My Not-So-Love Story with Bhindi Fry

If there is one vegetable that has successfully confused me throughout my life, it has to be bhindi.

I wouldn't say I hate it. I wouldn't even say I love it. We have somehow managed to peacefully coexist all these years. It is one of those vegetables that keeps showing up in my life whether I invite it or not. Some days I enjoy it, some days I tolerate it, and some days I simply stare at it and wonder why it is on my plate again.

The problem was never really bhindi.

The problem was always the texture.

Growing up, I saw so many versions of bhindi being made. Some were soft, some were sticky, some were what we call chip-chip, and honestly, I was never a fan of those versions. The minute bhindi becomes soggy, I lose all interest in it. If I am eating bhindi, I want it slightly crisp. Not the deep-fried wedding-function version where it practically becomes a snack. No. Just a simple, lightly fried, crispy bhindi that still tastes like bhindi.

And if there is one person who absolutely masters that art, it is my mother-in-law.

Now, my mother also makes a good bhindi fry. Once in a while, maybe one out of ten times, it becomes a little softer than I prefer. But my mother-in-law? Somehow she gets it right every single time. Very little oil, perfectly cooked, crispy enough to make me willingly take a second serving.

I have tried recreating it myself.

Trust me.

The confidence with which I start is always much higher than the result.

Somewhere along the way, my bhindi decides that becoming soft is its life's purpose. So whenever my mother-in-law makes it, I happily accept defeat and enjoy the expert version instead.

Now, why are we talking about bhindi today?

Because I made bhindi for lunch.

And whenever bhindi enters my kitchen, it automatically brings along a hundred memories.

One of the funniest things about married life is realizing how every family has its own relationship with food. In our house, my father-in-law and I share a deep and unconditional love for brinjal.

The man doesn't even need an official announcement.

If I genuinely like something, he somehow figures it out.

I don't know whether it is my face, my excitement, or the way I talk about food, but once he knows I like something, that's it. The item becomes a permanent resident of our kitchen.

Brinjal is the biggest example.

There is never a shortage of brinjal in our house. Different varieties, different sizes, different colors. Sometimes I genuinely feel that if there were a brinjal exhibition happening somewhere, my father-in-law would somehow discover it and return home with a fresh stock.

Unfortunately for my husband, bhindi has entered the same category.

Now unlike brinjal, neither my husband nor I are huge fans of bhindi. I am okay with it. I will eat it if it is cooked well. My husband, however, is much less diplomatic.

Every time bhindi gets cooked, another batch mysteriously appears. We make it, it gets finished, and somehow another batch arrives. Sometimes before the previous batch is even over. There have been days when my husband looks at the vegetable basket and asks, "Didn't we just have bhindi yesterday?" Honestly, there have been moments when I have wondered the same thing.

But somehow it keeps returning.

Maybe that is what families are like.

Sometimes things enter a family because one person loves them, and before you know it, everyone learns to live with them. Sometimes it is a vegetable. Sometimes it is a habit. Sometimes it is a person.

And every time I think about bhindi, one particular childhood memory comes rushing back.

I was in eighth standard.

The next day was my General Knowledge exam. Naturally, instead of studying, I was downstairs with our watchman's children.

Now when I say playing, I don't mean running around for ten minutes and coming back home.

No.

My version of playing was sitting inside their house, watching television, chatting endlessly, and behaving as if I lived there. Meanwhile, my mother was searching for me all over the apartment complex. I didn't know that at the time, but I definitely knew it the moment I heard her calling my name.

Every child knows that tone.

That tone which immediately tells you that your life choices are about to be reviewed very seriously.

The smart thing to do would have been to walk out and go home.

Unfortunately, I was not famous for making smart decisions.

So I hid under the bed.

Not my bed.

The watchman's bed.

Inside their tiny one-room house.

And at that moment, I genuinely believed I had come up with a brilliant plan.

My mother, however, had years of experience dealing with me. She eventually found me, dragged me out, marched me upstairs, and gave me a scolding that I still remember. Then came the punishment.

Two straight hours of studying.

No television.

No excuses.

No escape.

Just books.

And my mother making sure I actually looked at them.

By the time dinner arrived, I was still upset. Mostly because I felt wronged, as every child does when they get caught doing exactly what they were told not to do.

While I sat there dramatically suffering from the unfairness of life, my mother made bhindi fry. The good kind. Crispy. Fresh. Mixed with hot rice and a little ghee.

She brought it to me and told me to eat.

I refused.

Of course I refused.

I was busy proving a point.

My mother first tried explaining, then convincing, then negotiating. Then came the lecture. Apparently bhindi was excellent for the brain. It improved memory. It improved concentration. It improved intelligence. According to her, it practically guaranteed academic success.

I remained unconvinced.

I folded my hands, turned my face away, and continued my protest.

Then my mother did what many Indian mothers eventually do when logic fails. She gave me another small smack and started feeding me herself.

Problem solved.

The next day, I went and wrote my General Knowledge exam. The paper was for twenty-five marks, and for the first time in my life, I scored twenty-four and a half. I still remember staring at that answer sheet in disbelief. I was shocked. My teacher was surprised. My parents were surprised. Honestly, if there was one person who did not expect those marks, it was me.

I rushed home with the paper because, obviously, I needed somebody else to confirm that what I was seeing was actually true. My mother looked at the marks, smiled, signed the paper, and while she was genuinely happy and proud, she also quietly claimed full credit on behalf of the bhindi.

According to her, those marks had very little to do with the studying and everything to do with the bhindi fry she had fed me the previous night. In her version of events, the vegetable had directly travelled to my brain and unlocked hidden intelligence. I argued for a while, but eventually gave up because there is no winning an argument against a mother who has already decided she is right.

Even today, when I think about that incident, I don't really remember the exam. I don't remember the questions either. What I remember is hiding under that tiny bed, my mother dragging me upstairs, the drama I created at dinner, and finally sitting there with a plate of hot rice, ghee, and bhindi fry while she fed me despite being annoyed with me.

That is the strange thing about food memories. Years later, we don't remember the recipe first. We remember the people. We remember who made it, who fed us, who scolded us, who sat beside us, and what was happening in life at that moment. The food simply becomes the bookmark that helps us find the memory again.

Today, bhindi reminds me of a completely different set of people. It reminds me of my mother-in-law, who somehow manages to make it perfectly crisp every single time. It reminds me of my father-in-law, who has this beautiful habit of bringing home things that the family enjoys, whether we ask for them or not. And it reminds me of my husband, who looks at the vegetable basket and wonders why bhindi seems to multiply on its own every week.

The funny part is that my relationship with bhindi has not changed all that much over the years. I am still not somebody who gets excited at the thought of eating it. If given ten curries to choose from, bhindi probably won't be my first choice. But when it is made well, when it is crisp, when it is mixed into hot rice, or when it appears on a lunch table surrounded by people I love, I happily eat it without complaint.

Maybe that's why I can never truly say whether I like bhindi or not.

What I do know is that every phase of my life seems to have attached a new memory to it. A mother trying to convince her stubborn daughter to study. A mother-in-law perfecting a recipe that I still can't replicate. A father-in-law who never forgets what his family likes. A husband who continues his lifelong battle against this vegetable.

And somewhere in the middle of all these people sits a simple bowl of bhindi fry, quietly collecting stories.

For a vegetable that I never really loved, it has given me an awful lot to remember.

And honestly, I think that is enough reason to keep eating it. 💛🌿

Ingredients:

• 250 grams fresh bhindi (lady's finger), washed and completely dried
• 1½–2 tablespoons oil
• 1 teaspoon cumin seeds
• ½ teaspoon red chilli powder (adjust to taste)
• 1 teaspoon coriander powder
• Salt to taste

Optional (My Mother-in-Law's Version 💛)

• A pinch of turmeric powder
• A few curry leaves
• 2 tablespoons roasted peanuts or roasted cashews

(I usually skip the cashews because I'm not a huge cashew fan, but they do add a lovely crunch.)

Instructions:

Wash the bhindi well and make sure it is completely dry before cutting. This is one small step that makes a huge difference because any extra moisture can make the bhindi soft and sticky while cooking.

Cut the bhindi into medium-thick rounds and keep it aside.

Heat oil in a pan and add the cumin seeds. Once they begin to crackle, add the bhindi and gently mix everything together.

Cook on a medium flame, stirring occasionally. Try not to stir too much, as that can make the bhindi break and become softer than intended.

Continue cooking until the bhindi starts becoming slightly crisp around the edges.

Only towards the end, add the salt, red chilli powder, and coriander powder. Give everything a final mix and cook for another minute or two.

Serve hot with rice, roti, or simply enjoy it straight from the pan like I often do.

My Mother-in-Law's Version

For her version, she adds a pinch of turmeric powder to the oil right at the beginning along with cumin seeds. She also throws in a few curry leaves while cooking and finishes it with roasted peanuts or cashews.

The result is a slightly more flavorful and festive version of the same simple bhindi fry.

Srishti's Secret Tip for the Perfect Plate:

The secret is not the spices.

It's patience.

Dry the bhindi properly before cutting and don't rush the cooking process. Let it slowly crisp up on a medium flame. Also, add the salt only towards the end. Salt releases moisture, and adding it too early can make the bhindi softer than you want.

If you're someone like me who prefers crisp bhindi over the chip-chip version, this one small change can make all the difference.

Srishti's Healing Tip for the Perfect Plate:

This is one of those recipes that reminds me that simple food is often the most comforting.

You don't always need ten ingredients or an elaborate recipe to make a satisfying meal. Sometimes a bowl of hot rice, a spoon of ghee, and a simple bhindi fry made by someone who loves you can feel more luxurious than a restaurant feast.

Food nourishes the body.

Memories nourish the heart.

Try to make room for both.

Why You'll Love This:

You'll love this bhindi fry if you're someone who enjoys simple home-style cooking without too many ingredients.

It comes together quickly, uses everyday pantry staples, and delivers all the comfort of a traditional meal. The bhindi stays lightly crisp, the spices are gentle, and it pairs beautifully with almost anything.

Most importantly, this is one of those recipes that doesn't try too hard.

It's simple.

It's familiar.

It's comforting.

And sometimes, that's exactly what we need on our plate.