My first encounter with authentic Sajji happened on a road trip through Balochistan’s rough terrain. The fresh air smelt of dirt and far-off ocean as my friends and I drove on the famous Makran Coastal Highway. We stopped at a tiny roadside restaurant—a wooden hut that looked like it grew out of the desert—between Kund Malir’s golden shores and Hingol’s high mountains.
The warmth from a charcoal fire welcomed us inside, its light dancing on the cooks’ worn faces. In that place, with skewers clanking and locals chuckling, I learnt about Sajji. It wasn’t just food, but a sign of Baloch welcome and custom.
The view of meat on skewers standing tall around the coals captivated us. Whole chicken and lamb pieces hung like guards over the hot embers, their fat dripping and crackling as it hit the flames. Slowly, the smell overwhelmed us—a blend of smoke, earth, and a hint of lemon. As our table received the Sajji, I couldn’t help but understand its fame at once. There, resting on a plate of fresh Kaak bread, was a golden-brown chicken, shiny with its juices.
There were no fancy sides or showy presentations—just meat, bread, and the promise of pure taste. Naturally, following tradition, I ripped off a chunk of chicken with my hands and took my first bite. Instantly, the taste exploded in my mouth. The marinade, though simple—salt, lemon, and a hint of spices—had worked wonders. Moreover, the meat was tender, with a smoky flavour, and perfectly seasoned, allowing its natural taste to shine through. It was unlike anything I’d eaten before, and, in a way, it felt as though I had tasted a piece of Balochistan itself.
As I kept eating, the owner of the place, an old man called Haji, sat down at our table. Haji talked with joy about how making Sajji was more than just cooking—it brought people together. Families would sit around the fire telling tales and chuckling as the meat cooked. “The key,” he murmured, leaning close like he was sharing a secret, “is to take your time. You can’t hurry, Sajji. It needs time to soak up the smoke, to get tender, to become something you’ll wait for.”
That meal stuck in my mind long after I left the sandy roads of Balochistan. At home when I saw Sajji on a menu or at a food stand, I’d always order it trying to relive the wonder of that first time. While many versions came close, none matched the feel of that roadside Sajji eaten outside with the desert breeze as background noise.
A long time later, I finally decided to try making Sajji in my backyard. I gathered a charcoal grill, a chicken, and a few essential ingredients. With great care, I soaked the meat in spices and placed it on skewers, just as I had watched Haji do all those years ago.
In many ways, Sajji tells a story of the ingenuity and resilience of the Baloch people. It is not just a dinner; rather, it is also a storyteller. It vividly reflects their deep respect for nature, their remarkable inventiveness, and their exceptional sense of hospitality.
For me, it’s a reminder of life’s little joys—a hot dinner spread under the vast heavens, shared among sympathetic people. Next time you savour Sajji, take a moment to close your eyes. Picture the rugged Balochistan countryside, and then hear the crackle of a charcoal fire. As you do, imagine the tales of those who perfected this technique. Every bite of Sajji is a journey, not just for the taste buds but a trip to the heart of a culture. A culture that, against all odds, thrives in adversity.
