It’s PuttWurrDHUN not Patrick Warden
Namaskar. I was really serious about naming this blog “The Varan Wala”, until I realised I’m not a Maharashtrian superhero or a food delivery boy, which is a shame but unfortunately the truth.
My name is Natasha Patwardhan, that’s Patwardhan as in golf PUT, war as in WORry and Dhan as in the noise you hear in every Indian TV series where the bahu says something she shouldn’t in the living room wearing a gold sari. After 29 years it still amazes me that I still receive letters to “Mr. Patrick Warden”, or worse “Dan Warden.”
I was born in Mumbai and raised in Essex, hence why so far this post doesn’t sound like it has been written by the image of the person wearing a nauvari sari. I love everything about being brought up in the UK, apart from the obviously horrific weather. But. And this is a big But. I was also the type of child who grew up on fish fingers and varan bhaat, poli jam rolls and the ever-famous king of KINGS Batatyachi Bhaaji (it’s that good that it deserves capital letters).
A huge majority of the connection I have to my Maharashtrian heritage is through my CKP aai and Kokanastha Brahmin baba. At home I have access to some of the most scrummiest yummiest creations known to man. What would be a casual scrambled eggs for breakfast is replaced by a mystical yellow dish called “Pohey” in our house. That’s po as in Al CaPOne and hey as in HAY there. Trips to India are NEVER anywhere other than to Mumbai and Pune. Never. And Shivaji Park is the centre of the universe no questions asked.
Growing up in the UK I have always felt extinct. I didn’t think there were many other second-generation Maharashtrians in the UK; most of all, I couldn’t understand why people generally knew about Mumbai but not about Maharashtrians.
Miss Marathi is an account of a second-generation Maharashtrian in the UK desperately trying to piece together what everything about being Maharashtrian means to her. Topics will include (but not be limited to) food, the fear of speaking Marathi like a Karen, and how Zingaat brings out everybody’s inner Shivaji.
I am definitely an Essex girl, but the minute it’s Ganesh Chaturthi I will know without fail it’s time to go Modak MENTAL for ten days.
On a final note, this blog is a SAFE space, you will NOT find anything about the vegetable Karla here.