Muruku 101

Deepavali is coming! I love the Festival Of Lights. I love its take on the ritual washing away of sins, and the victory of light over darkness. I love the iridescent colours of the sarees my neighbours wear and the aptly-lurid colours of the kolaam. But most of all, I love Deepavali food. Specifically muruku.

I've eaten these Indian snacks for as long as I remember. Kamala, my Indian 'ayah' (nursemaid) would bring rustle-y packets of these crunchy tidbits for us after she returned from her Deepavali leave. My parents' cleaner, Jaya, would always save a big box for us when she made her homemade treats. And my folks' wonderful neighbours, the Sivashanmugams in Bangsar always made sure they would bring back boxfuls of these crunchy morsels when they returned from visiting family in India.

It was not until recently, however, that I had the opportunity to learn more about muruku from a neighbour who is starting up her own little muruku supply home business. Always the good neighbour, (not to mention a massive greediguts), I began by sampling their wares.

The folk from two doors down have sacks of legumes and nuts. Also crisps and crackers. But the highlight is the muruku. The creation story of muruku goes as such:

In the beginning there was the trinity of Muruku, Achimuruku and Ommopodi. Muruku is the godhead of this triumvirate. It is the gram flour snack characterised by serrated edges which are looped in on itself to form a concentric circle which is dotted by cumin seeds. The only sweet variety in this trio is Achimuruku which is also known as 'kuih ros', or 'rose' due to the shape of the mould which is used to make this crispy, light, brittle snack. It is also the only one of the three which uses egg in its manufacture. Ommopodi are the inch-long millipede-sized crisps which boast a distinctive curry leaf aroma and flavour, when done well.


From this gene pool has come a variety of intermarriages and caste-jumpers, ranging from Star Muruku (named for the star shaped nozzle which the mixture is piped from), Seval (a more dense gram flour snack) and Pakoda (the jaw-breakingly hard but spice-fragrant droplets).

My neighbours get their stock from a family member on the wife's side who owns and operates her own muruku factory in Ipoh, Perak. The factory owner prides herself on her products and insists I tell you that the reason her stuff tastes so good is because she never reuses the oil each batch of muruku is fried in. Yeah, that's the bad thing - muruku is all fried, all of the time. No one's ever come out with a 'baked, not fried' version.

I've gone through all my neighbours' wares and have, right now, little bags of neatly tagged muruku and its variants on my desk. They're knotted shut, but the lovely, intoxicating aroma of chilli powder, curry powder and spices still infuse the air six inches above my table. Tonight, I am the Mistress of Spices. Tomorrow, I will be helping Kit photograph the different varieties in order to make sense of this jumbled pool of snacks, so necessary to the completion of every Deepavali open house. The day after, I might be Mistress of Gas since muruku uses a lot of gram and dhal. A LOT.

I'll keep you posted. And will take orders on behalf of my neighbours. With no charge, except that of spreading the good news that Ipoh's most famous muruku is available in the Klang Valley!