Taste of Freedom

A FEW YEARS AGO, Food & Wine Magazine looked back at its 40-year archive to celebrate the best recipes it had ever published. They gathered them into a book—dishes that had shaped tastes and sparked conversations across decades.

Tucked in it was a dish from India. An okra salad. My okra salad. The only South Asian recipe in the collection. It’s a dish I first made in Delhi when I was 10 years old — long before I became a chef, long before Devi, my New York restaurant, earned the first Michelin star for an Indian restaurant in North America. My small act of rebellion then was to slice the okra lengthwise into thin shoestrings, not the usual crosswise coins. And instead of hiding it in gravy, I let it stand alone — crisp, bright, and dressed like something meant to be savoured, not endured.

At Devi, that childhood instinct returned with refinement. The okra, sliced into shoestrings, was deep-fried until shatteringly crisp. Straight from the oil, it landed on paper towels and was dusted with chaat masala for tang, toasted cumin for earthiness, paprika for warmth, cayenne for heat, and salt to make it all sing. Only then did I fold in ripe tomatoes, sharp onions, and fresh coriander leaves. Tossed à la minute, served still warm, it was a dish that looked like a celebration and tasted like memory meeting possibility.

That, to me, is India.

We are a nation of mingling bowls—each element distinct, yet open to transformation. Our chillies came from the Portuguese, our tomatoes from the Americas, our lemons from elsewhere. We adapt without apology, making them unmistakably ours.

Independence, like cooking, is this dance between roots and reach—holding what defines you while welcoming what expands you. My okra salad is built of parts that travelled far, yet together they taste wholly Indian.

It’s also about timing and sequence. Drop the okra into the oil too soon, and it soaks up grease. Add tomatoes too early, and you lose the crispness.

Toss the spices while the okra is still hot, and they bloom; wait too long, and they fade. Democracies work the same way: when to listen, when to act, when to pause and let things settle — all matter.

Making this salad is simple but demands care.

Slice fresh okra into fine shoestrings. Fry in hot oil in small batches until crisp. Drain on paper towels. While still hot, toss with spices. Just before serving, fold in chopped onions, tomatoes, and coriander. Serve immediately so crunch meets juice, spice meets freshness.

When Food & Wine included the salad in its anniversary book, it felt like more than personal recognition. It celebrated the Indian instinct to adapt, to absorb, to create harmony out of diversity—to combine influences without losing identity.

On Independence Day, I think of that as our real inheritance: not just the ingredients we start with, but the confidence to combine them in ways that honour both history and imagination.

Our Constitution, like a recipe, was crafted to hold many voices, textures, and notes. Its success depends on balance and the willingness to adjust seasoning without losing the soul of the dish.

The salad’s colours echo the tricolour. But its patriotism is in its pluralism: every element keeps its identity while contributing to the whole.

We often think of independence as a one-time achievement. But like a salad served fresh, it must be remade daily — with care, creativity, and openness to what the season brings. Some years, the tomatoes are sweeter; some years, the chillies are sharper. The recipe remains, but the expression shifts. That is not a flaw; it is life.

So, this August 15, whether in a kitchen or a country, remember: freedom is not the absence of rules, but the space to shape them so everyone belongs. It’s the courage to cut the okra lengthwise when no one else does, the patience to fry it just right, and the generosity to share it warm.

Because the flavour of liberty, like the perfect salad, comes from many hands, many hearts, and the joy of eating it together.

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