An Afternoon When Pootharekulu Walked Into My Life!
There are some culinary discoveries that happen after elaborate searches, through recommendations, or at celebrated restaurants. And then there are those that simply walk into your life by chance. My discovery of Pootharekulu, the exquisite paper-thin sweet from Andhra Pradesh, was one such beautiful accident.
This afternoon, I happened to be in the neighbourhood on an errand when, on an impulse, I decided to drop in and meet 88-year-old Rani Mukundan aunty, someone I admire immensely. She is a dear friend of my late mother-in-law and has always held a very special place in my heart.
Rani aunty is a dynamite of talent and energy. An exceptional painter, a passionate gardener and a woman with an extraordinary eye for beauty, she has spent nearly six decades collecting plants. Her home is almost a reserve forest in the middle of Kochi, filled with an astonishing collection of greenery, paintings and carefully chosen curios. Yet everything is curated with such taste that, despite its abundance, her home remains absolutely spic and span. There is an unmistakable personality in every corner.
It was during this completely unplanned visit and her insistence on not sending me off without having anything, that I stumbled upon something I had never really experienced before: Pootharekulu.
And what a discovery it was.
I was so fascinated by this discovery that immediately on returning home I wanted to learn more and enlighten myself about the origins and making of this sweet. That is another fascinating story.
I am presenting my summary as I have understood and experienced it.
Pootharekulu, also called Putharekulu, literally translates roughly to “coating of sheets”. It is one of Andhra Pradesh's most distinctive traditional sweets, with its roots firmly embedded in Atreyapuram, in the East Godavari region. The sweet has been made there for centuries and has become almost inseparable from the identity of the village.
What fascinated me most was learning about the extraordinary craftsmanship behind something that, at first glance, appears so deceptively simple.
The magic begins with rice.
A special variety of rice, traditionally known locally as Jaya, is soaked and ground into an exceptionally fine batter. The batter is then used to create the famous reku, the almost impossibly thin rice-starch sheet that gives the sweet its identity.
The traditional preparation is wonderfully ingenious.
An earthen pot is heated and inverted. A fine cloth is dipped into the rice batter and then swiftly swept across the hot surface of the inverted pot. The movement has to be quick, precise and practiced. Almost instantaneously, the moisture evaporates and leaves behind a translucent film of rice starch.
A sheet so delicate that it resembles a piece of paper.
That sheet is carefully peeled away.
Then comes the layering.
One sheet is placed down, a generous brushing of melted ghee follows, and powdered sugar is sprinkled over it. Another delicate sheet may be added, followed by more ghee and another layer of sweetness. Depending on the variety, the filling can include jaggery, powdered cashews, almonds and pistachios, creating a richer and nuttier character.
There are also contemporary versions filled with kova or mawa, while newer interpretations have ventured into chocolate, crushed biscuits and even Oreo-inspired fillings.
But for me, the traditional versions possess a charm that modern experimentation cannot quite replicate.
The women of Atreyapuram have perfected this craft over generations. What looks like a simple kitchen exercise is actually a remarkable display of hand-eye coordination, timing and muscle memory. The making of the rice sheets has become an important cottage industry, providing livelihoods to hundreds of women in the village. Their hands have preserved a culinary tradition that could easily have disappeared into history.
Once the layers are assembled, the sheet is folded and rolled with extraordinary delicacy. The finished sweet is light, compact and almost impossibly fragile, before being carefully packed for sale.
And then comes the moment of truth.
The first bite is an experience in contrasts.
There is a delicate crunch as the wafer-thin rice layers yield between the teeth. Almost immediately, the crispness gives way to a soft, buttery melt. The ghee spreads across the palate, carrying the sweetness of the sugar or jaggery with it. Then the nuts appear, adding little bursts of texture and roasted richness.
It doesn't sit heavily on the tongue. It almost disappears.
There is something wonderfully ephemeral about Pootharekulu. You bite into something that looks like paper and, within seconds, it has transformed into sweetness, ghee, nuttiness and fragrance.
The taste is uncomplicated. The technique is anything but. And perhaps that is what makes it so extraordinary.
I was also struck by the story behind the sweet. Local lore attributes its origins to a woman in Atreyapuram who is said to have experimented with leftover rice starch, adding ghee and sugar to it. Whether every detail of that story is historically verifiable is perhaps less important than what it represents: the instinctive creativity of someone who looked at an ordinary ingredient and imagined something extraordinary.
That spirit survives in Atreyapuram today.
A simple rice batter becomes a translucent sheet. A little ghee becomes richness. Sugar becomes sweetness. A handful of nuts becomes texture. And generations of skilled hands transform all of them into a delicacy that has travelled far beyond its village of origin.
That, to me, is the real beauty of food.
Great food does not always begin with expensive ingredients or complicated recipes. Sometimes it begins with imagination, patience and the willingness to see possibility in the ordinary. Put heart and soul into the making, and humble ingredients can acquire an identity, a history and eventually a reputation.
Atreyapuram did exactly that.
And now, Pootharekulu carries the name of that village wherever it goes.
What made my discovery even more special was the person with whom it happened. When Rani aunty saw how much I was enjoying the sweet, she lovingly packed two pieces for me to take home and share with Nandini, my wife.
That small gesture somehow completed the experience.
I had gone to see an old friend almost on a whim. I came away having discovered a sweet I had somehow missed all these years, along with a little more appreciation for the invisible stories hidden inside the food we eat.
Life occasionally opens a door without announcing that there is something beautiful behind it.
Today, that door was Rani aunty's home.
Behind it was Pootharekulu.
And tucked inside those two little paper-thin sweets was something far more precious than sugar, ghee and nuts: a new taste, a beautiful memory, and the warmth of an unexpected afternoon spent with someone whose presence has been woven into my family's story.
Some tastes are enjoyed. Some are remembered. And some become memories that refuse to fade.
Pootharekulu, for me, has already become one of them.
