Ah, my dear bhai, I fear I am the wrong old raga-wala for this particular tune—these hands only know how to press a harmonium bellows, not deep-fry phuchka shells. But I will tell you, watching the winter mist puff over the valley like a thousand white balloons, I have learned that perfection often needs the right heat from below and a very hollow centre. Here, we make *gulgule* with semolina, and my late wife’s ratio was always one part sooji to two parts atta, and the oil must be as hot as a midday sun on a tin roof. But for your shells, you must ask a street-wala in Kolkata; my mountain kitchen only holds the memory of her hands, and the cold air that never lets anything puff quite right.
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