Momos, Chutney & The Kancha Coup
There are Army afternoons… and then there are the kind that leave a trace of chilli in your curtains and a lifelong suspicion of anything labeled “homemade”.
This particular day was meant to be a polite high tea for a few ladies…tasteful chatter, elegant snacks and perhaps some gentle applause for my tiramisu cake.
What unfolded instead was a full blown flavour ambush, led by none other than our irrepressible Kancha, the affectionate name for the youngest buddy, though “junior” in age never meant minor in impact.
Kancha was everyone’s favourite livewire , the kind of cheerful whirlwind you couldn’t help but adore. Small in build but mighty in spirit he had the energy of five people packed into one compact frame. His twinkling eyes always seemed two mischiefs ahead and his ears perked up the moment anyone said kaam hai.
He didn’t wait for instructions , he launched straight into action as if “think first” had been permanently deleted from his training manual. Whether it was shifting furniture, repairing a leaking tap or in this case orchestrating a momo mutiny, Kancha operated on impulse: heart first and full throttle.
I had just finished setting the table , paneer pinwheels, mini samosas, and my signature coffee tiramisu cake. The crostinis were neatly arranged too, though in retrospect they had the emotional range of a tax seminar when compared to what was about to arrive.
Kancha swooped into the kitchen, sleeves rolled up like a man on a sacred mission.
“Memsaab… momo banauchhu ma. Gorkha ko asli jhanak!” (Madam, I’ll make momos. The true Gorkha flavour!)
I blinked.
“Sab kuch ready cha ni… aba tum momo banauchha bhaneko kasari?” (Everything’s already ready… now what’s this sudden momo declaration?)
He smirked with the seriousness of someone issuing a national address.
“Yo crostini ta thik cha… jasto cha ekdam high IQ ho tara zero maza!” (This crostini is fine… like someone with high IQ but absolutely no fun!)
Before I could react he was already chopping onions, flattening dough and letting loose a battalion of dalle khursani chillies that smelled like they came with their own evacuation plan.
“Ani yo chutney… aba khas special”. (And this chutney… now this one’s truly special.)
Naturally, he refused to speak anything but Nepali.
“Timi ta pura Nepali bolna siknu parcha. Aba adha tidha le hudaina. Tyo chai mero ni niyam ho”. (You have to learn proper Nepali. No half-and-half. That’s my rule too.)
And before disappearing into the kitchen fog, he added with flair:
“Bakho lagaunu parcha hajur, tesma ramri dekhincha hajur”. (You must wear the bakho, ma’am , you’ll look lovely in it.) Kancha, stylist included.
By the time the ladies arrived, my house had morphed into a momo battlefield, steam fogging up the windows, the spice box reorganised into what resembled a minefield and the chutney glowing ominously in a steel bowl.
Kancha emerged with the gait of a man unveiling a national budget , the momos arranged like sacred relics, the chutney gleaming like lava and the air thick with triumph.
Momos for those of us who’ve lived in and around the Gorkha paltan are not just food , they’re nostalgia, wrapped in dough and served with a blast of memory. The very thought of momos, sel roti and that explosive Gorkha chutney can send anyone who’s ever shared langar or barracks into a tailspin of longing.
It’s not just a Gorkha delicacy. It’s an emotion , piping hot and pan regimental.
“Serve gardai chu. Momo ra chutney……dherai manparcha sablai!” (Serving now. Momos and chutney …..everyone will love it!)
One lady took a bite. Paused. Sipped water. Whispered hoarsely “It tastes like it trained for counter-insurgency”.
Another dabbed her eyes. “I think my ancestors felt that chutney”.
Kancha stood unshaken, beaming.
“Chilli mild cha ni! Tyo ta flavour ho!” (The chilli’s mild! That’s just flavour!)
When I asked him later why he’d made the chutney quite so fiery, he simply shrugged and smiled
“Memsaab… jindagi ma momo jasto surprise cha bhane ta interesting huncha. Natra ta sab life fridge ma rakheko dahi jasto ho!” (Ma’am… if life has surprises like momo, it’s interesting. Otherwise, it’s like forgotten curd in the fridge!)
He wasn’t a cook. He wasn’t trying to impress. He just believed that where there’s momo, there must be joy and where there’s Kancha, chaos is always beautifully steamed and ready to serve.