CHRISTMAS STEEPED IN SPICE

I’ve always believed that Christmas tastes different depending on whose home you’re in. Growing up Goan in Mumbai, my festive table was shaped by the familiar flavours of sorpotel, sannas, bebinca and roast meat. But my most vivid Christmas memories—the ones that still glow warm at the edges—came not from my own kitchen, but from the kitchens of my East Indian neighbours and friends. Their dishes, simmered in tradition and built on a heritage older than the city itself, were an invitation into a world I felt privileged to witness.

Table Talk
If you’ve ever been welcomed into an East Indian home at Christmas, you’ll know that their celebrations centre around food as much as faith. There’s joy in every simmering vessel, sentiment in every spice. And nothing embodies that spirit more than their version of pork sorpotel. At first glance, it resembles its Goan counterpart (soft nuggets of pork and offal cooked to a deep, celebratory red), but one spoonful reveals the difference. The East Indian rendition leans on their famed bottle masala, that mystical blend of over twenty sun-dried spices ground into a velvet-fine powder, and it always includes chopped onions cooked down till they melt into the gravy, imparting a whisper of sweetness to the dish. Goan sorpotel never uses onions, and that makes all the difference in the world: East Indian sorpotel is rounder, deeper, earthier, with a kind of gentle warmth that coats the tongue rather than assaults it.

That bottle masala, that’s always referred to in reverent tones, is the soul of many other festive dishes. I remember standing in our genial neighbour, Aunty Muriel’s, kitchen as an eight-year-old, watching her tip the precious spice mix into a simmering pot of khuddi curry. The aroma would burst forth instantly: smoky, spicy, faintly sweet, an olfactory Christmas carol of its own. Khuddi always tasted like celebration—bright, red, tangy—its spoonfuls staining the fingers and lingering on the lips. And then there was lonvas, a milder, coconut-and-vinegar-based curry essentially designed to comfort you between the fierier dishes. Even lonvas, subtle as it was, carried a tiny whisper of bottle masala, because an East Indian festive table feels incomplete without that signature note.

Nothing, however, ever prepared me for the grandeur of their stuffed roast suckling pig. The first time I saw one—laid out on a long wooden table in a Bandra home—I felt something close to awe. The skin, lacquered to a perfect sheen, crackled under the knife. The stuffing hidden within was an aromatic treasure chest of minced meat, bread, liver, raisins, herbs, and of course, the barest hint of bottle masala to give the mixture its unmistakable East Indian stamp. The pig would be the centrepiece of Christmas lunch, the dish that demanded silence for a moment before the carnage of carving began.

Breaking Bread
But Christmas wasn’t only about gravies and roasts. The breads were just as important. My personal favourite was always fugias—light, deep-fried globes of dough that puffed like golden balloons. Interesting fact: the name fugia comes from the Marathi word for balloon, fugga! They were sweetish, chewy, dangerously addictive, and impossible to stop at just one. Chitiaps were the more delicate cousins: thin, lacy rice flour pancakes made on a special pan, perfect for scooping up curries like a pork vindaloo or simply savouring with a drizzle of ghee. And then there was the famed wedding rice, a subtly sweet, festive preparation studded with spices and caramelised onions, often served at community feasts and celebratory tables.

Christmas, of course, calls for a drink that matches the season’s warmth. While Goans like me grew up on a steady supply of rum toddies, the East Indian answer to winter’s embrace was khimad. It’s a gently spiced hot toddy-like concoction made by infusing country liquor—often the potent mahura—with warming spices. On a December night in Bandra’s leafy lanes, a steaming mug of khimad could thaw even the chilliest soul.

‘Nosh’talgia Unlimited!
What moves me most about East Indian Christmas food isn’t only its flavours—it’s the generosity that accompanies it. This cuisine has always been kept alive not by restaurants but by families, neighbours, and tightly knit village communities. Bandra’s old enclaves—Ranwar, Chuim, Chimbai, and Pali Villages—were where I tasted my first East Indian Christmas. Each lane felt like a festive postcard: wooden cottages, bougainvillea-laden balconies, ladies dressed in the colourful, traditional lugra saris and the soft glow of lanterns.

One cottage in particular remains etched in my memory: a charming old one-storied home belonging to my friend and former colleague, Stardust Gonsalves. With its sloping red-tiled roof and windows framed in ageing wood, it looked like something pulled straight out of a storybook—a gingerbread house come to life. At Christmas, it sparkled with twinkling lights and, naturally, the most beautiful Christmas star you could imagine. And yes, I always joked that no star could shine brighter than Stardust herself.

Inside, the warmth was tangible. Meals at Stardust’s home were a symphony of East Indian flavours: a sorpotel gently bubbling on the stove, fugias stacked in a towering, irresistible pile, and khimad warming guests from the inside out. The laughter was loud, the rooms full, and every plate passed around felt like a continuation of an age-old tradition. I wasn’t East Indian, but in those moments, embraced by the hospitality of Bandra’s villagers and families, I felt like I belonged to that world as much as anyone.

Perhaps that’s why, even today, East Indian Christmas cooking stirs something in me that’s almost tender. It’s a cuisine I never grew up eating at home, but one I grew to love deeply through the kindness of those who shared it with me. Each dish reminds me of childhood evenings spent at Aunty Muriel’s; of Christmas lunches in Bandra’s cosy village homes; of Stardust’s gingerbread cottage glowing like a beacon of warmth.

In a city that’s constantly reinventing itself, East Indian Christmas food remains a beautifully anchored tradition—a reminder of Mumbai’s indigenous soul. If you’ve never tried it, let this be your nudge. Christmas may mean different things to different people, but for me, it will always be tied to those East Indian kitchens—where nostalgia is stirred in every pot, and love, like bottle masala, is always added by the heaping spoonful.