s not just the sound of the raindrops I hear. I hear the echoes of my childhood — the laughter, the slip-ups, the tears, and the joy. And, most of all, I hear the warmth of amma’s voice calling me in from the rain, promising me something good to eat. The rain isn’t just water falling from the sky; it’s a reminder of the love, the comfort, and the simple things that make life beautiful. Saying that, I just spoke to my parents, and they are not quite enjoying the rain. Amma had put so much effort into making ash gourd fritters (boodida gummadikaya vadiyalu) and drying them in sun, only for the rain to arrive too soon. Though they hurried to get them down, the rain’s gentle touch left its mark on those tiny vadiyalu.

Speaking of those simple things and the current weather, one dish that never fails to transport me back to those days is amma’s crispy onion pakoda. It was the kind of food that didn’t need to be fancy; it was the love and care that went into it that made it so special. The way the onions would caramelize, the spices would blend, and the texture would turn out perfectly crunchy — every bite was like a little taste of home.

Ingredients:

• 2 medium-sized onions, thinly sliced

• 1 cup gram flour (chickpea flour)

• 1-2 green chilies, finely sliced

• 1 tsp cumin seeds

• Salt to taste

• 1/2 tsp chili powder

• A pinch of baking soda

• Water (to mix the batter)

• Oil for frying

• Tomato ketchup (for serving)

Instructions:

1. Prepare the Batter: In a mixing bowl, take the gram flour and add the sliced green chilies, cumin seeds, salt, chili powder, and a very small pinch of baking soda. Mix well.

2. Add Water: Slowly add a little water to the dry mixture, stirring as you go, to make a thick batter. The consistency should be enough to hold the onions but not too runny.

3. Combine with Onions: Add the sliced onions to the batter and mix them together until the onions are well-coated with the chickpea flour mixture.

4. Heat the Oil: In a kadhai or deep pan, heat oil on medium heat for frying.

5. Fry the Pakodas: Once the oil is hot, take small spoonfuls of the onion and chickpea flour mixture and drop them gently into the hot oil. Fry the pakodas until they are golden brown and crisp.

6. Drain and Serve: Remove the pakodas from the oil and drain on paper towels. Serve hot with tomato ketchup.

Srishti’s Secret Tip for the Perfect Pakoda: 

The secret to making these pakodas extra crispy is in the consistency of the batter. It should be thick enough to coat the onions but not too runny. The small pinch of baking soda is a game-changer, helping the pakodas puff up and become perfectly crunchy. And don’t rush the frying process! Fry on medium heat to ensure they cook evenly and become golden brown without burning.

Srishti’s Healing Tip for the Perfect Plate: 

Food, when made with love and care, has a way of healing more than just hunger—it can nourish your soul. This onion pakoda, with its crispy, warm texture, has a comfort that feels like a gentle embrace. When you take a bite, close your eyes for a moment. The spicy crunch and the warmth will remind you that, even on your toughest days, there’s a simplicity in the world that still has the power to bring joy. Just like the laughter of childhood or the loving care in a mother's touch, this pakoda offers a reminder that food can heal, comfort, and bring you back to a place of peace, even amidst the chaos. 

 

Why You Will Love It: 

This onion pakoda is more than just a snack—it’s a memory wrapped in every crispy bite. The combination of spices, the sweetness from the onions, and the golden, crunchy texture makes it irresistible. Whether you're reminiscing about childhood rainy days or just in the mood for something comforting, these pakodas hit the spot. Plus, they’re so easy to make, and the aroma of them frying in the kitchen is enough to make anyone’s day better. With just a few simple ingredients, you’ll find yourself making these over and over again — each time with a little more love, and a lot more joy.