Rasam Taxonomies & Mysuru Rasam

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How many types of rasam are there? I’m sometimes asked. Or, rather, with emphasis on the right spot, I’m asked: how many types of rasam are there?! It’s a bewildered question posed just as the asker has awoken to the possibility that rasam is not just one thing, but a multitude–a whole gushing range of things, inside a type of a dish. In fact, a common response to the #rasamseries hashtag is one which transposes the final two words of that question, turning it into this exclamation: gosh, how many rasams there are! [emphasis on the unspoken “wow!”]

Funnily enough, nobody ever follows that question up with what could be a logical next question: why that many rasams? Possibly that’s because the answer is implied: if rasam is “juice” or “saar” as it appears to be, going all the way back to Rig Vedic meanings of the word “rasa,” then very technically there can be as many rasams as there are possibilities of juices. Theorists have long recognized this “bewildering variety of meanings” in conversations about rasa-aesthetics: “sap, juice, water, liquor, milk, nectar, poison, mercury, taste, savor, prime or finest part of anything, flavor, relish, love, desire, beauty,” lists G.B. Mohan Thampi, “The meanings range from the alcoholic soma-juice to the Metaphysical Absolute–the Brahman” [Source]. Not all are edible, but certainly each is identifiable.

This is an important point. Rasas are distinct, no matter their bewildering variety. Rasams therefore mark the boundaries between one set of tastes or pleasures or identifiable qualities and another.

So it surprises me that there’s hardly any curiosity about how to manage and classify this gushing, rushing range, even though classifying this country’s teeming ways have been the preoccupation of many an author, from Sharangadeva’s 13th century Sangeetharatnakara treatise on music and classification of ragas, to the 8th-15th c. Dryavyaguna Nighantus [Pharmacological Materia Medica], to colonial study and census-taking, methods of detailing and enumeration derived from which remain a key modality of modern democratic governance. I’m a pedant, perhaps, but that’s often my quest: what’s the framework that makes sense of this mess of a multitude?

Classical Classification

Turns out, Ayurveda is no less concerned with rasa classification than I [and with the origins of taste and therefore their character and action]. We know there are 5 panchamahabhutas or elements (akash: sky/space, vayu: air, teja/agni: fire, jala: water, prithvi: earth). What is less acknowledged is how combinations of these produce 6 essential tastes or rasas–arusuvai or the shadrasas:

• madhur இனிப்பு/ inippu (sweet) [Prithvi + Jala]
• amla புளிப்பு/ pulippu (sour) [Prithvi + Teja]
• lavana உவர்ப்பு/ uvarppu (salty) [Jala + Teja]
• tikta கசப்பு/kasappu (bitter) [Vayu + Akash]
• katu கார்ப்பு/ kaarppu (acrid/pungent/spicy) [Vayu + Teja]
• kashaya துவர்ப்பு/thuvarppu (astringent) [Vayu + Prithvi]

So, even though there’s a tendency (at least among Tamil Brahmins) to think of rasam as being fundamentally sour–dare I say the truth is that rasas and rasams can vary in sweetness, sourness, saltiness, bitterness, pungency, and astringency as much as a question can vary in emphasis: how many rasams are there? vs. how many rasams are there?!

Because the dish called “rasam” ideally represents all six tastes–with one being definitive, the juice–the six tastes are combined in differing proportions and with vastly varied effects. Then, keeping in mind that sweetness alone can come in a multitude of forms–the mathematical computation of the number of possible rasams quickly tends to infinity. Which raises the question of whether a classificatory approach to rasam doesn’t help to get to the juice of the juice in the first place [a la Richard Shusterman who argues it doesn’t work for art and aesthetics either].

Everyday taxonomies

But then there are the everyday taxonomies, less lofty, no less insightful. Here in the language of everyday cookery, rasam naming conventions are generally three:

1. by key ingredient, so you have maavilai rasam, vilamphazham rasam, aavaarampoo rasam, thoothuvalai rasam, Lopa’s deliberately punning rasbhari rasam, moola chaaru, and the like–the ordinary ones and the novelty rasams of the sort that Chennai’s catering king Mountbatten Mani Iyer would think up, example watermelon rasam;
2. by process or method, so you have araithu-vitta rasam [rasam made with freshly ground ingredients, usually including coconut, so the process is fresh grinding]; vanchina chaaru and bassaru [made with cooking stock from freshly harvested pulses and greens, so the process is straining]; & dhideer rasam, bucket rasam [quick-quick no-waste rasams usually accompanied by an avasara poriyal — or a poriyal made in haste, taking shortcuts, say, without skinning potatoes].
3. by context, so you have your kalyana rasam, made at weddings in ways that keep flavors fresh and costs low, or Udipi rasam or Mysore rasam or Kerala syle-rasam for in India region and community are definitive contexts, too.

Of these, the first predominates: a given rasam and saar is usually named and qualified by its key ingredient, whose essential taste the dish wants to showcase. The ingredient name is both descriptor and keyword: it tells you what to expect.

Other, lesser naming conventions:

• by purpose: It is rare, but not unheard of, to find a rasam named after a specific purpose–like marunthu rasam, which is really kandathippili or long pepper rasam (the rasam uses both dried long pepper and dried stalks), known to be so medicinal the rasam overtly promises marunthu: medicine. Or, similarly thirikadugam rasam, made of dry ginger, black pepper and long pepper [“thirikadugam“], and used therapeutically. Notice, however, that even these “purposeful” rasams are distinguished by ingredients, or ingredient combinations.
• by person: It is rarer still to find a rasam named after some mami or cook who excelled at making it, though that happens, too. Such names aren’t stable though and give way to the more common descriptors unless you’re Mountbatten Mani Iyer and pretty much own watermelon rasam in any form. Or you’ve got Rajinikanth excelling at rasam preparation enough to call his creations a Thalaivaa rasam which will no doubt cause oceanic churning to happen, what’s Latha Aunty’s rasam to you is going to be Ponna Periamma’s rasam to me, and not more.
• by place of origin: Kerala-style rasam. Udipi rasam. Mysuru rasam. But these come down to context, really. Let me explain —

It’s hugely unlikely that there’s only one rasam type coming from any rasam-loving state. Bassaru is known to be a rural Karnataka special, with vanchina chaaru being its Andhra equivalent. Vilamphazham rasam, thoothuvalai rasam–these are Tamil Nadu rasams, because those ingredients are interpreted as rasams in Tamil cuisine. For the dozens of rasams claiming to be “Kerala style,” I could find no commonality to them except perhaps that they all make use of tomatoes–and the tempering is unfailingly in coconut oil. The oil is an identifier and a mark of distinction, possibly. Tamil Nadu rasams are much more likely to use pure sesame oil, or ghee.

So, regions mark out certain tastes, habits, preferences and even proscriptions. They are a context, like a wedding is a context, for the preparation of a certain food, a certain way. Food rules set by the Tulu Ashta matha and the Sri Krishna Temple kitchens define much of Udupi cuisine, for instance. And yet Udupi rasam invariably is a tomato-based saar, in spite of the fact that the mathas specifically forbid many “foreign” foods, including tomatoes. What makes this rasam special is perhaps just its rich red color, derived in no small part from the native byadagi chillies and a saarina podi, made fresh every time in the manner of the kalyana rasam.

The point might be that even though “tomato rasam” is one thing, the essence of tomato is drawn out a hundred different ways, so that we have a range of tomato rasams that now need distinguishing–by context, by region, by community, by cooking method and so on. A main ingredient-based nomenclature might be primary, but it sure doesn’t preclude the use of others, as needed. Or, the essence of a thing, we might say, is a matter of local interpretation.

Mysuru Rasam

Of course what that local interpretation might be depends entirely on what’s going on in that local context. I’ve often been amused to find more Tamilians making Mysuru rasam or explaining how it’s made than Kannadigas, even though Mysore is in modern Karnataka, the capital for long of the Kingdom of Mysore. Mysuru rasam is likely part of the Tamil heritage of the region, Tamils having migrated to the region since the 10th century, and Iyengars from Srirangam in particular having been encouraged to migrate by the Wodeyar kings facing opposition from local Brahmin communities in the 1800s.

Mysuru rasam is of particular interest because it can be classified any of the three ways mentioned earlier or all three ways: it is a tomato-coconut rasam, made with freshly ground ingredients, and carries the signature of a regional cuisine. It is what Tamilians would call an araithu-vitta rasam or ground-and-poured rasam, to be distinguished primarily from the podi-based rasams. Mysore rasam is often touted as a “Karnataka special” though its name suggests particular regional, community, and historical specificity: it’s an Iyengar rasam, pointing to Tamil Iyengar history in the region.

What distinguishes it culinarily, to my mind, is less the tomato than the use of coconut–which becomes a milk in ground-and-thinned form, during the cooking process rather than before. Recognizing this, some cooks will simply add coconut milk to finish at the end. Clever, because that gets around the difficulty of adding coconut with spices earlier and needing to let this simmer for long enough to bring the rasam together but at a temperature low enough to prevent curdling.

As rasams go, this is a sweeter one, both because of the use of coconut milk and because the classic rasam powder for this will use byadagi chillies, which impart less heat than color.

For years, my own Mysuru rasam recipe followed the path laid out by Chandra Padmanabhan in her old book Dakshin, which guided me through many a craving during our years in Houston, and which remains for me an absolute classic. I loved this one enough to make the prescribed Mysuru rasam podi and store a jar of it always, so that this rasam could be made in a pinch. Clearly though, her’s is a shortcut since this is a rasam best made with fresh ground spices, and definitely with freshly extracted coconut milk (absolutely none of the stuff from a can).

So there are two methods, and I’ll share both. The more classic Mysuru rasam is made with a freshly ground paste–here I’m relying on Tretha Rajgopal’s (grandmother’s) version, kindly shared with me while exchanging recipe notes on one of our now many conversations on Instagram. But there is a jar of the rasam podi you can make and store, too, for similar results. That’s Chandra Padmanabhan’s version. I tend to mix and match, and do a bit of both & I’ll explain how.

Option 1: The araithu-vitta rasam route

Here are the ingredients for the made-fresh Mysore rasam powder:

• 1 1/2 teaspoon chana dal or bengal gram dal
• 2 teaspoons coriander seeds
• 4-5 dried red chillies, preferably byadagi (this is a Karnataka rasam after all! Byadagi is native to the region)
• 3/4 teaspoon whole black pepper
• 1 teaspoon jeera
• 2 sprigs curry leaves
• 1/4 cup freshly grated coconut

All but the coconut are roasted in just barely a touch of oil to keep them from burning, and the coconut added last and roasted least. This mixture is cooled, and then pulsed into a wet powder–wet because the coconut is fresh and should retain its moisture. Careful not to over grind the spices or the fats in the coconut will start to separate and then the coconut will not exude its milk in the simmering as it ought, effectively destroying the rasam. So pulse this into a wet powder, leaving it a little coarse if you must.

You’ll need about 4-5 teaspoons of this wet powder to make approximately 1L or thereabouts of Mysuru rasam. If you use less or have any left over, you could refrigerate or freeze it for future use. [Bring it to room temp. and/or toast very lightly before using.]

Option 2: The pre-made rasam podi route

Having documented my mother-in-law’s classic rasam powder and claimed it the best thing ever, I wanted to compare that house-favorite rasam powder to Chandra Padmanabhan’s one for Mysore rasam, to consider the differences (and, I confess, the prospects of swapping these out when needed). In the picture you see the differences marked out visually.

Amma’s chaaru podi uses some toor dal and mustard. Chandra Padmanabhan’s skips these, and uses a little turmeric instead. Proportions otherwise are roughly the same, or comparable. So you could prep this basic chaaru powder without toor dal and mustard, and add 2 teaspoons of turmeric powder instead. This is Mysore rasam powder.

A shortcut to making both regular and Mysuru rasam podi in one go

Alternatively, with a wee bit of thought and planning, it’s possible to make both powders in one go. Basically,

1. prep this basic chaaru powder without toor dal and mustard,
2. divide it in half,
3. then use 1/2 the quantity of roasted toor and mustard given here to add to one half–this becomes the everyday chaaru or rasam podi, and
4. add 1 teaspoon turmeric powder to the other half–this becomes the Mysore rasam podi.

Et voila, you have both a regular chaaru podi as well as a Mysore rasam podi made in one go. Note that the dry, pre-made-and-stored Mysuru rasam powder uses fenugreek/methi, while the fresh powder does not. Slight and subtle differences in flavor will be inevitable, but for the ease it’s worthwhile and pleasant besides.

A note on cutting tomatoes for rasam

A knife works but produces chunks, a blender offers too harsh a treatment, so often for tomato rasams hands and fingers are the way to go. Squeeze, tear, mash. The point is to mush the fruit and allow it to give the right texture to the rasam once it’s boiled, like so:

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