How is buttermilk enjoyed across India?
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Explanation:
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Answer:
My first memory of buttermilk is warmth and darkness. I must have been five or six years old. Still confused by the mists of sleep, I walked into my grandmother’s kitchen, drawn by a comforting swishing sound. My grandmother was sitting on the floor, her legs spread-eagled and resting on the wall. Soft light filtered through the window in front of her. In between her legs was a heavy earthen pot that was held firmly in place by a coiled towel. A tall wooden mathu or butter churner had been inserted inside this pot. Although I didn’t know it then, it was the older version of a blender.
I stumbled inside the cool kitchen. My grandmother turned. Her diamond nose ring glinted in the shaft of light. Her beautiful face crinkled into a smile but she didn’t say anything—she was engrossed in her task. Her hands held the two ends of a rope that was coiled around the butter churner. They moved back and forth rhythmically. My grandmother sat like a yogi, alert but relaxed. I had seen her in this position many times.