The Hour of The Goddess: Memories of Women, Food and Ritual in Bengal 9780144001422, 014400142X

Citation preview

The Hour of the

of Women,

^

GODDESS ST

A t o n ce a rich, se n su o u s exp erien ce of tastes, c o lo u r an d fragran ces; an in tensely person al m em oir, h istorical d o c u m e n ta tio n a n d social c ritiq u e 1 —The Hindu

‘A DOCUMENTATION OF THE RICH, COMPLEX, MULTIFACETED WORLD OF BENGALI CUISINE, WHICH IS AT ONCE SENSUOUS, SCIENTIFIC, ARTISTIC AND ESOTERIC*

Food constitutes an integral aspect of the intellectual and cultural milieu of Bengal, and rituals, social customs and day-to-day routine are closely intertwined with the preparation of traditional dishes by the women of the household. The quintessential Bengali emphasis on food was brilliantly encapsulated by Chitrita Banerji in Life and Food in Bengal. In The Hour of the Goddess, she returns with an unbeatable combination of cultural insight, personal anecdote and mouth­ watering recipes. Intimate yet objective, it examines the complex connection between gender and food preparation, and the intricate relationship between food, ritual and art in Bengal. Written in her inimitable style, the book takes the reader on a journey that spans Banerji’s personal growth from girlhood to womanhood in Calcutta. Gastronomy and social commentary combine to form a lucid, thoroughly enjoyable book that covers, among other things, offerings made to gods, restrictions imposed on widows, cooking tools, the role played by maidservants in Bengali households, and customs associated with eating. Beautifully written and meticulously researched, The Hour of the Goddess is a finely crafted masterpiece that is at once memoir, food guide and cultural history.

Cover illustration by Uma Krishnaswamy

A PENGUIN BOOK Gender/Culture Studies/Food/Memoir India Rs 195

ISBN □ - 1 4 - 4 O D I 4 2 -X

www.penguinbooksindia.com

9 780144

001422

PENGUIN BOOKS Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi 110 017, India Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, M 4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Group (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London W C2R 0RL, England First published by Seagull Books Private Limited 2001 First published in paperback by Penguin Books India in association with Seagull Books 2006 Copyright © Seagull Books 2001, 2006 All rights reserved 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 ISBN-13: 9-780-14400-1422

ISBN-10: 0-14400-142-X

Typeset in Perpetua by Mantra Virtual Services, New Delhi Printed at Chaman Offset Printers, Delhi

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser and without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission o f both the copyright owner and the abovementioned publisher of this book.

For all the generations o f Bengali women who created, enhanced, and preserved a culinary tradition o f excellence and innovation

CONTENTS

THE H OUR

OF T H E G O D D E S S

FEEDING THE

PATOLER

A DOSE FOOD

AND

27

35 47

CROSSING THE BORDERS

59

BENGALI

BENGAL

FOOD,

11

DIFFERENCE

OF

FIVE L I T T L E

HOW

MA

OF B I T T E R S

THE BONTI

WHAT

GODS

1

BENGAL SEEDS

WIDOWS

85

CANNOT

DISCOVERED

RITUAL AND

75

EAT

95

CHHANA

105

A R T IN B E N G A L

125

REFERENCES

143

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

145

n N ew England, as I look out o f my window, there is m ore colour in the leaves than on people during the autumn. The farm stalls and superm arkets proliferate with vegetables and the prospect o f w arm kitchens is once again welcom e. Autumn, in this northern latitude, is the tim e to start wrapping up, to draw inward from the far-flung activities o f the summer, start the school year, and buckle down to the seriou s business o f

I

Thousands o f m iles from my window, there is a place where autumn is the antithesis o f such earnestness. In eastern India it is the holiday season, m arked by three m ajor religious festivals. In that lush tropical delta crisscrossed by countless rivers— my native region o f Bengal— there is nothing misty or wistful about autum n. It com es riding vigorously on the heels o f a receding m onsoon. It dissipates the cloud cover, banishes the enervating m oisture from soil and air, and lets the earth bask under a kindly sun in a blue, cloud-flecked sky. Its prim ary icon is that o f the m any-arm ed goddess D urga, a resplendent figure, all gold and red, riding a Hon and carrying ten different weapons in her ten hands, a potent sym bol o f victory and hope who destroys the dark dem on Mahishasura. The ebullience o f nature and the liberating effect o f the holiday season is com plem ented by another potent pleasure. Autumn, and later winter, is the tim e to eat well, especially to indulge in the richer foods that are so hard to digest in the heat o f the sum m er or the persistent dam pness o f the m onsoon. The p r e s e n c e o f th e g o d d e s s e s e le v a te s fo o d to an a lm o st suprasensory experience. Many Bengali favourites, including m eat, are also cooked for them. O nce the food is ritually offered and su p p o se d ly a c c e p te d by the deity, its very n atu re is transform ed. However illusory it sounds, I know that a m ajor part o f the pleasure o f many festive foods is associated with the

4

Th e H o u r o f t h e G o d d e s s

ritual o f offering. As if, by preparin g and offering food, the earthbound worshipper can bridge the g u lf between m ortality and divinity. W henever I think o f the autumn festival o f D urga, and o f the subsequent ones honouring the goddesses Lakshmi and Kali, I am overcom e by the arom a o f hot, puffy luchis (deep-fried puffed bread), o f alur dam (slow -cooked spicy potatoes) nestling in a glisten ing, dark, tam arind sauce, o f golden chholar dal (yellow split peas) spiced with cum in, coriander, cinnamon, and cardam om , its thick texture flecked with tiny coconut chips fried in sizzling m ustard oil. The richness o f m eat cooked in a fragrant, spicy sauce extends pleasure to the edge o f sin. My tongue wraps itself around the cool m em ory o f a rice pudding m ade with m ilk evaporated to a rich, pinky-brown creaminess and com bined with fragrantgobindabhog rice, crushed cardamom seeds, and pistachio m orsels. As with eating, celebration too is m arked not by restraint, but by boundless enthusiasm . The autumn festivities are about inclusion and comm unity participation. The bursting bounty o f the fields is matched by the joyful throngs, dressed in vibrant n ew c lo th e s, m illin g a b o u t the st r e e t s and v isitin g the neighbourhood pandals, tem porary enclosures where im ages o f the goddess are enshrined for the festival. Celebration in Bengal is inevitably chaotic, exuberant, cacophonic, and above all, public. My m em ory o f these festivals is always connected to that of my first C hristm as in A m erica. A rriving as a student in the autum n, I had kept my hom esickness at bay by imagining that C hristm as would be a com pensatory event. I anticipated the same kind o f energy, laughter, and fragrance that festivals had always m eant for m e. Instead, I found m yself inhabiting a ghost town. All the students in my dorm itory, except for two other

Introduction

5

hapless foreigners like m e, had gone hom e. The cafeteria had shut down. Even the city streets were deserted. Christm as, I discovered, like other festivals here, was a very private family event behind c lo sed d o o rs. T he jo y s o f givin g, receiv in g, m errym aking, and eating were off-limits to all but the inner circle. Walking the deserted streets, I went past houses whose windows glowed with many lights. I saw people gathered around tables, the flickering flam es o f candles. I laughed to m yself, wondering what would happen if I rang the doorbell o f a house and asked to com e in. O f course I did no such thing. But the pent-up nostalgia for a lost autumn returned forcefully in the desolate winter. I was suddenly filled with a determ ination to hold on, to capture m em ory in every shape and form so that neither tim e nor distance m ade a void in my heart. N o longer afraid o f feeling sad, I concentrated instead on rem em bering every autumn ritual that had sent m e forw ard, year to year. The arom as o f signature festive foods came and w rapped m e in a com forting cocoon. But I realized with a pang that I did not know how to cook any o f them . They had always appeared magically from the loving hands o f my mother and relatives. I decided then to learn without any waste o f tim e. Eagerly, I w rote to my mother, asking for recipes and directions and em barked on an experim ental period o f long-distance cooking lessons. It has been many years since then. The very different beauty o f the N ew England autumn has, over tim e, becom e as precious to m e as the rem em bered season o f Bengal. And now, when my calendar shows the beginning o f another festive period— three days o f worshipping D urga, to be follow ed by Lakshmi and Kali— and I rem em ber how incense sm oke and the crushed petals o f m arigold, hibiscus, and tuberose lend their scents to the redolence o f cooked offerings and delectable family m eals,

T h e H o u r o j t he G o d d e s s

6

I, to o , am connected. M essages from the go ddesses com e rustling through the rich-toned foliage o f sugar m aple, oak, and beech; and memory swells potent, as the aromas, textures and tastes transport me back into a different world.

L u c h is FO R SIX PEOPLE

IN G R ED IEN TS

500 gm (I lb) ofjlour 2 /2 teaspoons o f ghee or peanut oil 300 ml (10 J l oz) o f water 1 teaspoon o f salt METHOD

I usually take 500 gm (1 lb) o f flour, which makes five or six luchis for each person. For big eaters you need m ore. I put the flour on a large tray or platter, preferably with raised sides, add salt and ghee or peanut oil and m ix them well. (You can m ake sure that the oil is sufficient by taking a handful o f the flour and pressing it tightly in your fist. If the flour adheres in a lum p, the oil is right; if it falls apart, m ix in just a little m ore o il.) After the oil has been well m ixed in, the flour has to be kneaded into a dough with water. I generally start with 300 ml (10 fi oz) o f water, which I keep adding slowly to the flour as I gather it in from all sides o f the tray to m ake one lump. If you find you still need a little m ore water, then carefully sprinkle som e over the dough. Too much wiJI ruin the dough, making it too thin. O nce the flour has becom e a neat lump, the hard work of kneading starts.T he m ore you do this, the better the quality o f dough and the puffier the luchi. Usually ten to twelve m inutes o f forceful kneading with both palm s, pressing

Introduction

7

dow n with the base o f the palm , is goo d enough. At the end, the dough should feel elastic when pulled apart. It is then divided into the little round p ortion s called nechis. Each one is sm oothed over betw een the palm s and pressed to flatten it, then rolled out on the board as thin as possible to m ake a 12.5 cm (5 in) luchi. The traditional way is to dip the nechi into a bow l o f oil and then roll it out so that it does not stick to the rolling board. However, the oily surface can be slippery, and the easier way ou t is to dust each nechi very lightly with flour before rolling. A p erfect circle is hard to achieve, but this is the ideal. As I roll the luchis out, I keep them side by side on a large dry platter or sheet o f new spaper spread on the kitchen counter. It is best not to let them overlap too m uch because they m ight start sticking to each other. O nce seven or eight have been rolled out, I put the karai on the stove, heat 120 m l (4 fl oz) o f peanut oil in it and start frying. To do this w ell, hold one side o f a luchi, low er it gently into the oil— still holding it— and set it afloat like a paper boat. This way you avoid a splash and prevent the thin disk o f flour from crum pling up. As it puffs up like a balloon, turn it over w ith a spatula, fry for a m inute m ore and gently lift it up along the side to drain o ff all excess oil. A good luchi should not be too brow n, but cream y-beige in colour. I keep rolling the rest o f the nechis in betw een bouts o f frying. H ot luchis should never be covered, or they will go limp.

C h h o la r

dal

FOR FO UR PEOPLE

IN G R E D IE N T S

2 5 0 gm ( lA lb) o f yellow split peas 3 bay leaves

8

The Hou r o f the Goddess

3 whole red chillies One half of a whole coconut 2 tablespoons o f sizzling mustard oil 1 lA teaspoons o f whole cumin seeds V2 teaspoon ojginger paste V2 teaspoon o j ground chilli 1 teaspoon each of fresh ground cumin and coriander 400 ml (13J1 oz) o f water 3 teaspoons o f sugar 1 tablespoon of ghee 2 teaspoons o f ground garom mashla Salt to taste M ETH O D

For chholar dal to feed four people, my mother would weigh out the yellow split peas and cook them in the pressure cooker with double the amount of water, bay leaves and whole red chillies. She left the cooker for about fifteen to twenty minutes on a high flame. By then the cooked dal would be of a thickish consistency and the individual grains would be soft but unbroken. This she would empty out in a bowl and set aside. Then she would take one half of a whole coconut and pry out half the flesh from the shell. The brown skin at the back would be painstakingly peeled with a sharp knife. If you find this too hard, you can try soaking the coconut for ten minutes in a bowl of hot water. Once peeled, the coconut would be chopped into tiny pieces and fried in the sizzling mustard oil in a large karai until they turned pink. She would add whole cumin seeds to the coconut and fry them for a couple of minutes before adding ginger paste, ground chilli, fresh ground cumin and coriander and salt to taste. Once all this had been fried for

Introduction

9

two to three minutes, she would pour the dal into the karai. (On bad days when there were no freshly ground spices and she had to fall back on powdered spices, she would pour in the dal after frying the coconut and the whole cumin, adding the other spices later.) The dal would be checked for salt, water added, and the whole mixture assiduously stirred until the grains were mashed. Some sugar would be added; this is a dal in which the sweetness should be a little pronounced. Just before removing the dal from the fire, she would add ghee and ground garom mashla.

A lu r

dam

FO R FO UR TO FIVE PEOPLE

IN G R E D IE N T S

500 gm (1 lb) potatoes 3-4 dry red chillies 3-4 teaspoons of whole cumin seeds 3-4 teaspoons each o f cumin and chilli powder 1 V2 teaspoons o f tamarind extract 3 tablespoons of mustard oil 2-3 bay leaves 1 teaspoon of panch phoron A tiny pinch o f asafoetida !4 teaspoon of turmeric powder 400 ml (13 f l oz) o f water Salt to taste M ETH O D

To make alur dam, boil and peel the potatoes— in that order— and quarter them.Take dry red chillies and whole cumin seeds. Toast them in a dry frying pan over a medium flame until the chillies are dark brown. Remove and grind

10

The Ho u r o j the Goddess

them as fine as you can in a pestle or on a grinding stone. (If, however, this seems too much trouble, take 3-4 teaspoons each of cumin and chilli powder and roast them together in a frying pan. The taste and flavour will be pretty good, though not as good as that of freshly ground spices.) Next, take tamarind extract and mix it smoothly in a bowl with 60 ml (2 fl oz) of hot water. Set aside. Heat mustard oil in a karai and throw in bay leaves, panch phoron and a tiny pinch of asafoetida crumbled between your fingers. As the panch phoron stops sputtering, put in the potatoes and sprinkle the turmeric powder over them. Stir repeatedly until they turn golden brown and pour in the water. Once it comes to the boil, reduce the heat to medium and simmer for four to five minutes.Then add salt to taste, 2 teaspoons of the roasted spices and the tamarind paste. Stir thoroughly for another three to four minutes and taste to find your balance of salt and sour. You can add more or less of the roasted powder depending on your tolerance for hot food. If the gravy becomes too thick, or too sour, more water can be added.

2

FEEDING THE G O D S

F

eet. My face alm ost upon them . A w ide assortm ent o f bare adult feet, rough and calloused, w ell-tended and manicured, plum p, delicate, flat and arched. Feet shuffling, tapping, or dancing in rhythm to an ecstatic chant. I see them as I scramble on bare knees on a cool, silky-smooth floor, my left hand holding up the front o f my skirt to form a pouch, my right arm darting in and out between the feet. I am six years old, maybe seven, and I am hunting and gathering batashas. Each successful lunge and capture fills the small hollow o f my palm with the fragile, round, m eringue-like batashas— airy, b rittle puffs o f spun sugar, brown or white in colour, depending on the kind o f su gar u sed . H untin g fo r b atash as w as the obligatory ritual which ended the evenings o f kirtan-singing that punctuated the narrative o f daily life fo r my intensely religious family in Calcutta. As Bengali Hindus o f the Vaishnava sect, my grandparents worshipped Vishnu the Preserver as chief am o n g the go d s. In scrip tu re and m yth he ap p ears as the d e str o y e r o f e v il, lib e ra to r o f the o p p r e sse d , m a ste r o f incarnations, lord o f many nam es: Krishna, Keshab, Madhav, Narayan, Hari. But, I was taught, he is also a lover, and often willing to put aside his pow er and glory for the sake o f closeness with his m o rtal devotees. Singing k irtan s— m edieval lyrics about Krishna and his earthly love, Radha the m ilkmaid— was one way for us to achieve oneness with him. The lyrics sung, the group o f singers (mostly m ale) would begin a protracted choral chant o f two w ords, ‘Hari B ol’ , ‘take the nam e o f H ari/ in an escalating crescendo o f notes. In their fervour, som e even stood up and swayed to the rhythm, eyes closed, arm s raised. Som e fell into a trance. That was the signal for my grandm other to com e in with an enorm ous brass platter filled with batashas and perform the playful ritual I so loved— H arir loot. Handfuls o f batashas were thrown up in the air and

14

The Ho u r o f the Goddes s

cam e spinning down to the floor. Immediately, the listeners (family, neighbours, and friends) would fall to their knees, each person becom ing a pillager intent on gathering as much o f the sanctified loot as possible. It wasn’t until I was much older that I appreciated the serendipity that allowed the same w ord, loot, to mean the same thing in two languages.

For several years, I was the only child in our large rambling house in south C alcu tta, w here my paren ts lived w ith the exten d ed family o f gran dparen ts, uncles, and aunts. As the daughter o f a working mother, I was often in the care o f my grandm other. In spite o f her many chores and responsibilities, she always found tim e for two things— worshipping the gods m orning and evening, and telling m e stories. The stories were spun out o f an enorm ous alternative universe she seem ed to carry in her head, a world o f gods, dem ons, heroes, witches, kings, princes and, o f course, beautiful princesses. But to the telling o f the tale she brought such unquestioning faith that I had no problem travelling with her between the mundane and the extraordinary. There we were, on a sum m er m orning, sitting on the floor o f the atrium-like central space on the second floor from which all the room s opened out. My grandm other’s left foot pressed down on the flat wooden base out o f which rose the arc-like blade o f the Bengali bonti, on which generations o f women have cut their vegetables. A large basket o f vegetables lay on one side. I sat on the other, watchful, eager, ready with questions. It was the same in the thakurghar, or prayer roo m , set aside for the gods. M orning and evening the gods received their dues in this r o o m — a v ariety o f seaso n al fru its, sto re -b o u g h t or hom em ade sw eets, batashas, raisins, and leaves o f the tulsi, or

F e ed i ng the Gods

15

holy basil. And if I was around, any part o f the daily rites o f offering my grandm other perform ed could spin o ff into stories, fantastic or real. Food and worship have been interconnected in Hindu thinking from ancient tim es. In one o f the Upanishads, the human soul, freed from m ortality, is described as roam ing the universe, chanting joyously, ‘I am food, I am an eater o f food.’ Durga, goddess o f deliverance, is eulogized in hymns as she who exists as nourishm ent in all creatures. In the early creation myths, the first offspring o f Brahma the C reator is Agni (fire), who em erges from his m outh and is therefore an ‘eater o f fo o d ’ . And it is in order to m eet Agni s ravenous hunger that Brahma rubs his palms to produce the very first offerings o f milk and butter. That was the origin o f the Vedic practice o f pourin g oblations into the fire in order to ensure the birth o f o n e s own progeny. And when this high-fat diet becom es too much even for Agni s fiery digestive system , he gives him self our equivalent o f colonic irrigation or a high-fibre diet, by consuming an entire forest, for instance, as described in the Mahabharatal T hrough the m edium o f offerin g fo o d to the g o d s, earthbound worshipper finds a m etaphor for offering the that is dependent on the same sustenance. In our house, humans could only eat their first m orsel o f the day after

the self the the

gods had been fed. Although the images are o f many different gods and goddesses, star status went to two human manifestations ofVishnu— Gopal, the chubby, smiling infant, often depicted as stealing cream and curds from the kitchen o f his foster m other Ja sh o d a, and K rish n a, the h andsom e, flu te-p lay in g youth, entwined with his beloved Radha. The bronze statue o f Gopal sat directly on the altar. But Krishna and Radha— he carved out o f a densely black stone, she from golden-white m arble— had a m ore m obile existence. Every night the lovers were put

16

Th e H o u r o j t h e G o d d e s s

to bed together in an exquisitely carved w ooden bed, com plete with bedposts and snow-white m osquito net. In the m orning, my grandm other would ceremoniously raise the m osquito net, lift the im ages ou t o f b ed , and install them on the throne reserved for them on the altar. Like so many rituals, the offering o f food to the gods was always preceded by m eticulous aesthetic preparation. I would sit q u ie tly in a c o r n e r and o b se rv e my g ra n d m o th e r as worshipper. First, she pulled out a round stone slab, sprinkled w ater on it and rubbed it with a sm all bar o f sandalw ood. Instantly, the roo m w as filled w ith the ineffable arom a o f devotion. To this was added a smoky fragrance as incense sticks were lit. Flow ers she picked every m orning were dipped in the sandalwood paste, touched gently to her forehead, and laid out at the feet o f each im age, to the silent iteration o f ritual and personal prayers. Finally, the batashas, fruits, and sweets w ere set ou t cerem on iou sly on several p lates and offered collectively to the gods. Petrified in m an-m ade im ages, the latter could never refute our assum ptions about them. And so a seam less sequence bound us firm ly through the pleasure o f partaking— offerings were m ade, the gods supposedly accepted them , and the sanctified food, proshad, was then consum ed by the worshipper to bridge the gap between m ortality and divinity. O ne o f the things I learned by experience was that no food for the gods could be touched or tasted beforehand, however strong the tem ptation. Human desire and saliva destroyed the purity o f the offering. Why, I asked one m orning, after my w rist had been slapped for trying to sneak a section o f orange. What w as w ro n g w ith finding ou t how som eth in g tasted b efore offering it to the gods?T h at’s what we did for our guests, didn’t we? And, I said, warm ing to my them e, if Krishna loved us so well, w ouldn’t he be moved that we wanted to share something

F e e di n g the Gods

17

we knew beyond doubt to be delectable? My grandm other turned her head slowly and looked at m e. A lifetim e o f family squabbles and many betrayals had stam ped her angular face with a guarded passivity, not bitterness. But her large, expressive eyes always lit up when she talked to me about K rishna’s love, so real for her. In her usual fashion, she avoided a direct answer, but started on one o f her numerous stories about K rishna’s childhood in pastoral Brindaban. The last surviving child o f a dispossessed king, Krishna had been left in the care o f a milkman and his wife, to be hidden from a m urderous uncle. The little avatar-prince grew up with the children o f other farm ers and cow herds, in a world totally rem oved from the trappings o f royalty. O ften, in the course o f grazing their flocks, the boys would happen upon a particularly delicious m ango or som e other fruit. Instead o f gobbling down the w hole thing, they w ould always tu rn to K rishn a, their natural leader, and offer him the half-eaten fruit with all the depth o f their love. The u nspoken in feren ce w as that so m e lib e rtie s w ere perm issible for the bucolic youths in a mythical past, but not for the rest o f us. Something in m e could not accept this without verification. On a blistering sum m er afternoon when everyone at hom e was taking a nap, I stole into the thakurghar. Cupped in my hands were several plum p, juicy lichees, my absolute favourite am ong fruits. Carefully, I knelt in front o f the altar, peeled the biggest lichee, its juice squirting out joyfully as the translucent white flesh was released from the rough, bumpy, pink skin. Leaning forw ard, I took one sw eet, fragrant bite o f pulp and juice before holding out the rest o f the fruit to Krishna as he dallied with his Radha on the throne. M y chest constricted with fear and curiosity. For a second, I closed my eyes. Would I be struck dead for this flagrant transgression? O r w ould he

Th e H o u r o f t h e G o d d e s s

18

accept m e as a playmate, like the ones he had grown up with? Finding that I was still alive despite my im pudence, I opened my eyes and lo o k ed at the im age o f K rishn a. Was there a responsive flicker in the beautiful elongated eyes carved in that gleam ing black face? I no longer rem em ber. But I do have this m em ory o f bringing my hand back to my face and slowly, deliberately, finishing the rest o f the fruit with an extraordinarily intense satisfaction. There were no doubts in my mind about the divine sanction o f that fruity m orsel. Could there be a truer experience o f love?

O fferings, whether o f food, or the m ore metaphysical aspects o f the self, were not m erely the m eans o f keeping the gods happy or buying salvation for ourselves. In my mind, they are strongly associated with a sense o f unrestricted joyfulness, and a heightening o f gustatory pleasure. Fam iliar food som ehow becam e extra delicious when I tasted it as proshad. Perhaps that derived from my awareness o f my grandm other’s intense pleasure in presenting offerings to Krishna, whom she perceived m ore as a friend than a distant god. Som etim es, when the two o f us sat together after evening worship, she would expound her notion o f religiosity as I listened openm outhed: G od is being, consciousness, and bliss. W orshipping Krishna is knowing him, rejoicing in the love you feel for him. And since you cannot be in this m ortal world without food, you m ust feed yourself and K rishn a, w ith love and with joy. R em em ber, you are food, because the god who m ade you is also food. And in order to live, you m ust love him every day with food. Give him what you love m ost and you w ill find it tastes so m uch b ette r afterw ards. N ow then, what will you feed Krishna tonight? She sm iled at m e. It w as a gam e b etw een us as we sat

F e ed i ng the Gods

19

undisturbed. Everyone else was busy talking, cooking, listening to the radio, singing, or reading. Soon my m other would call m e to have supper and go to bed. But there was this little w in d o w o f tim e to b e e n jo y e d w ith th e g o d s . F o r my grandm other, at the end o f a busy day’s w ork, this w as the space to be enjoyed exclusively, territorially, as her own. N one o f her adult children or daughters-in-law claim ed her place in this room , although there were plenty o f tussles over control and authority in the kitchen, the hiring o f servants, the allocation o f joint resources, the planning o f social or religious festivities. In th is on e r o o m , sh e w as s t ill a b s o lu te m is t r e s s and u n q u estio n in g w orsh ipper. A nd I w as the one p e rso n she w elcom ed wholeheartedly. So, what would it be, for Krishna and for myself? I sat and stared at the array o f peeled and cut fruits and the expensive sweets from fancy stores laid out before the altar. But when it came to the crucial choice o f what I loved best, I always found m y self reach in g fo r the sm all m arble plate con tainin g the humble daily offering o f batashas. H ow could you prefer anything else to the one thing that could be eaten endlessly? On special occasions, such as Krishna’s birthday, there were m ore elaborate offerings. Huge vegetarian m eals were cooked at lunchtim e and offered to Krishna before being served to family and guests. O ne o f the m ost delightful offerings o f this day was m ade from the extracted pulp and juice o f the ripe taal, the large, strikingly fragrant fruit o f the palm tree. The intensely sweet, saffron pulp is m ixed with ground coconut and rice flour and m ade into crispy, sw eet fritters— a supposed favourite o f Krishna’s adoptive father in Brindaban, Nanda. All o f us, adults and myself, knew the song about Nanda dancing jo y fu lly as he ate th ese d e lic io u s fr itte r s. An altern ativ e preparation was a chilled pudding m ade by boiling milk down

20

Th e H o u r o f t h e G o d d e s s

to a sem i-solid consistency and m ixing it with the saffron pulp and finely ground coconut.

As I grew older, many factors contributed to a diminishing sense o f joy and festivity in our family life. My grandfather’s death pu t an end to those glorious evenings o f kirtan-singing; the singers had m ostly been his friends. Occasionally, one or two o f m y aunts would spend an evening singing the beautiful, fam iliar lyrics. The family would gather and listen. But these w ere session s o f m uted devotion, o f rem em b ered loss— all sense o f occasion, o f a robust, alm ost rollicking joy in expressing faith and com m union, were absent. Gradually, a slow attrition took over. Several o f my uncles m oved into their own homes. Com paratively isolated in her w idow hood, my grandm other did not have the heart to organize festivities as she had in earlier tim es. K rishna’s birthday cam e and went— always in the middle o f the rainy season — but there w ere no tw en ty-four-h our marathons o f kirtan-singing to celebrate the event. N o bustling activity in the kitchen to prepare for guests those elaborate vegetarian lunches: hot, sm oking khichuri (rice and dal cooked to g eth er with fragran t spices like bay leaf, cinnam on, and c ard am o m ); sliced eggp lan ts frie d c risp ; fritte rs m ade o f seasoned mashed potatoes shaped into little balls, dipped in a batter o f chickpea flour, and fried in oil; a vegetable m edley flavoured with whole five-spice m ix and dry red chillies; pressed squares o f chhana (curdled m ilk solids) floating in a glorious sauce o f ground ginger, cumin, coriander, cloves, cardam om , and cinnamon. After my parents m oved to their own hom e, I found myself even m ore distanced from the celebratory, w orshipful life o f my childhood. The academ ic pressures o f a super-com petitive

F e ed i ng the Gods

21

high school and an expanding universe o f b oo k s, ideas, and friendships, took m e farth er and farther fro m the mythical w o rld o f K rish n a, R ad h a, c o w h e rd s, g o d s , d e m o n s, and m iraculous happenings. My m other set aside a small room in our house to worship the gods and continued the sam e rituals as my grandm other, but for m e, they becam e simply a part o f the daily routine, like bathing or eating, instead o f intersections with another reality. All the friends I m ade in the elite college I went to came from families very different from mine. A few far m ore wealthy, and m ost far less observant o f the rituals o f devotion. Som e o f the boys took great pride in showing off their ‘liberation* from traditional custom by ordering b e e f (absolutely forbidden to Hindus) in the cram ped M uslim restaurants we frequented in search o f their famous kebabs. The contem porary intellectual en th usiasm s, deriv ed very m uch from the W est, w ere also antithetical to faith, ritual, and myth. At a tim e when young people in A m erica were questioning the ‘establishm ent* and gearing up fo r anti-w ar p ro tests, students in C alcutta w ere damning their own system and looking for iconoclastic answers in varying leftist persuasions. Although I m yself never acquired strong political affiliations, I entered and rem ained in a terrain o f scepticism utterly alien to the self-forgetful joys o f loving Krishna and m aking him offerings.

S im p l e

k h ic h u r i

FOR FIVE PEOPLE

IN G R E D IE N T S

500 gm (1 lb) of atap rice 500 gm (1 lb) of roasted moong dal 60 ml (2j l oz) o f mustard or any other cooking oil 2 teaspoons o f ghee

The H o u r o f the Goddes s

22

,

4 sticks of cinnamon, 2.5 cm (1 in) long 4-5 whole cardamoms and 4-5 whole clovesfo r garom mashla 2 bay leaves A liberal pinch o j whole cumin seeds A piece of ginger 4 cm ( lA in) long, choppedfine 2 whole green chillies 1 Vi teaspoons of turmeric powder Salt and sugar to taste M ETH O D

The rice and dal, rinsed separately under running w ater in a colander, are left to dry on a flat surface for about fifteen m inutes. T his p ro cess m akes them easier to c o o k and, anyway, in Bengal, we never cook anything w ithout rinsing it first in water. W hile they dry I p u t on the kettle so that I have ready the hot, though not boiling, w ater I need to add to the khichuri. I heat the oil in a m edium -sized, heavybottom ed deep cooking p o t, add the garom m ashla and bay leaves and w ait for a couple o f m inutes, w ithout stirring them , for the fragrance to be released by the heat before I throw in the cum in seeds and chopped ginger. These I stirfry for a couple o f m inutes, then add the half-dried rice and fry it for tw o to three m inutes. Finally I add the roasted m oong dal and the turm eric and stir the m ixture for another tw o to three m inutes before pourin g in the hot water. The level o f w ater should generally be 4 cm (1 Vz in) over the rice and dal. If necessary, m ore hot w ater can be added tow ards the end, depending on how thin you like your khichuri or if the rice and dal are sticking to the p ot. But a lo t o f w ater at the beginning will m ake a m ishm ash o f the grains. O nce the w ater com es to a boil, I add salt and sugar, reduce the heat to low and cover the p ot. G enerally it takes

23

F e ed i ng the Gods

about twelve to fifteen m inutes for the khichuri to be ready. To avoid sticking and even the slightest burning, which ruins the flavour, I keep checking from tim e to tim e and stir the m ixtu re thoroughly with a spatula. If n eed ed , I add a little m ore hot water. A fter ten m inutes o f cooking, it is a good idea to test the grains o f rice and dal. W hen they feel nearly ready, I throw in the green chillies, check for salt and sugar, w ait till the consistency is ju st right, add ghee and rem ove the p o t from the stove.T he earlier you add the chillies, the hotter the khichuri will b e, for the stirring will blend them in.

Bhuni

k h ic h u r i

FO R THREE TO FO UR PEOPLE

IN G R E D IE N T S

500 gm (1 }b) o f rice 250 gm (*/2 lb) of roasted moong dal 4 medium onions, finely chopped 2 teaspoons of ground ginger 2 tablespoons o f chopped ginger

,

Garom mashla as fo r the simple khichuri but crushed lightly 3 bay leaves 1 teaspoon offreshly ground cumin 1 teaspoon o f whole cumin 7-8 ground chillies 120 gm (4 oz) of raisins 1 75 ml (6 fl oz) c f ghee Salt and sugar to taste M ETH O D

Rinse and dry the rice and dal as for sim ple khichuri.Then heat the ghee in a p ot and throw in the w hole cum in with 2

24

The H o u r o f the Goddes s

bay leaves. As soon as they turn brown, add the crushed garom mashla and, a minute later, the chopped onions and ginger. Stir-fry till brown and add the rice . Lower the heat to medium and keep stirring until the rice makes popping noises.Then add the dal, fry for some more time and pour in the hot water, enough to cover the contents and stay almost 2.5 cm (1 in) above. Again, one has to be careful with the water, particularly because this khichuri has to be dry and fluffy, not soggy and mushy. A little more water can always be added if needed. As soon as the water comes to a boil, add salt and sugar and the green chillies, then lower the heat and cook, covered, for about five to six minutes. Check the salt and sugar balance at this point, adding more if needed, before adding the ground ginger and ground cumin as well as the raisins. Then add the remaining bay leaf, cover the pot tightly and reduce the flame to the barest minimum. If the khichuri looks too dry, this is the time to sprinkle more hot water over it. From time to time over the next four to five minutes, shake— never stir— the covered pot carefully, so that the grains will not stick to the bottom. When done, the bhuni khichuri will be very fluffy and should give off a complex aroma, heavier than that of the simple khichuri. Many people love to add extra dollops of ghee to their platefuls o f simple khichuri, although in these days of cholesterol fears, lemon juice squeezed over the top is also used to add zest.The bhuni khichuri, however, has too much ghee and spices to need any extra seasoning.

F e e di n g the Gods

25

Pa a n c h m e s h a l i I n g r e d ie n t s

250 gm o f potato 250 gm of brinjal 100 gm o f patol 100 gm of green beans Vi cup of shelled green peas 14 cup of oil (preferably mustard oil) 1 teaspoon o f panch photon 2 teaspoons of ground ginger Salt to taste 1 teaspoon o f turmeric powder 2 or 3 green chillies, slit lengthwise M ETH O D

Cut all the vegetables into small cubes (or lengths for the beans) and wash them, but keep them in separate piles. Heat the oil in a karai. Throw in the panch phoron. As soon as the seeds sputter and release their flavour, add the ground ginger and stir well. Now add the potatoes, beans, patois and peas, and stir vigorously for five minutes. Add some salt and throw in the brinjals. Stir vigorously for a couple of minutes and add the green chillies. Reduce heat to low and cover tightly. No water should be added to this dish. The vegetables will release their moisture and that should help the harder items like potatoes and beans to cook while the flavours intermingle. Uncover karai and check from tim e to tim e to see how the vegetables are progressing, stirring thoroughly each time. If the softer vegetables are done and the potatoes are still hard, sprinkle some water and keep tightly covered for five minutes. Uncover again, check for salt adjusting if

26

Th e H o u r o f t h e G o d d e s s

n eed ed , and rem o v e.T h e te x tu re should be dry. Serve with rice, luchi, or chapati.

C

hildhood is full o f m ysteries, even the m ost mundane aspects

o f daily living piquant with the prom ise o f revelation. The daily ritu a l in o u r h ouse that in trig u ed m e m o st w as the processing o f spices on the grinding stone. We did not have a refrigerator then. It was considered an unnecessary luxury— som ething only the very rich would waste money on.The buying, processing, and cooking o f food, therefore, was a m ajor part o f the daily household activity. And the preparation o f spices for cooking— the transform ation o f seeds, herbs, and roots into sm ooth pastes, each with its unique colour— w as, to m e, the m ost m agical p art o f the daily rituals o f food. M y parents and I lived on the third floor o f my grandparents7 large, ram bling, three-storied house in south Calcutta. It was a typical Bengali extended family, the house humming with the com ings and goings o f paren ts, uncles, aunts, and frequent visitors. The kitchen and pantry happened to be on the second floor, directly below our room s on the third. And every m orning I listened for the sound o f the up-ended shil, a large, flat block o f stone with a deeply pitted surface, being low ered to the concrete floor from its rest against the wall. That was the signal that our daily m aid, called, in the custom ary manner, Patoler Ma (o r m other o f Patol, after her offspring), had arrived and was starting on her chores. O nce she had ground the spices, the cook could start on his jo b o f preparing daily m eals for our large family. I think it was the juxtaposition o f Patoler M a’s skeletally thin body— especially her stick-like arm s and legs— with the m assiveness o f the grinding stone, that gave m e my very first sense o f the unfairness o f life, and particularly the unfairness that wom en contend with every day in many traditional societies. She seem ed so pitifully inadequate to this H erculean task o f grasping and m oving the stone into the appropriate position

30

Th e H o u r o f t h e G o d d e s s

for spice grinding, while our male cook looked on, never offering to help, despite his obvious advantage o f size and strength. She hardly ever m issed a d ay s w ork and the routine never varied— spice grinding was the first chore o f the day. The stone and Patoler M a pitted themselves against each other every m orning, year after year, and she inevitably won, for otherwise I would not have seen the magical transmutation that was wrought on that subjugated stone. An unspoken m ethod seem ed to guide her as she set about this daily ritual— as if she was an artist preparing her palette for the day. W henever I could, I went downstairs to watch her getting ready for her task, squatting in the small passageway in front o f the kitchen. First she sprinkled lots o f w ater on the oblong stone surface o f the shil and vigorously wiped it o ff with the side o f her palm . The w ater fell in large drops along the edges o f the stone, form ing a translucent pattern on the floor. Then she took the heavy, pestle-shaped, rough-hewn bar o f stone, the nora, and wiped it down the same way. N ow she was ready for action. The cook had already set out the spices on a large, white enam elled platter with a raised cobalt-blue rim . Patoler Ma liked to start with the rock-hard lum ps o f dried turm eric. That was the base ingredient around which you built the colour and texture o f your food. And it was the hardest to process. Bang, bang, bang she went, pounding away at the recalcitrant lumps with the nora held vertically in her right hand, while the left hand balanced the pieces. I watched and trem bled at the possible mischance o f the stone landing on her thumb or finger. But miraculously, that never happened. Som etim es, a piece rolled o ff the stone and fell to the floor. But soon er or later, they were all beaten down into sm aller granules, their tint deepening into sunflow er yellow as they m ixed with the w ater on the

Patoler M

q

31

surface o f the stones. Sprinkling m ore w ater on the turm eric, P a to le r M a th en sw itc h e d m o tio n s . H o ld in g th e n o ra horizontally in both hands, she proceeded to grind the spice into a sun-bright paste, while the signature odour o f turm eric filled the air. As I watched her— body leaning forward between le g s fo ld e d in the sq u a ttin g p o sitio n , a lo o k o f in te n se concentration on her lean face under a huge topknot o f black hair, arm s vigorously moving back and forth with the nora— I thought o f her as a woman warrior, despite her frailty. T h e tra n sfo rm atio n o f d ried red c h illies w as an oth er fascin atin g p ro c e ss fo r m e. T h ere w as alw ays so m eth in g threatening about them , whether I saw them sitting in a bowl or being picked out from the large jar on the kitchen shelf. Unlike the fresh green chillies that were often used whole in cooking and were also served as an accompaniment during meals for those who wanted to add m ore zest to their food, these dried chillies seem ed to be infused with a sinister potential. Perhaps it was because o f the intensely pungent odour they produced when the cook fried them in oil as a flavouring for certain dishes. You could be up on the third floor, but they still in flam ed you r nasal m em b ran es and plu n ged you in to an epidem ic o f sneezing. I had also been burnt by their fire once when neither the cook nor Patoler Ma was watching. Picking up a chilli I broke it open with a little snap. Seeing the small, pale seeds spilling out, I took som e and put them in my mouth. It brought tears to my eyes; and the traum a was intensified when I rubbed my eyes with fingers on which minute particles o f chilli still adhered. And yet, Patoler Ma seem ed to have no fear o f these lean and fearsom ely pungent missiles. Breaking o ff the stem s, she firmly placed them on the stone, sprinkled w ater over them, brought the nora down and started moving it back and forth. I

32

The H o u r o f the Goddes s

watched as the skins split open and yielded up the seeds, which, in turn, becam e pulverized and blended with the now moistly red, rejuvenated flesh o f the chillies. Soon, she was scooping out the sm ooth red paste from the stone and placing it on the waiting plate— next to the rounded ball o f yellow turm eric. O ften, I surreptitiously looked at her hand. The fingers were stained with the colours o f the spices, the predom inant tinge being yellow. And I m arvelled at the nonchalance with which she went through the day, never afraid o f touching her eyes or lips or nose with fingers on which the burning essence o f chillies might linger. Perhaps such accidents did happen, but life was tough for Patoler M a and she had to get on with it, despite a runny nose, teary eyes, or stinging lips. By the tim e she finished, the rounded balls o f paste on the white plate added up to a whole spectrum o f hues. The dull, m ou sy brow ns o f groun d cum in and corian der w ere often enlivened by the creamy whiteness o f Indian poppy seeds (so different from the black poppy seeds used in the w est). But the m ost intriguing colour w as that o f ground m ustard. This dark, Indian variety has an exhilarating sharpness when it is freshly g ro u n d . To dispel its b itte rn ess, m ustard seeds are groun d together with one or two fresh green chillies and a touch o f salt. Sitting near Patoler M a, I often leaned closer ju st to catch the m outhw atering w hiff o f this titillating com bination. The final product, a yellowish brow n tinged with green, looked, and often was, good enough to taste on its ow n. O n hot sum m er afternoons, my m other som etim es took sour green m angoes and peeled, seeded, and sliced them .The slices were then m ixed with salt, m ustard oil, and the ground m ustard left over from the m orning s cooking. The result was an epicure s delight, to be savoured by itself, one delicate piece after another, the tongue shivering with both shock and joy, but always craving m ore.

P a t o l e r Ma

33

O n the infrequent occasions when we ate m eat, usually for Sunday aftern o o n lun ch , P atoler M a had to con ten d w ith ingredients that had their own m oisture— onions, garlic, and ginger— as well as the m ost arom atic elem ents in our kitchen— cinnamon, cardam om , and clove. The noise o f stone on stone w as very differen t when the elem en t betw een them w as a ju icy allium or a fleshy ro o t like ginger. T h eir flu id-filled substance cushioned the shock and was reduced to paste with relatively little effort. But o f course such ease came at a price. By the tim e she finished w ith them , P atoler M a had tears stream ing down her face and had to sniff vigorously to control her runny nose. So it m ust have been a relief to switch to the harder, sharper, sm aller and intensely fragrant spices that we called garom mashla. As she ham m ered away at the combined pile o f cinnamon, cardam om , and clove, before m aking them into paste, I would draw deep breaths to hold in as much as possible o f the scent that was released. O nce I asked Patoler M a if these w ere not her favourite spices when she cooked for her own family, since they sm elled so good. She turned tow ards m e with the saddest smile I had ever seen. ‘ People like m e can’t afford to buy garom m ashla/ she said, ‘we only handle and smell it in the homes o f people like y o u / The starkness o f the statem ent at first puzzled m e, then brought hom e to m e the iniquities o f poverty and our day-to-day acceptance o f it. W hat m ust it feel like, I w ondered, to spend so m uch energy in processing ingredients that you m ay desire bu t could never obtain? My ch ild’s brain cam e nowhere near an answer, but the question lived with m e and edged m e tow ards the curiosity about other lives and other worlds that consum es all w riters. The days o f the shil and the nora are long gone from my life— as far away, today, as my lost childhood. Now, as I pour

34

The H o u r o f the Goddess

out pow dered spices from capped bottles or plastic bags, I mourn the absence o f freshness and intensity that only fresh, stoneg ro u n d spices can p ro d u ce, and m iss the earthy m agic o f tran sform ation w ro u gh t by ston e and hum an hand. In my m odern Am erican kitchen I use different electrical gadgets to change whole seed or root into paste and powder, but it is a mechanical process. In this kitchen, there is no white enamel plate with an array o f spices waiting to be transform ed into the palette o f life by som eone like Patoler Ma. But despite the lack o f im m ediate and visible alchemy in the preparation o f my daily food, I do not yearn for that long-gone ritual o f spice grinding. For whenever the image o f that colourful plate o f spices rises before my eyes, it is inevitably overlaid by a film o f another colour— that o f Patoler M a s sadness.

A D O S H o r Bi T T H R S

M

y grandm other w as a great believer in traditional herbal

lo r e , a c c o rd in g to w h ich , a r e g u la r d o se o f b itte r vegetables would p rotect you from all the physical ills with which nature assaults the feeble human body. She insisted that one o f them be always served as a starter at lunchtime. The bitter leaves o f an ancient Indian tree, neem , was the springtime favourite. In our family, a favourite delicacy was neembegun. Its sim plicity is stunning. T he n eem leaves, delicate, coppery, feathery as they em erge in spring, are fried crisp in a little oil and set aside. Eggplant cubes are then sauted with a little salt, and when done, are m ingled w ith the leaves w hose papery c risp n e ss in fu se s the p lu sh v e g e ta b le s. E aten w ith ric e , neem begun is an addictive starter, the bitterness underscored by a secret sweetness. As an added bonus, bitter vegetables are also supposed to calm rage. At first, I w ould protest bitterly against the bitter stuff— I was only a girl, I had no rage to speak of, why did I have to go th rou gh this to rtu re ? But that n ever cu t any ice w ith my grandm other. G irls, she said, w ere doubly vulnerable, because they w ere inclined to suppress their anger. All that unspilled rage w as ab sorb ed by their livers. And the only way a girl could keep her liver healthy was by eating right. I figured out early on that it never paid to go against her dictum s, however weird they sounded. Like her children, I too cam e to accept the daily dose o f bitters with stoicism . N eem was the easiest to get, for we never had to buy the leaves from the m arket. A huge tree flourished in a corner o f the garden. Every spring it was a sight to cheer up the m ost irate o f m ortals, covered with sm all, glossy, coppery, serrated leaves, handfuls o f which would be plucked ju st before cooking. O ver tim e, though I never reconciled m yself to the other bitter vegetables I was forced to eat, I did acquire a fondness

38

The H o u r o j the Goddess

for the neem concoction. Sitting down to lunch, I would pull forw ard a portion o f the delicate, long-grained, jasmine-white rice on my plate and m ix it w ith the n eem and eggplan t, relishing the contrary textures o f crispy, crum bling leaves and soft, plush eggplant as I worked my fingers through all o f them. The com bined taste becam e the subtlest o f addictions— bitter, salty, sticky, succulent, all at once. And then, as if to com pensate, would appear the daily delectations— fish, m eat, vegetables, and legum es, shining with dark m ustard oil, golden with ghee, kaleidoscopic in colour, subtly spiced, fragrantly flavoured.

‘The Bengali seem s to have always had a sweet tooth,’ says K. T. Achaya in his sem inal w ork, Indian Food. And in deed , a traveller in oth er region s o f India is certain to hear many com m ents about Bengali sw eets, the com plexity and variety of which testify to a p eo p le’s addiction. Literature and historical narratives are also replete with references to the sweet-loving Bengali. O f course, it is not difficult to understand this addiction. Give a crying baby som ething sw eet and it will usually calm down. The human tongue seem s to have a prim al affinity for sweetness. Milk, the prim ary nourishment, has a pure and sweet undertaste. The exact opposite may be concluded about bitterness. The taste buds cringe, the tongue recoils, the brain revolts into rejection . The human baby lulled by sw eetness, instinctively and strongly rejects anything that tastes bitter— a reaction that has led to folk practices like putting quinine on the nipple to wean a nursing infant or on the thumb o f an older child to help it grow out o f excessive thumb-sucking. Language and m etaphor reinforce this. Unpleasant facts, experiences, and relationships are ‘b itter’ in many languages across different cultures.

A Dose o f Bi t te r s

39

H ow then to account for the eagerness and delight with which we consum e som e o f the m ost bitter o f nature s gifts? An acquired taste, say many. But that m erely skim s the surface o f the mystery. Why bother to go to the distasteful trouble o f acq u irin g such a taste when other, m ore deligh tful, eating experiences abound? And in the best tradition o f mystery novels, the plot thickens when one exam ines the culinary practices of sw eet loving Bengal, w here b itte r v egetab les are eaten as g u sta to r y tr e a ts, and n o t as a sy m b o l o f p en an ce o r to com m em orate past sorrow s, as in the case o f the bitter herbs served at the Passover seder to symbolize the bitter tim es the Jew s endured in Egypt. In considering the paradox o f the sw eet-addicted Bengali’s equal addiction to bitterness, I am rem inded o f m iele am aro, a bitter honey that Sardinia is famous for. It is m ade from the flow ers o f a humble bush called corbezzolo. In early winter its branches are covered with sm all dark red fruits resem bling straw berries, which has led to the erron eous English name, stra w b e rry tre e . M iele am aro is p ro d u c e d in very sm all quantities and is as expensive as it is cherished. To m e it is the perfect representation o f the intersection o f tastes, which lends mystery and delight to food. The traditional m idday m eal in Bengal is incom plete without a sta rte r like shukto, which is a vegetable m edley w ith the prim ary accent on karola— a knobbly, green-skinned, whitefleshed vegetable o f the cucurbitae family, often inaccurately called bitter gourd. D espite the addition o f spices like ginger or m ustard or ground poppy seeds, the shukto is unmistakably bitter. Why would a hospitable people like the Bengalis invite a guest and assault the palate? Cynics believe it is an instance o f the Bengali’s peculiar, devious thinking. Start off a m eal with som ething bitter and anything you present afterw ards will taste

40

The H o u r o f the Goddes s

am brosial. But the obvious relish with which Bengalis m op up their portions o f shukto with rice belies this theory. For the true test o f a cook in Bengal lies in how good a shukto she o r he can m ake. O f cou rse shukto is not the only way to use karolas. The versatility o f Bengali cooks is d em o n strated in m any other preparations. Very young karolas can be steam ed, mashed with a little salt and a spoonful o f pungent m ustard oil, and eaten w ith p la in r ic e . F o r th e fa in th e a rte d , th e b itte r n e s s o f unadulterated karola can be m itigated by m ixing it with mashed potatoes. Roundly sliced and crisply fried slices o f karola can be a lighter starter than shukto. C hopped into slim , inch-long pieces, the karola can be com bined with eggplant, daikon radish, and potatoes and m ade into a stir-fry, flavoured with panchphoron (a whole spice m ixture o f m ustard seeds, black cumin, cumin, fenugreek, and fennel seeds) and spiced with green chillies and ground m ustard. O n a hot sum m er day, a p o t o f yellow m oong dal can be given a refreshing tw ist with the addition o f chopped karola, green chillies, and ginger. Like all children, I too recoiled from my first encounters with shukto. My mother, however, was firm about what I had to eat. N either tears nor defiance got m e anywhere. And despite my gran dm o th er’s theories about karola being good for the liver, I simply saw the portion o f shukto on my plate as one m ore exam ple o f adults exercising unfair power over the child. But years later, as a chronicler o f Bengal’s food history, I found evidence about our belief in the healthful properties o f bitter vegetables that went b ack m ore than a thousand years. An eleventh-century collection o f proverbs and sayings, attributed to a w ise w om an nam ed Khana, recom m en ds eating karola during the Bengali month o f Chaitra (mid-M arch to m id-A pril), when the unforgiving heat o f the tropical sun is at its w orst.

A Dose o f Bi tte rs

41

Khana was an amazing figure. The daughter o f a renowned m athem atician nam ed Barahamihir, she defied tradition that limited education to m en and becam e as proficient as any o f h er fa th e r ’s m ale stu d e n ts. H er p a r tic u la r ge n iu s lay in interpreting natural data as they related to cropping practices, so il fe r tility , an d h a rv e st p r o je c t io n s . O v e r tim e , h er recom m endations constituted a manual for Bengali farm ers. B engali n arrative p o em s o f the fifteen th and sixteen th century also harp on the medicinal qualities o f bitter vegetables. There I found the word shukto to derive from shukuta, the dried leaves o f the bitter jute plant. Herbalists and shamans believed it to be a powerful antidote for excessive m ucus in the gut, as m anifested in a com m on tropical affliction— dysentery. The theory has been forgotten. But the practice has becom e part o f cuisine. T he leaves o f the ju te plan t— on ce B en gal’s m ost im portant cash crop, from which, in the days before synthetic fibres, burlap sacking was m ade for international shipping— are now eaten fresh, though they are not as com m on as karola and their som ewhat slippery texture, rem iniscent o f okra in a gum bo, is not to everyone’s taste. In today’s globalized world, neem is the ultimate symbol of the w ar betw een profiteering m ultinationals and indigenous peoples living by their local natural resources. The European Patent Office recently revoked a patent held by W. R. Grace (one o f the offenders in the W oburn, M assachusetts case o f dum ping toxic chemicals) for m anufacturing fungicide from the products o f the neem tree. Indian farm ers proved in court that their age-old practices already included such uses. But in the traditional Bengali kitchen, far from the turm oil o f international lawsuits, neem leaves have long been a valued food item . N eem leaves, moreover, have a virtue beyond taste, beyond aiding the liver, even beyond serving as a cure for many skin

42

The H o u r o f the Goddes s

ailm en ts. Take ou r gardener, w hose face w as rid d led w ith pockm arks. He was the rare survivor o f a sm allpox epidem ic in his village that had killed everyone in his family except him and a widow ed aunt. The only thing that had kept him from going m ad during the burning, itchy torture o f the disease, he told m e, was the soothing sensation o f neem leaves brushing against his face and body. His aunt spent hours brushing his whole body with tender tw igs o f neem leaves tied together like a little broom . And from tim e to tim e, she would sponge him dow n with w ater in which neem leaves had been boiled, or sprinkle it on him. And in the twilight zone betw een life and death, neem has the pow er to cleanse the living o f the touch o f the dead. I happened to learn about n eem ’s pow er in this area through a death in the family. Things were not too sophisticated in those days. N o vans or hearses to carry the dead. You ju st laid the body on the bed, rounded up as many men as you could, and walked all the way to the crem atorium where the corpse would be burnt to cinders and the bed given away to the untouchable dom s w ho did the grisly w ork o f building the w ood pyre, breaking the corpses’ recalcitrant joints, and gathering the ashes fo r e v e n tu a l d is p o s a l in th e riv e r. O n th e w ay to th e crem atorium and back, the whole group would chant the name o f the lord in its funerary evocation, ‘Bolo H ari, Hari B o l!’— a surefire way to get past sluggish crow ds and knotty traffic, and, for nervous believers, to avoid the evil attentions o f supernatural h o v e re rs. We stood on the second-floor balcony late that evening, my m other, grandm other, and I, waiting for the funeral party to re tu rn . T h e g ro w in g so u n d o f ch an tin g an n oun ced th eir im pending arrival. My grandm other rushed dow nstairs, calling to the cook to bring the things she had kept ready. Ever curious,

A Dose o f Bi t te r s

I followed. Each m ourner was given w ater to wash his hands and feet. He then touched a spill o f burning newspaper, and chewed a raw neem leaf my grandm other held out. Only then did she stand aside and let him enter the house. Why, I asked her a few days later, but never go t a satisfactory answer. In som e distant lore, som ewhere dimly in the collective memory, neem m u st have acquired a greater than therapeutic status, cleansing m ourners o f the touch o f the dead. Creepy as I found that wash-touch-chew ritual at the doorway, I had no problem s distancing m yself from it in a few days. Before long, I was once again enjoying fried neem leaves and eggplan t w ith rice at lunchtime.

Shukto FO R FO UR PEOPLE

IN G R E D IE N T S

500 gm (I lb) o f cubed or sliced mixed vegetables such as potatoes,

,

brinjals, sweet potatoes, green papayas local radishes,flat beans, green bananas, patois, ridged gourds or jhinge and bitter gourds 2 + 1 tablespoons of oil V2

+ Vi teaspoon ofpanch phoron

1 tablespoon ground posto or poppy seeds 3 tablespoons o f mustard (groundfine with a touch of salt) 1 tablespoon of ground ginger 2 bay leaves 2 teaspoons ofjlour 2 teaspoons ojghee 3 teaspoons o j sugar Salt to taste M ETH O D

We often feel you cannot have too m uch o f shukto. For

44

The H o u r o j the Goddess

four peop le we usually take about 5 0 0 gm (1 lb) o f cubed or sliced m ixed vegetables. The thing to rem em ber is that the bitter gourds should be sliced very fine and should not be m ore than one fifth o f the total quantity o f vegetables. O n ce all the vegetables have been w ashed, heat a little oil in a karai and saute the bitter gourd slices for three to four m inutes. Rem ove and keep apart. A dd a little m ore oil to the p ot (the total am ount should be about 2 tablespoons) and throw in Vi teaspoon o f panch phoron. A couple o f m inutes later, add the rest o f the raw vegetables, stir for four to five m inutes and add enough w ater to cook the vegetables. K eep covered until they are cook ed, add the fried bitter gourds together with salt to taste and the sugar. C oo k over high heat for another three to four m inutes and rem ove from the stove. To spice this dish we use groun d p o sto , m ustard and groun d ginger. This is added in the second stage o f the cooking, when 1 tablespoon o f oil is heated in another pot, and another V2 teaspoon o f panch phoron, together with the bay leaves and half the ground gin ger thrown into it. O nce this has been fried for a m inute or so, the cooked vegetables with the gravy are p oured in and brought to the boil. The p osto and m ustard are com bined in a bow l with flour and a little w ater and the paste is added to the pot. A fter cooking these for three to four m inutes, the ghee and the rest o f the ginger are added. The salt and the sugar are checked, the whole thing stirred thoroughly to blend the flavours and the p o t 1 em oved from the fire.T h e sw eetness should balance the b ittern ess, so m o re su gar m ight be needed, h is up to the cook to decide how m uch sugar he o r she wants to add; being G hotis, w e like our shukto to be sw eetish, but others prefer it m ore bitter.T h e sauce should

A Dose o j Bi tte rs

45

be thick, not watery, and whitish in colour. I find that the delicacy of flavour is heightened if the shukto is served warm rather than piping hot.

T

he defining experience o f my life has been close encounters

with com m unities that were different from mine but had existed in close contiguity for centuries.The daughter o f a family deeply rooted in the Indian province o f West Bengal, I happened to form m any close friendships in school w ith girls w hose fam ilies originally cam e from East Bengal, the province that becam e East Pakistan after the partition and independence o f the Indian subcontinent, and twenty-five years later, broke away from Pakistan to becom e Bangladesh. Stereotypes and biases reared their heads at every turn and, even when allayed by humour, never lost their sting. Food, cooking styles, and eating habits o f rival com m unities were the m ost com m on topics for insults, jocular or vicious. D espite this, for m e, in the course o f life’s journey, encountering and appreciating differing food habits and practices has led to unexpected enrichment. East and West Bengalis have sem i-derisive term s for each other— Ghotis for West Bengalis, Bangals for East Bengalis— used equally as proud badges o f identification and loaded term s o f pejoration. People take refuge behind these term s to justify all kinds o f closem indedness. My family was so Ghoti, that when m arriages were arranged, one im portant question was whether the prospective bride or groom was also an unadulterated G hoti. When one o f my uncles went o ff and m arried a Bangal, it created far m ore com m otion than when another m arried an American, The G h oti/B an gal divide was my first experien ce o f the pow er o f bias. W ith one exception, all the friends I m ade during my school years in C alcutta were from Bangal families. As a result, I was at the receiving end o f much goodnatured teasing about G hotis, especially our eating habits. Food was much on our m inds as we started the m orning ride on the school bus. Since there was no organized school lunch unlike in many coun tries in the W est, we w ould carry som ething sm all— a

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sandwich, som e fruit, something sweet— for lunch. But the d ay s m ain m eal o f rice, lentils, vegetables, fish or m eat, which is traditionally eaten in Bengal at lunchtime, was forcefed to us early in the m orning to sustain us through the school day. There we were, a gaggle o f girls on a school bus, chattering, whispering and giggling. W hat we had ju st eaten was fresh in our m inds. Many o f us found getting ready in the m orning a tireso m e chore, often clim bing into the bus with hair half­ braided, belt untied, shoes unlaced— tasks to be finished during the ride. And so we often resented the tim e taken up by having to eat everything our m others insisted was necessary for good nutrition. R ice, o f course, was the staple. But in the houses o f my Bangal friends, there could be no m eal without the obligatory fish stew or maachher jhol, no m atter how early the departure. For those who don 't know m uch about Bengali food, this fish stew has traditionally been the centrepiece o f the day s main m eal. But in a Ghoti household like ours, eating a meal w ithout fish w as quite com m on if tim e w as sh ort, o r if the cook was late with the m orning shopping. There were always enough things to accompany my rice— dal, vegetables cooked in many ways, even a quick om elette to provide the protein. So doing without fish on som e days was no great deprivation. But when I said this, my Bangal friends roared with laughter. To them it was unthinkable to start the day without the sacrosanct m aachher jhol. O ne might as well not eat. W ith condescension and sarcasm , they would proffer portions o f their midday snacks to m e, the poor deprived Ghoti. As I spent m ore tim e at their hom es, I began to realize how pivotal the maachher jhol was to the Bangals. When I m entioned this to my parents and relatives, they would laugh and shake their heads at the vagaries o f the rustics from across the border. W hen I asked for an explanation, I som etim es go t answers that m ade sense (they com e from the

Food a n d D i f f e r e n c e

51

eastern part o f Bengal where there are many m ore rivers and fish is plentiful, so they think o f fish as a staple) but m ore often sarcastic jibes about an unsophisticated lo t that cam e from the hinterland, had the uncontrolled appetite o f peasants, and needed p o tfu ls o f m aachh er jh o l to m o p up m ou n tain s o f ric e . A frequently quoted doggerel referred to Bangals as subhuman. My Bangal friends never m issed the chance to laugh at the Ghoti habit o f eating w heatflour chapattis at dinner which, I believe, came about because o f the rice shortages in the sixties. The Bangals were proud o f pointing out that despite the cost, they still ate rice for both lunch and dinner. It w as only the G hotis, who were not true Bengalis, that could switch to eating chapattis like those Hindi-speaking louts from the neighbouring state o f Bihar. Cooking styles were as varied between the tw o communities as food choice and priorities. The Ghoti tradem ark was the d is c e rn ib le sw e e t u n d e r ta s te in th e c o m p le x v e g e ta b le preparations that Bengal is famed for.To m ost Bangals, however, it was anathem a. G hotis, they said, w ere sissies, sweetening dishes that were m eant to be hot, spicy, salty. If you want a sweet taste, why not eat dessert? In return, the Ghotis would sneer at the Bangals* predilection for chillies and rich, oily sauces that deadened the palate and left no roo m for subtle tastes. What do they know about food, I rem em ber one o f my great aunts saying, they put karola in their fish stew and make pudding out o f white gourds! Although I resented it bitterly when my Bangal peers ganged up on m e and m ade fun o f what Ghotis ate and how we cooked, by the tim e I was finishing high school, I had reluctantly com e to one conclusion that I knew w ould infuriate m ost G hotis, particularly if they heard it from one o f their own. There is a greater degree o f adventurous inventiveness in the cooking o f

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The H o u r o j the Goddess

E ast B engal. Perhaps it is b ecau se o f the terra in , which is untam ed, crisscrossed with the great rivers o f the Bengal delta, rivers that rage with flood w aters, erratically change course, blithely destroy human settlem ents, and throw up intensely fertile silt deposits that produce rich harvests for new settlers. Perhaps, under such a prevailing sense o f uncertainty, you learn to m ake do with very little and yet turn it into som ething palatable to accompany the ‘m ountains o f ric e ’ needed for the voracious Bangal appetite. I say this knowing how dangerous it is, for it neatly echoes the stereotypes prom oted by the Bangals them selves, o f Ghotis being rigid, uninventive, and trapped in tradition! Appreciation o f Bangal cookery was reinforced during my late teens when my m other and I happened to em bark on a parallel discovery (she w as a skilled cook who delighted in learning new dishes from her East Bengal colleagues) o f how the culinary imagination, rooted in a m ore rural landscape, can create succulent dishes out o f humble ingredients. To take one exam ple. M ost o f us, in cooking a cauliflower, would use the florets and discard everything else. N o t the Bangals. As one friend dem onstrated, the leaves can be chopped fine and turned into a delicious stir-fry flavoured with whole spice and dried red chillies. Potato and white gourd peel could also be treated the sam e way and tasted am brosial as a starter with rice. In traditional Ghoti hom es like ours, a fish called chitol was only half enjoyed. It is an extraordinarily bony fish, and so only the rich, oily, front portion o f the fish, where the bones are large and easier to pick out, was considered edible. It was only much later that my m other learnt from one o f her Bangal friends the trick o f scraping the flesh away from the fine bones o f the back portion, com bining it with spices and m ashed potatoes, and frying it in little balls, the glorious Bangal dish o f muittha. It

Food and Difference

53

was a discovery that silenced the anti-Bangal com m entary in our household for quite a while. Perhaps the m ost extraordinary instance o f the transmutation o f the humble into the extraordinary was som ething I learned from the visiting grandm other o f a friend o f mine. I happened to drop by their hom e during the festival o f D urga puja. On the fourth day o f the puja, D urga (goddess o f deliverance) is given an elab o rate se n d -o ff w ith m any o ffe rin g s, usually expensive sw eets and rare fruits. I was am azed to hear this elderly visitor rem iniscing about her youth in a rem ote East Bengal village where the m arried w om en w ould prepare a humble vegetarian dish— stem s o f the w ater lily in a hot and sour tam arind sauce— and offer it to the goddess, beseeching protection from the disastrous fate o f w idow hood. Women in B en gal are fam o u sly fond o f so u r and t a r t p re p aratio n s. Somehow, I felt, it was a suprem e act o f imagination and courage, to identify with the wom anly aspect o f this m ost pow erful goddess, pushing aside the veil o f divinity, and finding com m on ground in the appreciation o f an inexpensive, unpretentious dish that would rarely be served to the m ales o f the household, those m ortal gods with immediate pow er to punish and reward. It created a new appreciation in my m ind for those ‘wild and untam ed' inhabitants o f East Bengal. M

a c h h e r jh o l

FO R FO UR PEOPLE

In g r e d i e n t s

5 0 0 gm (1 lb) offish 4 medium potatoes 1 medium brinjal 10-12 kalai dal boris 1 teaspoon o f turmeric powder

The H o u r o j the Godde s s

54

2 teaspoons o f ground ginger 1 teaspoon each o f ground chilli, cumin and coriander 1 teaspoon ojpanch phoron 5-6 green chillies 2 tablespoons o j chopped coriander leaves 3 tablespoons o f heated oil 900 ml (IV 2 pints) o j water Salt to taste M ETH O D

In Bengal the favourites are the rui, the katla, or the mirgel, though any big fish can be made into a jhol. Once the head and the tail together with the last 10-12 cm (4-5 in) of the body are removed and set aside, the cook decides which portion of the body will be used for the jhol. The body of the fish is cut lengthwise, the front or stomach portion being called the peti and the back being called the daga. The peti is preferred for almost any dish since it is oilier and tastier. But the bony daga is ideal for the medium of the jhol. Whatever the portion chosen, it is then cut horizontally into pieces 2-2.5 cm (%-1 in) in thickness. Since most families are unable to buy a whole fish, it is common in Bengali markets for the fishmonger to portion his fish and cut it to the specifications of the client. The fish is rinsed carefully to get rid of all traces of blood and slime, dusted with salt and turmeric and slowly fried in hot oil, two or three pieces at a time. The oil should be heated well before the fish is put in.The salt and turmeric are used, not only to reduce the fishy odour, but also because they prevent the fish from crumbling or disintegrating (this makes them almost inevitable ingredients for frying fish, prawn or crabs). Since the skin is left on the fish and tends to sputter in the

Food a n d D i f f e r e n c e

55

oil, it is wise to keep your pan covered. Once the fish pieces have been lightly browned, they are lifted out and set aside to drain off all excess oil. If the frying oil has turned too dark, it has to be discarded. Since two of the several vegetables we commonly use in jhols— patois and green bananas— may not be available everywhere, I’ll stick to the certainties of potatoes and brinjals. Take the potatoes, peel and cut diem into long, flat, 1.25 cm (Vi in) thick slices. The brinjal should also be cut into matching slices. If boris made of dried dal paste are available, 10-12 kalai dal boris, white in colour like the dal they are made with, are a must for this jhol. The boris have to be fried first in 3 tablespoons of heated oil. When they turn brown, lift them out by drawing them up along the sides of the karai so that all the oil drains back. The potato slices should also be lightly browned in the same oil and set aside. Then fry the panch phoron, add the ground spices, and stir for a couple of minutes. Add the brinjals and potatoes and pour the water into the karai. When it comes to the boil, add the pieces of fried fish, the boris, the green chillies and a little salt. The salt has to be added carefully because there is already salt in the fried fish. As the jhol keeps cooking, you can taste and adjust the salt. The whole thing should be kept on the stove until the fish and potatoes are tender— about five to six minutes. Finally, the coriander leaves should be stirred in and the jhol removed from the heat.The gravy should be thin and fragrant, but how thin or how spicy it is depends a lot on personal preference.

Th e H o u r o j t h e G o d d e s s

56

C h it o l

kopta

FOR FO UR PEOPLE

IN G R E D IE N T S

500 gm (1 lb) ofjish 2 medium potatoes lA teaspoon o f ground ginger 1 medium onion, finely chopped 1 beaten egg 120 ml ( 4 f l oz) oil Salt to taste M ETHO D

For chitol kopta, the flesh is scooped away from the skin of the bony back portion with a spoon, but you have to be careful to move the spoon the way the bones are laid. If it moves against them, the bones will come away with the fish.To make the fishballs, first boil potatoes and mash them finely. Mix these thoroughly with the lump of fish. Though chitol, being very sticky, does not need this as a binder, I find the potatoes make the texture soft and fluffy. To the fish and potato mixture add some salt, ginger, and finely chopped onion and egg. Mix all of these together to make a tight dough-like lump. It should not be thin or watery. Divide it into 20 round or oval bails, patting each smooth between the palms.Then heat oil in a karai, and deep-fry the fishballs in it. In the hot oil they will swell up like little balloons, though they shrink later when taken out. These koptas can be served by themselves as an appetizer or snack, or just as an item with rice and dal. But mostly they are put into a thick gravy before serving with rice. For this, you need:

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57

2 medium onions, finely chopped Z2 teaspoon o f ground ginger 1 teaspoon o f chilli powder V2 teaspoon o f turmeric powder 2 bay leaves 3 pieces o f cinnamon, 4 cardamoms, 4 cloves f o r whole garom mashla 2 teaspoons o f sugar 500 ml (16 f l oz) ( f water 2 teaspoons of flour Salt and sugar to taste

If the oil in which you have fried the fishballs has been reduced too much, you can add some fresh oil to it and heat it.Then throw in the bay leaves and garom mashla, fry for a couple o f minutes, add the onions and fry till golden brown. Add 2 teaspoons of sugar and wait till it turns to a caramel colour, after which add the other spices. Fry these well, add the water and salt as needed. When it comes to the boil, add the fishballs and keep covered for five to six minutes. Taste for salt, add flour to thicken the gravy and remove. Once again, you can use less or more water, depending on how much gravy you would like, and the spices will have to be adjusted accordingly.This, too, can be garnished with coriander leaves. Or you can mix in a small handful of fresh chopped mint to the fish mixture before making the fishballs.

6

CROS S I NG- T H E B O R D E R S

A

fter college, when I got the opportunity to pursue graduate

studies in the United States, 1 was overjoyed. My parents did not try to stop m e, but fear, anxiety, and a sense o f desolation lay very close to the surface.The anxiety was particularly intense b ecau se I w as the first girl in the fam ily to go o ff alon e, unm arried, to a distant country. Like all heedless young people eager for adventure and independence, I ignored all signs o f this, until one day my grandm other asked if I didn’t feel sad at the thought o f leaving behind everything I knew and loved. I was stricken with guilt and sorrow, but it was also a m om ent o f revelation. I saw how far I had moved from my m oorings, how ready I was to let go. My parents m ust have consoled them selves with o f my future success, expecting the daughter to return in a few years and settle down to a productive and predictable life in her hom etown. But within a year o f my arrival in the United S ta te s, I d ash ed all th o se h o p es to th e g ro u n d w ith the catastrophic announcement that I was going to m arry a Bengali M uslim from East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) whom I had m et as a fellow student. Looking back after so many years, I can clearly imagine the echoing bew ilderm ent that m ust have filled both my parents’ hom e and the house o f my childhood w here my w idow ed grandm other still lived with som e o f her m arried sons. How can she even dream o f it, they m ust have said, how can she possibly go and spend her life with this man in a Muslim country? D oesn ’t she know our history, o f the centuries o f hatred between Hindus and M uslims in India, o f what happened during Partition in 1947— all those riots, rapes, and massacres? Is she bewitched? H asn 't she read about how w om en are tre ated in M uslim countries, doesn’t she know she’ll lose all the freedom she’s so used to? H asn’t she heard o f M uslim m en being perm itted to

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The H o u r o j the Goddess

have four wives? And (above all) how can she reject all our traditions o f worship? W on’t a M uslim husband force her to convert to Islam? Surely she m ust have gone mad. O r this man has put a spell on her. And on the food front— w on’t they force her to eat b eef, violating the n orm s o f H indu b elief in the sacredness o f the cow? Added to this was the shame o f having to confess to social peers and relatives that a daughter o f the house had violated all the taboos. In as many ways as possible, parents and relatives tried to dissuade m e from stepping beyond the point o f no return. An am azing fear and revulsion o f M uslim s, a com m unity that I hadn’t personally encountered m uch in Calcutta, leapt from the pages o f letters. But I rem ained adamant. My family, I felt, w as show ing m e an aspect that was entirely unfamiliar. My upbringing had indeed been remarkably free o f expressions o f sectarian hatred by any o f my relatives. Obviously, as I now realized, those prejudices w ere ingrained below the surface and w ere welling out now, as they feared for my happiness and dreaded their own impending social disgrace. It’s hard to say who felt m ore betrayed, my family or I. In my u n sub tle, im m ature anger, I found it unforgivable that neither intelligence nor education had freed them from petty parochialism . I also raged at the layers o f hypocrisy that I felt w ere now bein g ex p o sed . For although w e w ere orth odox brahmans by caste, we belonged to the Vaishnava sect. O ne o f the tenets o f Vaishnava reform ism (which began as the Bhakti M ovem ent in Bengal in the fifteenth century) w as that birth and caste did not m atter, that we were all equals before the Lord. We never resolved our differences. Against their wishes, I m arried, and after a few years, left the U nited States and went to liv e in th e n e w ly c r e a t e d , w a r - r a v a g e d c o u n tr y o f

Crossing the Borders

63

Bangladesh. En route, we stopped in Calcutta to make an uneasy peace with my family. A lm ost everyone loaded m e with guilt and blam e, although nothing was said directly nor w as my husband tre ated w ith any o v ert incivility. B ut my devou t grandm other defied all expectations by w elcom ing the heathen outsider with open arm s. D uring our stay in Calcutta, we visited her often, and I was amazed, delighted, and utterly com forted to see the ease with which she becam e a narrator again, holding him transfixed in her web o f m agic myths about Krishna, Radha, gods, dem ons, and others. W hat’s m ore, when she presented my husband with post-ritual offerings o f fruits and sw eets, he, an atheist, accepted with alacrity. W atching them together, I felt it was a trium ph o f the narrator and the worshipper.

In Bangladesh, it was my turn to be the outsider. This new born country that was only a forty-m inute plane ride from the city o f my birth, where people spoke my language and looked and dressed like m e, constantly presented unfamiliar facets to wellknown things. The food I ate during our initial stay in my in­ laws' house was apparently the same rice, dal, vegetables, and fish that I had grow n up on, and yet everything tasted different, though no less delicious. It took m e a while to figure out that the one ubiquitous elem ent in these dishes w as onions— an ingredient that was used in our household only for cooking m eat (goatm eat or chicken) and occasionally com bined with lentils and potatoes. M y grandparents, in fact, never ate chicken, a ‘heathen* bird associated with M uslim s, like the onion itself. O n e o f my u n cles had b ro k en that h o u seh o ld tab o o and introduced his siblings to chicken, but never my grandparents. As for the num erous greens and vegetables available in our lush tropical region, they were only rarely com bined with onions

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in my fam ily’s kitchen. But my M uslim in-laws and friends w o u ld n ’t dream o f prep arin g them w ith out throw ing in a handful o f sliced onion. N o vegetable— -greens, gourds, potatoes, cauliflowers, cabbage— escaped the ubiquitous onion. N or did any kind o f fish. This allium , it seem ed , w as an inevitable ingredient here, like salt. Contrary to my family’s apprehensions, my in-laws spared m e any pressure to convert to Islam. But I could not remain unaware o f the daily religious reality o f this new hom e. N o tinkling bells or resounding conch shells from tem ples and houses, but the song o f the muezzin sounding from m inarets, calling the faithful to prayer five tim es a day; no aesthetic rituals with flower, leaf, and perfum e, but austere obeisance on a prayer rug before an invisible god; no bustling, tum ultuous crow ds o f m en and wom en in tem ples crushing forw ard to make their offerin gs b efore an im age and receive sacram en t from the priest, but orderly, all-male prayer assem blies in m osques. God in this M uslim universe had no humanly definable shape or form ; the concept o f incarnations was absurd, any thought o f offering him food every day and then partaking o f it unimaginable. The only tim e that food played a part in worship was at the g re a t fe stiv al o f B akr-id, w hich c o m m e m o ra te d the O ld Testam ent tale o f A braham ’s readiness to sacrifice his son to the Lord. In the city o f Dhaka w here we lived, the affluent (including our landlord) bought goats and cows and offered them for korbani, or sacrifice. The animals were slaughtered with the recom m ended two-and-a-half strokes o f the knife across the throat. The rivers o f blood ran and ran, flowing down porch steps, into the courtyards, and draining into sewer pipes. For a tru e M u slim , no m eat is halal or san c tio n e d , u n less the slaughtering is done right and the blood drained out completely. The ferrous sm ell o f blood rose up to the sky as kites and crows

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shrieked overhead. E x p ert butchers, hired for the occasion, cut and p ortion ed the m eat, while servants m ade packages under directions from their m asters. The beauty o f Bakr-Id lies in the in ju n ctio n o f sh aring the m eat on e has o ffe re d as sa c rific e — w ith fam ily, frie n d s, and the poor. As the day progressed , I noticed hordes o f beggars lined up outside the am ple, walled houses, clam ouring for their share. That first experience o f Bakr-Id was shocking. I had never seen animal sacrifice before, although som e Hindu sects do have a tradition o f m aking animal sacrifices, especially those who are follow ers o f the goddess Kali. Although my family was not vegetarian, m eat was eaten only on special occasions and we were shielded from the blood and gore since slaughterhouses were far from m arkets. O n this Bakr-Id afternoon, when the gift packages o f m eat from in-laws and friends started to arrive at our house, I was initially repelled. Quickly, I gave away m ost o f the m eat to the servants. But on second thoughts, I decided to have the last remaining portion prepared in the slow-cooking m ethod that is traditionally used for korbani m eat. I knew I could never belong to this community through faith, fast, or prayer. But perhaps eating could be one way o f participating. Perhaps, I also hoped, it would help m e feel less o f an outsider. But inclusion is not so easy. Friendships form ed and filled m y h e a r t w ith d e lig h t, on ly to b e ta r n ish e d by sm all manifestations o f distrust tow ards m e as the Hindu woman from across the border. As in the case o f the United States and M exico, the prevailing paranoia o f a sm all nation obligated to a big neighbour (the Indian army had helped liberate Bangladesh in 1971 from the occupying Pakistani forces) m ust have coloured many people’s reactions towards me. Anything I took for granted w ould suddenly seem to w aver like a reflection in m oving w aters.

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Those were tough tim es to live through— for m e, for the land, for its people. The days were filled with news and evidence o f famine, floods, inflation, anarchy, and betrayal. Heavy, fly­ blow n heat, the dankness o f unrem itting rain, the constant cries o f people begging for food, the insecurity o f existence, unending sto rie s ab o u t c o r r u p tio n , ab u se o f po w er, and m o u n tin g lawlessness— all contributed to the sensation o f being w rapped in a m iasm a o f despair. As I struggled to m ake sense o f my life in a landscape o f extraordinary suffering, nothing was farther from my mind than the sm ell o f sandalwood paste, the taste o f ritu a l o ffe rin g s, o r evenings o f k irtan -sin gin g in a H indu household in Calcutta. But Krishna and his offerings were not to be forgotten so easily. O ne oppressive afternoon in late A ugust, I found myself, along with som e colleagues, in a rem ote Bangladeshi village, conducting a drinking w ater survey for an international aid agency. It was the month o f Bhadra according to the Bengali calendar, a tim e when the m onsoon starts withdrawing from B en gal, leavin g land and air in fu sed w ith an o p p re ssiv e , glow ering humidity, panting for the dryness o f autum n and winter. In the medieval kirtan lyrics, it is the month o f despair— when the beautiful m ilkm aid Radha bem oans the absence o f Krishna, who has abandoned her and gone o ff to reclaim his We, too, were on the verge o f despair. Everything seem ed to have gone w rong on this trip. Buses, ferries, and boats had all played havoc with our foolishly optim istic schedules. In the dead o f afternoon, we stood forlorn in the m iddle o f a desolate, sun-parched village, wondering if any reprieve could be found from the ungodly heat. We were dying for som ething to drink, a bit o f shade to rest in till som e alternative transport could be

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found. N either seem ed within the realm o f possibility until a ragged boy appeared from nowhere and asked if we w anted som e tea. Silently, we followed him down a lumpy, packed-earth road to a ru d im en tary sh elter o f canvas su p p o rte d by b am b oo s planted in the ground. Underneath were tw o rickety benches, one raised on bricks to serve as a table. A sooty kettle sat atop a prim itive, wood-fired stove, near which a thin, bare-chested m an , w earin g the tradition al lu n gi, w as p o u rin g tea from another kettle into chipped earthen cups. H e looked at us with a friendly grin com posed o f only three teeth and waved tow ard the bench. As we lowered ourselves onto it with palpable relief, the m an handed the cups to the boy who carefully put each one down in front o f us. O ur silence m ust have underscored our b on e-deep w eariness. For the m an decid ed that these city slickers needed m ore than tea. Squatting dow n, he opened a large tin that sat beside the stove and began to take out handfuls o f som ething, putting them in a battered enam el bow l. Biscuits fo r tea, I thought hopefully. Then the boy cam e forw ard and put the bow l down in front o f us, and I saw what the pastel-brown objects were. Batashas. The sm ell o f much-brewed tea and steam ed milk, fram ed by the od ou r o f sweaty bodies, dried cow dung, and burning firew ood, all retreated before a surging m em ory o f sandalwood paste, incense sm oke, and oil burning in a lamp with a cotton wick. As I had done so often in that other w orld, I put out my hand and let the fragility o f a batasha fill the hollow o f my palm . I placed it in my m outh and bit into it, letting it dissolve into a pool o f m ild, refreshing sweetness. A charge o f energy pulsed through my body. For one m om ent, I felt the pall o f inertia, doubt, and despair lift away from m e. In this alien land so perv ersely close to my hom e, I found m yself once again

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ready and eager, sharply poised to give chase, filled with the confidence o f capturing Krishna's largesse.

As time went by, I was to discover the distinctiveness, delicacy, and variety o f the food cooked by Bangladeshis. True to Muslim tradition, their preparations o f chicken, khashi (castrated goat), duck, and b eef were infinitely superior to anything I had tasted in Hindu hom es. That was only to be expected. M uslims were su p p o sed to be w izards w ith m eat. B ut w hat serv ed as a rev e latio n w as the con ju n ction o f u n e x p e c te d , u n related elem ents, resulting in gustatory experiences o f unprecedented delight. Poppy seed paste, which I had grow n to consider a com m on and very appropriate accom panim ent for delicate v e getab le s like jhinge (sim ilar in taste and con sisten cy to courgettes or m arrow s), was boldly added to chicken and lamb. The Khashir rezala, a glorious M uslim invention which I had also tasted in restaurants in India, exploded with a sudden novel piquancy in my m outh as I tasted the sauce that included yogurt, lem on, kewra (extracted from the screwpine flow er), enhanced with the zestiness o f ripened green chillies. The koi, a freshwater perch m uch prized in Bengal, was com bined with oranges to becom e an eclectic pleasure. O n a w inter evening, I found m yself the guest o f honour in a rural hom estead. My hostess and her daughters were busy tending the food that was being cooked over wood fires burning in deep pits dug into the earth. That m eal o f freshly caught carp seasoned with green chillies and green coriander, duck nestling in a rich sauce flavoured with coconut milk, and stacks o f paper-thin chapattis m ade out o f freshly ground rice flour w as n ot only am brosial to my taste buds, but also a severe lesson in humility. N o preconceived notions o f superiority as

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an urban, educated, sophisticated or well-travelled person could survive in the face o f such culinary perfection. Those rice flour chapattis took on a very different aspect when I saw them being served in tow n during the great Islamic festival o f Shab-e-barat. Custom in Bangladesh decrees that the occasion should be celebrated by eating rice flour chapattis with an array o f haluas. Europeans and Am ericans know the term as halvah, a M iddle Eastern concoction. In the Indian subcontinent it has com e to m ean a dish m ade o f finely ground grains or legum es sauteed in ghee, flavoured with w hole sw eet spices like cinnam on or cardam om , and sw eetened with sugar, not honey or m olasses. The com m onest variety is m ade with cream o f wheat. But during my first Shab-e-barat, I was dumbfounded to see an amazing variety o f haluas, m ade with ingredients like plain white flour, split pea flour, gluten, eggs, nuts, white gourd, carrots, and yes, even meat. Perhaps my m ost m em orable lesson in the power food has to u pset precon ceived ideas cam e to m e through fish— the darling o f the Bengali palate, whether Ghoti or Bangal, Hindu or M uslim . And o f all the m yriad species that the region is blessed with, the undisputed king is the hilsa, called ilish in Bengal. A large anadrom ous fish, like the Am erican shad, the hilsa spawns during the m onsoon in estuarine w aters and then travels upstream through Bengal to northern India. Its unique flavour, soft, rich flesh, delicate roe, and graceful appearance cause Bengalis to swoon with appreciation. Even its plentiful bones cannot detract from its appeal. Before com ing to Bangladesh, I had eaten hilsa cooked in a variety o f ways, including the classic preparation o f ilish paturi (p ieces o f fish coated in m u stard oil and groun d m u stard, w rapped in banana leaves, and cooked in a slow oven). O ver the centuries, G hotis and Bangals have com e up with many

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different ways to cook this delightful fish. Even the British in India m ade one o f their few culinary contributions in the form o f sm oked hilsa. Two experiences with this fish have taught me about unity and diversity in Bengal’s food practices. Ghotis and Bangals in West Bengal have traditionally engaged in jocular rivalry about the taste and quality o f hilsa from the two main rivers, Ganga (W est Bengal) and Padma (East Bengal). C ooking styles have also been the source o f friendly rivalry. But one o f the things that we Ghotis always shuddered over was the strange pre-cooking practice o f the Bangals. Since the fish is always bought whole, cleaning and cutting is m ostly done at hom e. Any other fish is carefully washed after it has been cut up into pieces. Blood and slime are repulsive to Bengalis and m ust be thoroughly rem oved. With the hilsa, however, the Hindus o f East Bengal seem to have lost their heads. So eager are they to preserve the fish’s unique flavour and taste, that they refuse to wash the blood from the pieces before cooking! Had anybody asked m e when I went to Bangladesh whether I would encounter a similar practice there (after all, this really was E ast Bengal, land o f the Bangals), I w ould have given a defin ite no. F or I knew that in Islam , b lo o d is haram , an abomination. Imagine my astonishment when I found the mother o f a Bangladeshi M uslim friend, preparing to cook hilsa for our lunch, refusing to wash off the blood on the sam e grounds I had heard years ago in Calcutta— all the taste will be washed away. I adm it I felt very queasy as I ate the fish, but I did relish discovering this com m onality that had transcended religious b arriers. The second lesson from hilsa brings m e back to the m atter o f preconceived notions and irrational prejudices. Fish in Bengal is always cooked with our preferred m edium , m ustard oil, which has a pungency that nicely balances fishy odours. In the absence

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o f m ustard oil, other vegetable oils, such as canola, peanut, or soybean oil, are u sed. H ilsa lends itse lf particularly to the flavour o f m ustard. N ot only the oil, but freshly ground m ustard is frequently used in its preparation because the pungency cuts the fattiness o f the hilsa. The fish can also be com bined with sour tastes like that o f tamarind or karamcha berries, or with spices like cum in, coriander and ground red chillies. But never could I im agine hilsa with ghee, onions, coconut m ilk, lem on, and yes, even sugar. Never, that is, until a cook who worked in my house in Bangladesh declared he was going to treat m e to a very sp e c ia l dish . W hen I h eard w h at had g o n e in to its preparation, I was dumbfounded. Hilsa and ghee— heresy! Hilsa with onions and coconut milk— blasphemy! But o f course it is the ton gu e that is the u ltim ate arbiter, and one m outhful con vin ced m e that my fo o d u n iverse w ou ld be singularly diminished if this dish did not becom e part o f it. It has been many years since that revelation. I am happy to say that I have personally m ade this dish for family and friends in C alc u tta and have b een g ratified by th eir in cred u lo u s appreciation. And w ith each attem pt, I have realized afresh how environm ent and historical circum stance load us with the baggage o f suspicion and prejudice. An onion— that same allium which surprised m e so often in Bangladesh— whose top layers are decaying from disuse can be the perfect m etaphor for such a state o f mind. For I believe that if we m ake an effort to peel away the layers, and reach the centre, m ost o f us can find a core that is fresh and untouched, waiting to be inscribed with new ideas.

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K h a s h ir

rezala

FOR EIGHT PEOPLE

IN G R E D IE N T S

2 kg (4 lb) o f meat 2 5 0 gm (8 oz) o f grated onion 2 tablespoons o f ground ginger 3 teaspoons o f ground garlic 5-6 whole cardamoms 5-6 pieces o f cinnamon 2.5 cm (1 in) long 2 5 0 gm (8 oz) o f yoghurt 1 tablespoon o f sugar 3 teaspoons o f salt 2 5 0 ml (8 j l oz) o f ghee 2 5 0 ml (8 J l oz) o f warm whole milk A tiny pinch o f saffron 20 whole green chillies M ETH O D

For eight people, take 2 kg (4 lb) of meat, cubed and washed, to make the Khashir rezala. Combine this in a large pot with onion, ginger,garlic, cardamom, cinnamon, yoghurt, sugar, salt and ghee. Once all of this is thoroughly mixed, cover the pot and let it cook on a low flame for abouthalf an hour.Then uncover and stir the meat well and cover again. Leave on the stove till all the moisture has evaporated and the ghee has risen to the surface. Next take some warm whole milk, add saffron to it, and pour it over the meat. Add the green chillies, reduce heat to simmer and leave the meat tightly covered for another half an hour before it is ready to serve. Some cooks select ripened chillies (fresh, not dried) for this recipe. The red colour stands out in a most pleasing contrast against the pale yellow of the gravy.

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IL IS H PATURI IN G R E D IE N T S

5 0 0 gm (1 lb) o f hilsa peti teaspoon o f turmeric powder 2 tablespoons o f ground mustard Green chillies 2 tablespoons o f mustard oil Salt to taste M ETH O D

For this ilish paturi, take the fish pieces, clean them and mix them thoroughly with salt, turmeric, the ground mustard, green chillies and a liberal helping of mustard oil. The whole mixture is then wrapped in banana leaves and the packet tied with string before it is thrust among the dying embers of a clay oven, or toasted on a tawa or flat pan over a low heat. The packet is turned over several times. By the time the top layer of leaf is burnt black, the fish should be ready. The process can also be duplicated in an oven set at 150°C (300°F, Gas mark 1). In the absence of banana leaves, aluminium foil can be used. Once the fish is cooked, it should be removed from the wrrappings and all the sauce scraped out with a spoon. The moisture and oil from the fish combined with the mustard paste and oil will produce quite a bit of gravy.

THE B O N T I OF B E N G A L

I

n the days when m ost Bengalis lived in exten d ed, multigenerational families, wom en had to make large meals every day. U sually the elderly gran dm oth er o r w idow ed aunt was resp o n sib le fo r cuttin g the v e g etab le s, w hile the you nger w om en took on the m ore arduous task o f cooking over the hot stove. This ritual o f cutting, called kutno kota, was alm ost as im portan t as the daily rituals carried ou t for the household In the kitchens o f the w est, the cook stands at a table or counter and uses a knife. But m ention a kitchen to a Bengali, or evoke a favourite dish, and m ore often than not the image that com es to mind will be o f a woman seated on the floor, cutting, chopping, or cooking. In the Indian subcontinent, especially in Bengal, this is the typical posture. For centuries, the Bengali cook and her assistant have rem ained firm ly grounded on the floor, a tradition reflecting the paucity o f furniture inside the house. A bed for both sleeping and sitting was usually the m ost im portant piece o f furniture, but outside the bedroom people sat or rested on mats spread out on the floor, or on squares o f ru g c alle d asan s. In the k itch en they o ften sat on sm all rectangular or square wooden platform s called piris or jalchoukis, which raised them an inch or two above the floor. From this closeness to the earth evolved the practice o f sitting down both to prepare and to cook food. Enter the bonti, a protean cutting instrument on which generations o f Bengali w om en have learned to peel, chop, dice, and shred. D espite the recen t incursion o f knives, p ee lers, g raters, and other m odern, western-style kitchen utensils, the bonti is still alive and well in the rural and urban kitchens o f Bengal. Som e o f my fondest childhood m em ories involve sitting near my grandm other as she peeled and sliced the vegetables for the day’s main afternoon m eal. A grand array o f shapes and

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colou rs surrounded her as she sat at the bon ti: pu rple and greenish-w hite eggplants, green-and-w hite striped patois (a favourite gourd-like vegetable), the leafy green o f the noteshaak w ith th eir fleshy, rhubarb-like ste m s, yellow crescen ts o f pum pkin, pale-skinned potatoes. D uring holidays and school vacations I always sat and watched . . . M y g r a n d m o th e r ta k e s a lo n g , p u r p le e g g p la n t and dexterously halves it against the blade, then starts cutting one o f the halves into sm aller pieces. I pick up the remaining half and inspect the white, seed-studded flesh. Something is moving. A w orm , secretly em bedded in the flesh, is now forced into the open. W hat is it, I ask, what is that worm called, how did it get inside when there were no worm holes on the outside? And she launches into a story from the Mahabharata, about a king who sought to protect him self from the vengeful lord o f the snakes by building a palace on top o f a glass colum n and sealing it tight. But one day, as he bit into a ripe rosy-gold mango, a tiny w orm came out and bit him in the arm . The king felt the agony o f the m ost potent venom race through his blood and before he fainted, saw the worm transform ed into a majestic serpent. She sm iles at m e, takes the eggplant from my hands and cuts o ff the infested portion. I look at the crawling w orm in the discarded bit o f eggplant with new respect . . .

A Bengali lexicon com piled by Jnanendramohan D as (Bangla Bhashar Abhidhan) reveals that although the term bonti has been in the Bengali language for many years, it actually derives from the language o f the ancient tribal inhabitants o f the eastern regions o f the subcontinent. Das traces the w ord bonti back to a n c ie n t B e n g a li n a rr a tiv e p o e m s, su ch as G h an aram C hakrabartis poem Dharmamangal, com posed during the reign

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o f D harm a Pal (775-810 A D ), the second ruler o f Bengal’s Pal Dynasty. In his definitive history o f Bengal, Bangalir hi hash, the historian Niharranjan Ray presents com pelling evidence o f the indigenous people who settled in Bengal long before the Aryans cam e to India, and whose language, custom s, and ritualistic beliefs still perm eate the cultural life o f Bengal. Ray also notes that Buddhist terracotta sculptures from the days o f the Pal dynasty depict people using the bonti blade to cut and portion fish. Basically, the bonti is a curved blade rising out o f a narrow, flat, wooden base. Som etim es the blade is m ounted on a small iron tripod to increase its height. Its versatility lies in the many different types and sizes o f both blade and base, as well as from the various uses to which it is put.T he bonti s uniqueness com es from the posture required to use it: one m ust either squat on one’s haunches or sit on the floor with one knee raised while the corresponding foot presses down on the base. As in other ‘floor-oriented1 cultures, such as Japan, the people o f Bengal w ere accu sto m ed to sq u attin g o r sittin g on the flo o r fo r indefinite periods o f tim e. An 1832 volume by M rs S. C. Belnos, Twenty-Jour Plates Illustrative o j Hindoo an d European Manners in B en gal , depicts a Bengali kitchen com plete with utensils and a

w om an seated in front o f a low stove, cooking. The author com m ents: ‘Their furniture consists o f low beds, small stools, a chest or two, perhaps an old-fashioned chair on which the m aster sits with his legs crossed under him, a Hookah o f cocanut [sic] shell on a brass stand . . / Even today in rural Bengal, people— especially m en— squat com fortably on porches or under large shade trees as they smoke and chat. Only after the European presence was well established later in the nineteenth century did the living room or dining room equipped with couches, chairs, and tables becom e part o f the Bengali home.

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The bon ti also appears in K alighat paintings, a body o f in digenous w orks p ro d u ced in the vicinity o f the Kalighat Tem ple, built in 1829 on the banks o f the river Hooghly in Calcutta. As Calcutta grew under British ru le and its Bengali resid en ts developed a ‘b ab u ’ culture, the K alighat painters focused their attention on urban, rather than rural, life. One o f these paintings shows a woman cutting a whole fish, possibly a carp, on a bonti. To use a knife o f any size or shape, the cook m ust bear down with one hand on the item being cut, at the sam e tim e holding the food with the other hand to prevent it from slipping. But unlike the knife, the bonti uses horizontal, rather than vertical, force. The cook positions herself in front o f the tool, one foot pressed firm ly against the w ooden base. She then uses both hands to slide the vegetable, fruit, fish, or m eat against the curving blade that faces her. To those used to working with a knife, the delicacy with which the rigidly-positioned blade cuts seem s m iraculous: it peels the tiniest potato, trim s the tendrils from string beans, splits the fleshy stem s o f plants, chops greens into minute particles for stir-frying, and even scales the largest fish. At the great fish markets, as in Calcutta, fishmongers sit tightly packed as they dism em ber giant carp and hilsa on huge, gleam ing bontis, all the while engaging in jocular repartee about who has the better fish. Like knives, bontis com e in many different sizes, with blades v a ry in g in h e ig h t, w id th , an d sh ap e. W om en u sin g the instrum ent at hom e generally have two medium -sized bontis, on e fo r c u ttin g v e g e ta b le s, the o th e r fo r fish and m eat (collectively known as amish). This separation o f vegetarian and non-vegetarian food was rigidly practised in all traditional Hindu hom es until fairly recently and led to the term ansh-bonti for the tools used to cut fish or m eat (ansh m eans ‘fish scale’ ).

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P rofession al cooks dealing w ith large volu m es o f food use considerably sturdier bontis than the housewives. Their anshbontis had to be strong enough to cut a twenty- or thirty-pound carp, the blades proportionately w ider and higher. The bonti blade is generally m ade o f iron rather than stainless steel, and it tends to rust if not im m ediately dried. Repeated use blunts the blade, so itinerant ex p erts roam the cities w ith special equipm ent for sharpening bontis and knives. An interesting variant is the kuruni, used for the specific purpose o f grating coconuts. In this type o f bonti, the blade curves out o f the wooden base in the usual way, but its tip is crowned with a round serrated piece o f m etal. The cook sits in front o f the kuruni with the front end o f its base on a woven m at or tray, or even on a piece o f newspaper. Holding one half o f a fresh coconut in both hands, she scrapes it with circular m otions against the metal disk as the coconut flesh rains down in a gentle stream o f white. Such are the day-to-day uses o f the bonti in the Bengali kitchen. But as with any im plem ent with a long history, this tool is endowed with a wealth o f associations reaching far beyond the mundane. Although professional m ale cooks use the bonti, it is inextricably associated with Bengali w om en, and the image o f a w om an seated at her b on ti, su rro u n d ed by baskets o f vegetables, is a cultural icon. Holding the vegetable or fish or m eat in both hands and running it into the blade makes the act o f cutting a relatively softer, gentler m otion than the m ore m asculine gesture o f bringing a knife dow n with force on a hard surface: the food is em braced even as it is dism em bered. The woman at the bonti is not always an elderly storyteller like my grandm other. The young, nubile daughter o f the family or the newly m arried bride at the bonti are also part o f Bengali icon ography. As she joy fu lly m an ipu lates fo o d against the

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versatile blade, the young woman epitom izes feminine abilities. W h en m a r r ia g e s w e re a rr a n g e d in r u r a l B e n g a l, the b rid egro om ’s family would com e to look over the prospective bride, asking to see her kitchen skills and noting how skilfully she could use the bonti, In the southern district o f Barisal in Bangladesh, it was not enough for a prospective bride to chop just any vegetable. H er future in-laws often dem anded that she sit at the bonti and cut a bunch o f k alaish aak , the leafy greens of the legum e khesari d a l , whose fibrous leaves and stem s have to be chopped very fine before stir-frying. The ideal bride had to be able to reduce the resistant bunch into minute particles of green. Handling the bonti well had another advantage in Barisal. The local wom en used their bontis to defend themselves and their h om es against gangs o f arm ed ro b b ers w ho attacked prosperous hom esteads when the men were away. Bengali literature contains many references to another, less dom estic aspect o f the woman at the bonti. R ecurring images portray her as young and dem ure, sitting with her head bent, concentrating on her hands as she m oves the vegetable or fish tow ards the lethal blade. O ften a m arried woman is pictured, her head m odestly covered with the end o f her sari, whose colourful b order fram es her face and hair. But the discreet posture and m odest covering are a foil for a flirtatious element in extended-fam ily life, which offers virtually no privacy. A man— whether a husband or a rom antic interest-—can expect many eloquent, sidelong glances cast with surreptitious turns o f the head as the woman goes about her dom estic tasks with the bonti. An extension o f this mild titillation is found in Shobha, a fascinating album o f photographs by G urudas Chattopadhyay, publish ed around 1930. H is p h otograph s po rtray som e o f C alcutta’s best-known prostitutes and are obviously intended

The Bo n ti o f B e n g a l

for erotic stim ulation. But this is no collection o f Playboy-like nudes. Instead, each woman has been photographed fully clothed and seated before a bonti! H ere is a study in body language: the straight back, the parted legs (one crossed, the other raised), the coy eyes peeking out from under the sari covering the head. To the Bengali view er/voyeur o f the tim e, the bonti, by enforcing this posture, created a uniquely erotic vision o f the fem ale figure, rich in suggestiveness. Despite its long history, it is probably inevitable that in the new global century the bonti will eventually vanish. The kitchens o f Bengal are rapidly changing. Knives rather than bontis are b e c o m in g the c u ttin g im p le m e n ts o f c h o ic e . T ables and countertops are triumphing over the floor; chairs, tables, and couches are becom ing as integral to the hom e as its doors and windows. Women no longer live in extended families, nor do their m ornings consist o f the leisurely ritual o f kutno kota, when several wom en worked together, form ing a sisterhood o f the bonti. N ow women are likely to work outside the hom e, which leaves little tim e for that kind o f dom estic fellowship. But for those o f us who remember, the bonti will continue to be part o f a w om an’s kitchen life.

8

FI VF L I T T L E S L E D S

S

everal years ago, when I spent som e tim e in London, I used

to visit a Bengali friend who lived on the top floor o f an apartm ent building tenanted by people from different parts o f the world. Though I never saw any o f them , their typical cooking odours clearly dem arcated their home territories. As I entered the front door and climbed the stairs, I inhaled my way through Britain on the first floor (corned b eef and boiled cabbage), China on the second (soya sauce, garlic, and Szechwan peppercorns), Italy on the third (tom ato, basil, garlic), and finally to Bengal, where my friend s delicate yet arom atic concoctions (chachchariy a dry, spicy m ixed vegetable dish, roasted moong daly tamarind fish) originated. In A m erica, w here I now live, cookin g od ou rs can still provide a key to the ethnic identity o f households in urban neighbourhoods. This is especially true o f large cities where im m igrants from many countries live side by side. I have often heard people identify the fragrance o f cinnam on, cardam om and clove, especially in conjunction with onion and garlic, as ‘Indian’ cooking.That there is no such thing as ‘Indian’ cooking, that each region has its distinctive culinary identity, is a point that escapes m ost outsiders. To m e, the signature arom a o f Bengal is panchphoron, a five-spice m ixture that is the building block o f many o f our favourite dishes. Unlike the Chinese five-spice m ixture which is generally sold in pow dered form , the Bengali panchphoron is m ade up o f whole spices— equal portions o f cumin, nigella, fennel, fenugreek, and mustard. Native to either Asia or Europe, each o f these spices has played an im portant role in the cuisines o f many races and regions. But only Bengalis seem to have com e up with the idea o f combining them as a unique flavouring agent. T hey generally use panchphoron as the first step in cooking a dish. A pinch thrown into hot oil— especially the

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pungent m ustard oil that is traditionally used in Bengal— will im m ediately release a unique arom a, sharp yet delicate. Panch m eans five in Bengali (as in Hindi) and phoron com es from the Sanskrit sphoton , which im plies a kind o f outburst. In this case, it is the o u tb u rst o f flav o u r that acc o m p an ies the sp ices sp u tte rin g in the hot o il. D rie d o r fresh ch illies u su ally accompany panchphoron into the pot. As the cooking progresses, other ground spices may also be added to som e dishes flavoured with panchphoron. In trig u e d by th e u n iq u e B e n g ali u sa g e o f th e sp ic e s constituting panchphoron, I tried to learn m ore about them. Som e, I found, have a long history. References to cumin — Cumin cjm inum — fo r instance, can be found in the Bible.The collection o f ancient Roman recipes, Apicius , indicates its w idespread use by the Rom ans. Pliny, writing in the first century A .D ., praised cumin for its enlivening quality. Today, cumin is used not only in the food o f India, but also that o f Afghanistan, Iran, and even M exico. However, the seed referred to as kalojeera (a literal translation being black cumin but called nigella in English) in Bengal has produced endless confusion in translation. It neither resem bles cumin in taste nor are the two botanically related. Som e people also translate it as black caraway or black sesame. Native to the countries bordering the eastern M editerranean, black cumin is small, wedge-shaped, and, naturally, black. But when added to hot oil, it releases a pungent odour very similar to that o f onion. Hence another m isnom er— onion seed! O f the tw o ‘f ’s that belong to panchphoron, fennel and fenugreek, the form er (Foeniculum vulgare) is well known in the west. This plant o f the parsley family is native to southern Europe and was carried by Arab traders all over the M iddle East and to India. Patrons o f Indian restaurants in the west are well aware o f the Indian practice o f chewing fennel seeds after

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a m eal as a breath freshener. But the practice is also rooted in the w ell-dem onstrated value o f fennel as an aid to digestion. In a tropical climate like that o f India, fennel is also considered to have a c o o lin g e ffe c t on the body. F e n u g re e k ( Trigonella Joenumgraecum) , on the other hand, needs to be treated with extrem e caution. A little overheating can turn it extrem ely bitter. The plant’s botanical name means ‘ G reek hay’ , and it is native to southern Europe and Asia. Its leaves are rich in vitamins and sugar and cooked like other edible greens. The fifth ingredient in panchphoron is m ustard, the brown Indian variety (Brassica juncea) which is so m etim es called Chinese m ustard. Aside from providing cooking oil, mustard is an im portan t spice in Bengali cuisine. W hole m ustard seeds are added to the hot oil as a flavouring agent in som e dishes, while the pungency o f ground m ustard is the basis o f many fam ous Bengali fish preparations, notably shorshe-ilish. As a child, I was always intrigued by the folk b elief that m ustard could chase away ghosts. D espite its potency, however, the presence o f m ustard in panchphoron is rather m uted, suborned by the com bined flavours o f fenugreek, cumin, and nigella. It is im possible to determ in e how or when the Bengalis cam e up w ith the m agic fo rm u la o f com bin in g these five d isparate elem en ts into a single flavou r-pack age. But it is reasonable to assum e that its use is correlated to a style o f cookin g that is m ore delicate than that o f n orth ern India, depending as it does on heightened flavours rather than heavy spices. Interestingly, it is the Hindus o f Bengal, not the M uslims, who tend to make prolific use o f panchphoron. This is possibly because o f the em phasis on vegetarian cooking am ong the Bengali Hindus, especially w idow s, who were forbidden any fish, flesh, or egg. Bengali Hindu cooks seem to think that almost any item o f food can benefit from the addition o f panchphoron.

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The sim plest application is in vegetable stir-fries. O nce the hot oil is im pregnated with the arom a o f the five seeds and dried red chillies, vegetables like spinach, eggplant, thinly-sliced potatoes, string beans can be thrown in, sauted with a little salt, and kept covered over m edium heat until the natural juices have e m e r g e d , m in g le d , and e v a p o r a te d . S e rv e d at the beginning o f a traditional Bengali m eal, this kind o f dish helps prepare the palate for the m ore com plex vegetable preparations like chachchari or ghanto, which may start with the addition o f panchphoron or som e other flavouring to the oil, but may then be en rich ed w ith gro u n d spices like fresh ginger, cum in, coriander, turm eric, and chilli powder. And in a fish-loving region like Bengal, this signature spice m ixture has also lent its delicate yet unm istakable arom a to the n um erous fish dishes that Bengalis are know n for. The traditional midday m eal usually has to include a fish jhol (a thin flavourful gravy) or a fish jh al (a hot and spicy sauce that coats the fish). In both o f these, panchphoron can play a vital flavouring role. D uring the height o f the summer, Bengalis often make fish into ambol or tauk— a sour and spicy sauce that often includes tam arind. W hile som e cooks flavour the oil for am bol solely with m ustard, others reso rt to the versatile panchphoron. O ne o f my m ost-rem em bered fragrances is that o f roasted panchphoron, which was then crushed into pow der to be added to the num erous pickles and chutneys that were m ade during the summer. My favourite was green mango pickle. Enorm ous glass jars full o f the spice-coated mango quarters subm erged in dark yellow m ustard oil sat sunning themselves on the balcony. It was forbidden food for us children. But aided by my younger cousin Benu (who visited us each sum m er from D elhi), I was often bold enough to risk discovery and sneak a few pieces from the pickle jar when the adults were taking their afternoon

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naps. O h, the pleasure o f sitting on the polished balcony floor heated by the sun, legs stretched out, back against the wall, and slow ly savouring the spicy tartn ess o f those forbidden pickles, all the while keeping one ear open for the sound of approaching footsteps. The sound and arom a o f these five seeds m eeting hot oil are now resurrected for m e only when I am using panchphoron for cooking o r when 1 am visiting another Bengali cook. Their absence from my day-to-day reality seem s, to m e, a perfect m etaph or o f the distance that now in terven es betw een my origins and myself. Like many m em bers o f a diaspora, I wonder how the accum ulated weight o f that distance will eventually affect my m em ory o f what was once so real, so inescapable. H ouses and apartm ents in this country are designed to enclose, to hold in heat, sm ell, and other em anations and only the strongest o f odours— onion and garlic, fish and m eat— tend to escape. I no longer have the opportunity o f laughing, as I did during my childhood in Bengal, at the series o f hefty sneezes with which our neighbour across the street greeted the odour o f panchphoron and dried chillies wafting on the breeze from our kitchen alm ost every day. There may be som e com fort in the privacy afforded by the enclosed living spaces we now inhabit in the W est, but a reduction o f the community awareness o f the small details o f each other’s lives also m eans a lessening o f the human connection. N a r k e l ALOOR CHACHHARI In g r e d i e n t s

I small ripe coconut 5 0 0 gram potatoes 1 / 3 cup oil (preferably mustard oil) 1 lA teaspoon turmeric powder

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4 or 5 green chillies, split lengthwise 1 teaspoon panch phoron Salt and sugar to taste M ethod

Split the coconut in half, discard the water and grind the flesh on a coconut grater. Cut the potatoes into small cubes and wash well. Heat the oil in a karai, throw in the panch phoron and green chillies. When the seeds sputter and both chillies and panch phoron have released their fragrance, add the potatoes. Stir vigorously until the potatoes start to become golden brown. Sprinkle half a cup of water over them, to keep them from burning or sticking. Add the grated coconut, turmeric, salt and a bit of sugar, stir well and cover tightly. Reduce the heat to medium-low. Check from time to time. If necessary, sprinkle small amounts of water over the potatoes and stir. Once the potatoes are done, raise the heat to high, stir well until the dish achieves a toasty colour and consistency. Check for salt and sugar (the chachhari should have a sweet undertaste) and remove from the stove. Serve with rice or luchi.

BHAJA MUGER DAL In g r e d i e n t s

1 cup yellow moong dal 1 teaspoon whole cumin seeds 4 bay leaves 4 green chillies 1 tablespoon freshly chopped ginger 2 lA teaspoons ghee (clarified butter) Salt and sugar to taste

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M ethod

Dry-roast the moong dal in a karai. Start over high heat, and then reduce heat to medium after three minutes. Stir constantly for a total of about seven or eight minutes, or until the pale yellow of the moong dal has turned medium brown and gives off a nutty aroma. Remove the dal and wash thoroughly in cold water, rinsing several times to get rid of any dust and impurities. In a thick-bottomed pan, bring to boil three cups of water and add the washed dal to it. Bring to boil again, reduce heat to a simmer, and leave covered for about half an hour. Check to see if the dal grains are soft and blend thoroughly, using an eggbeater. You can add more water if you want to liquefy the consistency. Add salt and sugar and taste. The sweetness should be perceptible. In a karai, heat the ghee, bay leaves, and cumin seeds. When the seeds start sputtering and release their aroma, add the chopped ginger and green chillies. Stir-fry for a minute or two, and pour in the cooked dal very carefully. Bring to boil once and remove immediately. Serve with rice.

9

WHAT' B E N G A L I W I D O W S C A N N O T EAT

M

y father died at the beginning o f a particularly radiant

and colourful spring. Spring in Bengal is teasing and elusive, secret yet palpable, waiting to be discovered. The crim son and scarlet o f palash and shimul flowers post the season’s banners on high trees. C om pared to the scented flow ers o f the sum m er and m onsoon— ju i, bel, chameli, kamini, gandharaj, all o f which are w hite— these scentless sprin g flow ers are flam boyantly assertive with the one asset they have: colour. My father, who was a retiring, unassuming m an, took great pleasure in their bold, flaunting reds. When I arrived in Calcutta for his funeral, I was com forted by the sight o f the flow ers in full bloom along the road from the airport. That first evening back hom e, my m other and I sat out on our roof, talking. As darkness obscured all colours, the breeze becam e gusty, laden with unsettling scents from out-of-season potted flowers on neighbouring roofs. M y m other had always b een d y n am ic, fo r c e fu l, e ffic ie n t: the fa m ily ’s p rin c ip a l b read w in n er fo r n early th irty y e ars, she had risen above personal anxiety and ignored social disapproval to allow m e, alone, young and unm arried, to pursue my studies in the United States. Yet o v ern igh t she had b een tra n sfo r m e d in to the archetypal Bengali w idow : m eek, faltering, hollow -cheeked, sunken-eyed, the woman in white from whose life all colour and pleasure m ust evaporate. D uring the thirteen days o f m ourning that precede the Hindu rituals o f shraddha, the last rites, and the subsequent myambhanga (literally, the breaking o f ru les), all m em bers o f the bereaved fam ily live ascetically on one m ain m eal a day o f rice and vegetables cooked together in an earthen pot with no spices except sea salt, and no oil, only a touch o f ghee. The sanction against oil em braces its cosm etic use to o , and for m e, the rough ness o f my m o th er’s parched skin and hair m ade her

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colourless appearance excruciating. But what disturbed m e m ost was the eagerness with which she seem ed to be em bracing the trappings o f bereavem ent. U nder the curious, observant and critical eyes o f fem ale relatives, neighbours and visitors, she appeared to be m ortifying her flesh almost joyfully, as if those thirteen days were a preparation for the future. As if it is utterly logical for a woman to lose her self and plunge into a life o f ritual suffering once her husband is dead. Hindu tradition in Bengal holds that the w idow m ust strive for purity through deprivation. In contrast with the bride, who is dressed in red and, if family means perm it, decked out in gold jewellery, the widow, regardless o f her wealth and status, is drained o f colour. Im m ediately after her husband’s death, other wom en wash the sindoor (the verm ilion pow der signalling m a rrie d statu s) from the p artin g in the w id o w ’s hair. All jew ellery is rem ov ed , and she ex ch an ges her co lo u red or patterned sari for the perm anent, unvarying uniform o f the thaan, borderless yards o f blank white cotton.Thus transform ed, she rem ain s, for the rest o f her life, the pallid sym bol o f m isfortune, a ghostly presence in the m argins o f family life. As recently as fifty years ago, widows were also forced to shave their heads as part o f a socially prescribed move towards androgyny. Both o f my grandfather s sisters were widowed in their tw enties: my childhood m em ories o f them are o f two nearly identical creatures w rapped in shroud-like white who em erged from their village a couple o f tim es a year and came to visit us in the city. W henever the thaan covering their heads slipped, I would be overcom e with an urge to rub my hands over their prickly scalps, resem bling the sph erical, yellow, w hite-bristled flowers o f the kadam tree in our garden. Until the Hindu W idow Rem arriage Act was passed in 1856, widow s were forbidden to m arry for a second tim e. But for

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m ore than a hundred years after the act becam e law, it did not translate into any kind o f w idespread social reality (unlike the 1829 edict abolishing the burning o f w idow s on the same pyre as their dead husbands, the infamous practice o f ‘su ttee’). Rural Bengali households were full o f w idow s who were no m ore than children, b ecau se barely p u b escen t g irls often found them selves m arried to men old enough to be their fathers. It w as not until the m orning before the actual shraddha cerem ony that I was forced to confront the m ost cruel o f the rules im posed on the w idow by the Sanskrit shastras, the body o f rules and rituals o f Hindu life to which have been added innum erable folk beliefs. One o f my aunts took m e aside and asked if my m other had m ade up her mind to give up eating fish and m eat—-am ish, n on-vegetarian fo o d , forbidden for widows. With a sinking heart, I realized that the image o f the widow had taken such a hold o f my m other that she was only too likely to em brace a vegetarian diet, all the m ore so because she had always loved fish and had been praised for the way she cooked it. If I said nothing, she would never again touch those w o n d ers o f the Bengali k itch en — shorshe-ilish (h ilsa w ith m ustard) maachherjhol, galda chingrir malaikari (prawns in coconut gravy), lau-chingri (shrim ps with squash), doi-maachh (yogurt fish), maachher kalia (fish in a rich sauce). It was an unbearable The vegetarian stricture is not considered a hardship in m ost regions o f India where the majority, particularly the Brahmins and som e o f the upper castes, has always been vegetarian. But Bengal is blessed with innumerable rivers crisscrossing a fertile delta, and famed for its rice and its fish. Even Brahmins have lapsed in Bengal by giving in to the regional taste for fish, which plays a central part in both the diet and the culinary imagination o f the country. Fish, in its ubiquity, sym bolism and variety,

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b e c o m e s, fo r the Bengali w idow , the fin est in stru m en t o f to rtu re . Several other item s are forbidden to w idow s simply because o f their associations with amish. Puishaky for instance, spinach­ like leafy greens often cooked with small shrimps or the fried head o f a hilsa fish, is disallowed. So are onion and garlic, which were eschewed by m ost Hindus until the last century because o f their association with m eat-loving M uslim s, and also for their alleged lust-in ducing p ro p e rtie s, which m ake them totally undesirable for w idow s. Lentils, a good source o f protein in the absence o f m eat, are also taboo— a stricture which might stem from the widespread practice o f spicing them with chopped onion. S o c ia l h isto r ia n s h ave sp e c u la te d th at th e se d ie ta ry restrictions served a m ore sinister function than simply that o f m oving a widow tow ards a state o f purity: they would also lead to m alnutrition, thus reducing her life span. A w idow often has property, and her death would inevitably benefit someone— her sons, her siblings, her husband s family. And in the case o f a young widow, the sooner she moves on to the next world, the less the risk o f any m oral transgression and ensuing scandal. My grandm other lived the last twenty-seven o f her eightytwo years as a widow, obeying every stricture im posed by rule and custom . The m em ory o f her bleak, pinched, white-robed w idow hood intensified my determ ination to prevent my m other from em bracing a similar fate. I particularly rem em ber a scene from my early teens when I, an only child, was living with an e x te n d e d fam ily o f p a r e n ts, u n c le s an d a u n ts— and my grandm other. It had been a punishingly hot and dry summer. D uring the day, the asphalt on the streets would m elt, sticking to my san dals as I w alked. N ight b ro u gh t sw eat-drench ed sleeplessness and the maddening itchiness o f prickly heat. R elief

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would com e only with the eagerly awaited m onsoon. The rains came early one m orning— dark, violent, lightningstreaked, fragrant and beautiful. The cook rushed to the market and cam e back with a big hilsa, which was cut up and fried, the crispy, flavourful pieces served at lunchtime with khichuri.This is the traditional way to celebrate the arrival o f the m onsoon. Though I knew my grandm other did not eat fish, I was amazed on this occasion to see that she did not touch the khichuri or the eggplant fritters or the fried potatoes. These were vegetarian item s, and I had seen her eat them before on other cool, wet days. This tim e she ate, in her usual solitary spot, luchis that looked stale, along with som e equally unappetizing cold cooked vegetables. W hy? I asked in outrage. And my m other explained that this was because o f a rare coincidence: the rains had arrived on the first day o f Ambubachi, the three-day period in the Bengali m onth o f Asharh that, according to the alm anac, m arks the beginning o f the rainy season. The ancients visualized this as the period o f the earth’s receptive fertility, when the sum m er sim vanishes, the skies open and m ingle with the parched land to produce a red or brown fluid flow o f earth and water, nature s m anifestation o f m enstruating femininity. How right then for widow s to suffer m ore than usual at such a time. They were not allowed to cook during the three-day period, and, although they were allowed to eat som e foods that had been prepared in advance, boiled rice w as absolutely forbidden. Since nature rarely conform s to the calculations o f the almanac, I had never noticed these Ambubachi strictures being observed on the longawaited rainy day. The almanac was an absolute necessity for conform ing to the standards o f ritual purity, and my grandm other consulted it assiduously. O n the day before Ambubachi started, she would

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prepare enough luchis and vegetables for three midday meals. Sw eet yoghurt and fruit, m ixed with chira— dried, flattened rice— w ere also perm issible. That first night o f m onsoon, newly aware o f the sanctions o f Ambubachi, I went to look for my grandm other around dinner tim e. All she ate was a small portion o f kheer, m ilk that had been b o ile d dow n to n early so lid proportion s, and som e pieces o f mango. I had hoped she would at least be perm itted one o f her favourite evening m eals— w arm m ilk m ixed with m ango pulp. But no. Milk cannot be heated, for the w idow ’s food m ust not receive the touch o f fire during Ambubachi. The kheer, a traditional way o f preserving m ilk, had been prepared for her the day before. It is true that despite deprivations, household drudgery and the im position o f many fasts, w idow s som etim es live to a great age, and the gifted cooks am ong them have contributed greatly to the ran g e, originality and subtlety o f H indu vegetarian cooking in Bengal. A nineteenth-century food w riter once said that it w as im possible to taste the full glory o f vegetarian food unless your own wife becam e a widow. And Bengali literature is full o f references to elderly w idow s whose m agic touch can transform the m ost mundane or bitter o f vegetables into nectar, and whose subtlety with spices cannot be matched. But however glorious these concoctions, no m arried woman envied the w id o w ’s fate. A nd until recently, m o st w idow s rem ained im prisoned within the austere bounds o f their im posed d ie ts . E ven if th ey w e re c o n su m e d w ith te m p ta tio n o r resentm ent, fear o f discovery and public censure w ere enough to inhibit them. I felt the pow er o f public opinion as I w atched my m other during the day o f the shraddha. My aunt, who had been widowed w h en fa irly y o u n g , had b e e n b o ld e n o u g h , w ith th e encouragem ent o f her three daughters, to continue eating fish.

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But I knew that my m other and many o f her cronies would find it far less acceptable for a wom an in her seventies not to give up am ish in her w idow hood. As one w ho lived ab road , in A m erica, I also knew that my opinion was unlikely to carry m uch w eight. But I was determ in ed that she should not be deprived o f fish, and with the support o f my aunt and cousins I prepared to fight. The crucial day o f the niyambhanga, the third day after the shraddha, came. O n this day, m em bers o f the bereaved family invite all their relatives to lunch, and an elaborate meal is served, representing the transition between the austerity o f m ourning and norm al life— for everyone except the widow. Since we w anted to invite many people who w ere not relatives, we arranged to have two catered m eals, lunch and dinner, the latter for friends and neighbours. My m other seem ed to recover som e o f her fo rm er energy that day, supervisin g everything with efficiency, attending to all the guests. But she hardly touched any food. A fter the last guest had left, and the caterers had packed up their equipm ent, leaving enough food to last us for two or three days, I asked her to sit down and eat dinner with me. For the first tim e since my father’s death, the two o f us were absolutely alone in the house. I told her I would serve the food; I would be the grown-up now. She sm iled and sat down at the table. I helped her to rice and dal, then to two o f the vegetable dishes. She held up her hand then. N o m ore. I was not to go on to the fish. Silently, we ate. She asked for a little m ore rice and vegetables. I com plied, then lifted a piece o f rui fish and held it over her plate. U tter panic filled her eyes, and she shot anxious glances around the room . She told m e, vehemently, to eat the fish myself. It was that panic-stricken look around her own house, where she was alone with m e, her daughter, that filled me with rage.

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I was determ ined to vanquish the oppressive force o f ancient belief, reinforced by whatever m odel o f virtue she had inherited from my grandmother. We argued for what seem ed like hours, my voice risin g, she asking m e to be qu iet fo r fear o f the neighbours, until finally I declared that I w ould never touch any amish m yself as long as she refused to eat fish. The m other who cou ld n ot b ear the thought o f her ch ild’s deprivation eventually prevailed, though the woman still quaked with fear o f sin and retribution. I have won a small victory, but I have lost the bigger battle. My m oth er’s enjoym ent o f food, particularly o f fish, as well as her joyful exuberance in the kitchen where her labours produced such m em orable creations, have vanished. Som etim es, as I sit and look at her, I see a procession o f silent w om en in white going back through the centuries.They live as household drudges, slaves in the kitchen and the field; they are ostracized even in their own hom es during weddings or other happy cerem onies, their very presence considered an invitation to m isfortune. In the dim corners they inhabit, they try to contain their hunger. Several tim es a year, they fast and pray and prepare feasts for priests and Brahmins, all in the hope o f escaping w idow hood in the n ext life. O n the eleventh day o f each m oon, they deny them selves food and w ater and shed tears over their unhappy fate, while wom en with husbands make a joyous ritual out o f eating rice and fish. Their anguish and anger secreted in the resinous chamber o f fear, these white-clad wom en make their gradual journey tow ards death.

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sk any Indian and you will be told that Bengal excels in the taste and variety o f its m ilk-based sw eets. O f these, the sweets m ade from chhana (cottage cheese or acid-curd cheese) are unique to the region . N ow h ere else in India d o es the c o n fec tio n er w o rk su ch m ag ic th rou gh m an ipu latin g this substance which is derived by cutting milk with acid. And since v egetarian s as w ell as fish- and m eat-eaters relish sw eets, Bengal’s chhana-based concoctions have long been fam ed outside the region. Two sweets, in particular, sandesh and rosogollay are practically synonymous with the sw eet-toothed Bengali, with his longstanding reputation as an indolent, easygoing, com fortloving gourm et. But what is the reason for the pre-em inence o f chhana in this eastern corner o f the Indian subcontinent? And why is it not associated with sweet-making in the rest o f the country? The answer lies in an encounter between tw o races— historic, yet forgotten by m ost Bengalis today. It began five hundred years ago, when the Portuguese explorer,Vasco da G am a, landed on the w estern coast o f India in 1 498. To fully realize its significance, we need to understand the long-held beliefs about the nature o f m ilk that prevailed am ong the people o f this region. Ju st as in m edieval European physiology, the four hum ours— b lo o d , ph leg m , ch oler, and b ile— w ere thought to be the constituents o f the human body, their respective proportions d e te rm in in g an in d iv id u al’s ch aracter, m o o d , and h ealth, similarly, in the ancient Indian system o f Ayurveda, the body is d o m in a ted by one o f th ree elem en ts— sattva, raujas, and taumas— each im parting specific characteristics. And extending the notion that we are what we eat, the ancients ascribed those sam e characteristics to differen t fo od s. In this hierarchical u n iverse, m ilk (including its derivatives, ghee, b u tterm ilk, cream , yoghurt) is easily in the top bracket. It is the purest o f

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edibles whose quality is sattvika (descriptive form o f sattva): nutritive, agreeable, conducive to serenity and spirituality. Sages and ascetics, w ho left all w orldly ties behind and isolated them selves in the w ilderness in search o f higher metaphysical truths, subsisted on milk provided by local devotees. Milk was the one food that would not induce worldly desires or distractions in their m inds. This belief in the sem i-sacred quality o f milk is also reflected in its consistent use as an offering to the gods. Rice pudding, for instance, is one o f the com m onest item s offered to im portant household deities like Lakshmi, the goddess o f wealth and prosperity. Even outside o f H induism, milk retains its connotation o f purity. The first food with which the Buddha broke his long fast after achieving Nirvana was milk-based. A fam ous turn-of-the century Bengali food writer, Bipradas Mukhopadhyay, in his 1906 book, Mishtanno Pak (Making Sweets), docum ents the different types o f milk and their specific qualities as set down by the ancients. Starting with the milk o f cow s, goats, and ewes, the list goes on to enum erate water buffaloes, cam els, m ares, fem ale elephants and w om en as acceptable sources o f m ilk for human consum ption. C o w ’s milk, as one would expect, is defined as second only to human milk in its w id e-ran gin g b en efits. W hatever the so u rc e, all m ilk w as believed to have several properties in com m on: tasty, soothing, energizing, cool, rich, sperm-generating, reducing bile and gout, and conducive to phlegm. Milk was also an im portant part o f the diet o f ordinary people. Unlike the ascetic, the householder looked on milk with infinite desire. It was not only health food par excellence, it had powerful sy m b o lic value as an im ag e o f ach ie v ab le p ro sp e rity . In agriculture-based Bengal, ‘milk-and-rice’ becam e synonymous with the sustenance o f a com fortable life. Vegetarians and non­ vegetarians alike considered milk a preciou s food. Both the

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folktales as well as the substantial body o f orally transm itted ditties (chharas) o f Bengal are replete with im ages o f milk that connote plenty and prosperity. Kings are anointed with milk and butter before their coronation. Princesses bathe in copiously flowing m ilk. Young girls hope to improve their com plexion by washing their faces with milk. M others who suddenly encounter lost children after many years find their breasts spouting milk. Rivers o f m ilk, rippling waves o f milk, lakes o f milk, trem bling layers o f thickened milk, even oceans o f milk recur with amazing frequency in myths, folktales, poem s, and songs. A fam ous Bengali folktale, recounting the adventures o f two young princes nam ed Sheet and Basanta (also the w ords for W in te r an d S p rin g , r e s p e c t iv e ly ) , d e m o n s tr a te s th e extraordinarily vivid presence o f milk in the folk imagination. Separated from his older brother Sheet, Basanta was discovered in the w oods by a holy man who raised him as his disciple. One day, sitting under a tree, Basanta heard tw o parrots talking to each other about a fabulous gem that the king o f the elephants carried on his head. Anyone who got hold o f it would be able to m arry the beautiful princess Rupabati. Immediately, Basanta decided to set o ff in search o f this gem . A fter travelling for twelve years and thirteen days, he reached the realm o f the royal elephant. But a huge, white m ountain barred the way. Down its body flowed cascades o f milk; its peak was smothered in quivering layers o f sar (the thick skin skim m ed off from the top as heated milk cools dow n ). Basanta clim bed to the top and saw on the other side an expansive ocean filled with thick, rich milk. In that ocean bloom ed thousands o f fragrant golden lotuses and in their m idst frolicked a beautiful, milk-white elephant, on whose head glow ed a gem that seem ed brighter than all the jew els o f the w orld put together. But as soon as Basanta jum ped into the ocean o f milk, it becam e a sandy desert.

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An ancient tale from the Mahabharata describes how the gods and dem ons got together to chum the ocean o f milk in the hope o f obtaining am brosia which would make them im m ortal. But after hauling up many wondrous treasures— including the sacred pitcher o f am brosia— a virulent poison, distilled from the venom o f all the serpents who ruled the underworld, rose to the su rfa c e . A nd im m ed iately , the o cean o f m ilk w as tran sform ed into the expanse o f salt w ater that we m ortals know today. Both these stories illustrate a deep conviction about the fragility o f m ilk. The introduction o f an alien elem ent destroys th e v e ry n atu re o f the life -g iv in g , life -su sta in in g flu id . D elib erately doing so , cou ld , th erefo re, easily be deem ed sacrilegious. For many centuries, the im portance o f that belief was instrum ental in limiting the people o f Bengal (as well as o f the rest o f India) in the uses they found for m ilk and the products they derived from it. The use o f milk and the general beliefs about its properties continued unchanged into the m edieval period, as can be seen from literary evidence. M edieval Bengali literature abounds in long narrative poem s. Som e o f them are full o f descriptions o f food that highlight the connection between human tem peram ent and the nature o f food and here, too, milk and its derivatives— ghee, yoghurt, or butterm ilk— exemplify the nobler qualities. In the six te e n th -c e n tu ry Chandim angalkabya, w ritte n by M ukundaram Chakrabarti, descriptions o f m eals include those prepared for Shiva andVishnu. Shiva, who is considered choleric and prone to violence, eats food cooked with pungent m ustard oil, not ghee. Vishnu, on the other hand, is im agined as having a serene tem peram ent and is offered sattvika foods including tender vegetables cooked in ghee, and a variety o f desserts, all derived from milk.

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These medieval poem s refer to many desserts that followed elaborate m eals, and milk was the basis for quite a few. Rice pudding— called paramanno, meaning the ultimate rice o r best rice, in both Sanskrit and Bengali— was not only offered to the gods but was also a human favourite. It was a feature o f m ost festive m eals and m any secu lar ritu als. So w as sw eeten ed yogurt, which (along with its unsweetened version) had highly auspicious connotations. But the com m onest material for making sw eets was kheer, that is, m ilk which has been boiled down and reduced until it is either a thick, viscous liquid (similar to what is sold as evaporated milk in w estern superm arkets), or a tight, slightly grainy solid. This latter version is often called khoa kheer and has the virtu e o f rem aining unspoiled much longer than any other form o f milk, an im portant consideration in a hum id, tropical climate. The evidence is bolstered by another famous medieval work o f literature, neither mythic nor fictional, but a biography in narrative verse.T he Chaitanjacharitamrita by Krishnadas Kabiraj recounts the life and tim es o f the rem arkable religious reform er known as Sri Chaitanya. Born into an orthodox Hindu brahman family ofVedic scholars, Chaitanya rejected the strict hierarchy and cruel discrimination o f the Hindu caste system . He preached a m essage o f equality, brotherhood, love, and non-violence. The oppressed m em bers o f the lower castes follow ed him in droves and e m u la te d his p e rso n a l h ab its, w hich in clu d ed str ic t vegetarianism , a practice not com m on until then— even am ong brahmans— in fish-loving Bengal. The im portance o f this biography to historians o f Bengali food is im m easurable. When barely out o f his teens, Krishnadas Kabiraj becam e a devout follower o f Chaitanya. The latter took him everywhere he went, including the hom es o f other wealthy disciples. This provided Krishnadas with an intimate knowledge

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o f every aspect o f Chaitanya’s daily life. In the biography, he describes in fascinating detail the num erous elaborate vegetarian m eals p rep ared fo r Chaitanya in the hom es o f adm irers. A staggerin g variety o f sw eets are m en tion ed, indicating that d e s p ite h is a b ju ra tio n o f h u m an in tim a c y an d w o rld ly p o ssessio n s, Chaitanya had a Bengali predilection for sweets. Many o f these were m ade with puffed, popped, or flaked rice, com bined with white or brow n sugar a n d /o r kheer. O thers were concocted from flour, coconut, ground legum es, or sesame seeds. Krishnadas also mentions an im pressive array o f purely m ilk-based sw eets— kheer m ixed with sliced m angos, sw eet yogu rt, and item s like dugdha-laklakiy sarbhaja, sarpupee, and sandesh. For those unfamiliar with Bengali food, som e explanation o f these term s is required in order to appreciate the point made earlier, the taboo on making a deliberate, invasive change to the nature o f m ilk which, clearly, still prevailed at this tim e. T h ree o f the sw eets serv ed to C haitanya— dugdba-laklaki (known today as raabri), sarbhaja, and sarpupee (known today as sarpuria)— are mutations o f sar, which is as precious to the people o f the Indian subcontinent as cream is to the west. In a tropical region , b efo re the advent o f refrigeration , the only way to preserve m ilk (without making it into kheer) was to repeatedly boil it, the notion o f pasteurization being still far into the future. A by-product o f all this boiling was the transform ation o f the fatty top layer into a ‘skin’ . Each tim e the milk came to a boil, a new skin w ould form and it would be skim m ed off, added to the previous layers and pressed together. T hese thick layers were used to m ake sar-based sweets. Dugdha-laklaki is layers o f sar cut into squares and floating in mildly sweetened milk, som etim es flavoured with saffron. Sar fried in ghee and soaked in syrup becom es sarbhaja. Fried in ghee, layered with crushed

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alm o n d s, khoa kheer, and c ard am o m , and then so aked in sw eeten ed m ilk , it b e c o m e s sa rp u ria . A s fo r the sandesh m en tion ed by K rishnadas K abiraj and oth er con tem porary w riters, it was sweetened pellets o f khoa kheer. W hat is notable in all these descriptions is that not a single sweet is m ade from chhana. M odern food historians like K.T. Achaya have discussed the Aryan taboo on cutting m ilk with acid. It is notable that in all the myths about the young Krishna, who was brought up by foster parents am ong the milkmen o f Brindaban (in the state o f U ttar Pradesh), there are thousands o f references to milk, butter, ghee, and yoghurt, but none to chhana. Even now, the practice o f adding acid to make cheese is not to be seen in northern India. Sweets offered in the tem ples o f m o d ern Brindaban (sacred to K rishn a w o rsh ip p ers) are invariably m ade o f solidified kheer. In m aking sweets from milk, Chaitanya’s medieval contem poraries were, therefore, adhering to the tradition prevalent throughout the Indian subcontinent at that point in tim e. And yet, as n oted earlier, w henever Bengali sw eets are m en tio n ed today, it is the ch h an a-based co n fectio n s that everyone thinks of. The introduction o f chhana into the Bengali-—in d eed , Indian— fo o d u n iv erse in the c en tu ries fo llow in g Chaitanya, and its enthusiastic adoption, remains a wonderful m etaphor for the enrichment o f societies through encounters with the unknown. Enter the Portuguese. From Portugal to Bengal is a distance not only o f several thousand m iles, but also o f clim ate, topography, and terrain. T he co n n ectio n b etw een the tw o is n eith er ob v io u s nor m em orable. Britain, not Portugal, France, o r Holland, becam e the dom inant colonial pow er in India, once the E ast India Com pany had cem ented its hold over Bengal following a decisive

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victory in the 1757 Battle o f Plassey.Traders and fortune-hunters from these other European countries, however, had been coming to India long before the establishment o f British control. Som e form ed small settlem ents that bear their im print to this day— the Portuguese enclave o f G oa on the w estern coast o f India and the French enclaves o f Chandannagar and Pondicherry on the east. But it was a Portuguese settlem ent in Bengal, so hazy in th e r e g io n a l m e m o ry , w h ich m ad e a r e v o lu tio n a r y contribution to the region ’s food universe, as can be seen from trawling the byways o f the past. A lth ou gh P o rtu gal d o es n ot head the list o f E u ropean countries in term s o f gou rm et cheeses, it does have several unique varieties. In the introduction to her book, The Food of Spain and Portugal, Elisabeth Lam bert O rtiz talks about their excellence. M ost are m ade o f sheep or go at’s milk, but cow ’s m ilk is also used. She describes the innumerable fresh cheeses, queijos frescos, m ade into little cakes ab ou t three inches in diameter. W hen m ature, they are firm , with a strong flavour. W hen fresh, they are soft and spreadable. The im portance o f queijos frescos in the Portuguese diet is dem onstrated by the m igration o f the prod u ct. This cheese can be found in the refrigerated food section o f many speciality shops in American cities with large Portuguese com m unities. Shift the scene to m odern Bengal, O ne o f the curiosities available in C alcutta’s N ew M arket (H ogg M arket in the early days o f British colonialism) is ‘bandel ch eese’ . It com es in the fo rm o f little cakes o f fresh co w ’s m ilk cheese, rem arkably sim ilar to the kind m entioned by Elisabeth Lam b ert O rtiz. But ask the shopkeepers why the cheese is called ‘bandel’ or what its origins are, and they are likely to be stum ped. Certainly m ost people buying the cheese are not aware o f any possible connection betw een this product and the Portuguese traders

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who followed Vasco da G am a and settled in large num bers in Bengal during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. N o r does the average consum er realize that the num erous sweets m ade from chhana that s/h e loves are, in a sense, the siblings or cousins o f this sam e ‘bandel cheese.’ But each tim e the Bengali rolls his or her tongue around the spo n gy ju ic in e ss o f a r o so g o lla , o r re v e ls in the d elicate graininess o f a sandesh, the forgotten encounter betw een two races com es to life. For the Portuguese not only contributed the com paratively obscu re ‘bandel c h ee se’ to the go u rm e t Bengali’s platter, their distinctive way o f processing milk also in itiate d a w h ole n ew flo w erin g o f th e B en gali cu lin ary im agination. The advent o f European traders perm anently changed many aspects o f eating in the Indian subcontinent. N o t only was it a case o f East m eeting West in term s o f diet and cookery, it also m eant a significant en largem ent o f the sub con tin en t’s food repertoire. For the Europeans, who cam e in search o f eastern spices, brought with them the vegetables they had discovered in the N ew W orld. The earliest and forem ost traders were, o f course, the Portuguese who discovered the direct sea route from Europe to Asia. For alm ost the entire sixteenth century, Portugal virtually m onopolized this route. D uring that tim e, they spread their area o f operations along both coasts o f India. In the east, they settled in large num bers in Bengal, along the Hooghly river. Initially, they had a fearsom e reputation in Bengal, since som e o f them used their navigational skills to com m it daring acts o f piracy along the coast as well as in the interior where the num erous rivers served as prim ary conduits for goods and passengers. Many o f the Portuguese also interm arried with the locals, thus paving the way for a m ore intim ate exchange betw een the tw o races. A m ong the new

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crops they introduced were tobacco, potato, cashew, papaya, guava, and a host o f vegetables. M odern com pendium s on the cheeses o f the w orld stress the paucity o f cheeses in the cuisine o f Asia, a fact attributed to the hum id tropical clim ate, which m ade it difficult to apply the sophisticated preservation techniques needed for the fam ous cheeses o f Europe. A m ong the few cheeses found in the Indian su b co n tin en t today are the u b iq u ito u s paneer (fam iliar to w esterners through the good offices o f Indian restaurants serving dishes like mattar-paneer and saag-paneer), a couple o f varieties from G ujarat, and two from Bengal. Books like the Simon and Schuster Pocket Guide to Cheese and Geoffrey Cam pbell-Platt s Fermented Foods o f the World refer to the tw o ch eeses o f Bengal as chhana and bandal. Both are described as ‘acid-curd cheeses’ m ade from cow or buffalo milk, although no m ention is m ade o f how they cam e into being. Bandal, however, is pronounced bandel in Bengali and a little digging reveals that it is cheese that is m ade only in Bandel, a town situated twenty-five m iles north o f Calcutta on the banks o f the Hooghly.The name derives from the Bengali term bandar, meaning port. The Portuguese had originally chosen the nearby town o f Hooghly (which they called U golim ) as their centre o f operations. But in 1632 they suffered a serious defeat at the hands o f the im perial M ughal army. They then retreated to Bandel, which was, at the tim e, the chief p o rt on the Hooghly, and form ed a second, m ore lasting establishment. The reason for B an dels continued popularity as a settlem ent, am ong not only the Portuguese but also other Europeans, was its supposed salubrious qualities. Many o f them went there to convalesce and recover from the trying effects o f the local climate. A repo rt in the Calcutta Gazette o f 3 Septem ber 1799, for exam ple, says, ‘Sir R obert Cham bers, Judge o f the Suprem e C ourt, had gone

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to spend the vacation at the pleasant and healthy settlem ent o f Bandel.’ Today, the chief relic o f this flourishing Portuguese colony is the Bandel Church, the oldest Christian church in Bengal. The present structure, according to som e historians, replaced an older one built by the Portuguese in their fo rt in 1599, which was razed to the ground by the Mughal arm y on the capture o f the town in 1632. The present church and m onastery are said to have been built in 1660 by G om ez de Soto, who had managed to save the keystone o f the old church, bearing the date 1599, during the sack o f the town. K. T. Achaya docum ents the establishment o f the Portuguese com m unity in Bengal: ‘By the second half o f the seventeenth century, they [the Portuguese settlers] num bered 20,000* with som e at Rajmahal. ‘They loved cottage cheese, which they made by “breaking” m ilk with acidic materials. This routine technique may have lifted the Aryan taboo on deliberate m ilk curdling and given the traditional Bengali moira [confectioner] a new raw m aterial to work w ith/ G iven this w e ll-e stab lish ed p re se n c e , the in flu en ce o f Portuguese cooking techniques on the eating habits o f Bengal is not surprising. It was noted by at least one contem porary travel writer. Francois Bernier, a French doctor, spent seven years in India from 1659 to 1666. He mentions in detail the physical beauty o f Bengal and its lush plenitude o f grains, vegetables, fish, and m eat. He also notes: ‘Bengal likewise is celebrated for its sw eetm eats, especially in places inhabited by the Portuguese, who are skilful in the art o f preparing them and with whom they are an article o f considerable trade.’ Although bandal (or bandel) cheese is now associated with West Bengal (and found only in a few speciality shops), the process o f making acid-curd cheeses found another incarnation

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across the b order in the eastern part o f Bengal— the fam ous Dhakai paneer. Dhaka, the capital o f m odern Bangladesh, was know n as R ajm ah al du rin g the six teen th and seven teen th centuries when the Portuguese began settling in Bengal. Dhakai paneer, as described in the Sim on and Schuster Pocket Guide to Cheese, is m ade from cow o r buffalo milk, o r a m ixture o f the two. It is drained in w icker or bam boo baskets, pressed, and dried for about two w eeks, before being sm oked. W edges of salt, placed in the m iddle, help preserve it and lend sharpness to the taste. The cheese is eaten plain, or sliced and fried gently in clarified butter, or even added to legum e and vegetable dishes. Both D hakai p an eer and b an d el c h ee se, how ever, rem ain sp e c ia lity p r o d u c ts an d n o t c o m m o n ite m s fo r r e g u la r consum ption in any p art o f Bengal. Neither, however, can be m ade without curdling m ilk with acid. It is the solid separated by curdling, that the Bengalis called chhana, which has found such wide application in Bengali sw eet prod uction and left an entire region indebted to the Portuguese. The etym ology o f the term is rather obscure, but according to several m ajor Bengali dictionaries, it is a case o f a verb becom ing a noun. Chhana is related to another verb, shana. Both m ean kneading vigorously by hand to create a fine paste or dough. The naming o f chhana seem s based on the fact that all chhana-based sweets require the curdled milk solid to be first kneaded. In fact, the excellence o f many sweets depends on the right degree o f kneading and often the reputation or status o f a Bengali m oira depended on his success in achieving the right consistency o f kneaded chhana respective to the sw eet being m ade from it. It is also o f interest that the word chhana has a separate meaning in colloquial Bengali—-children or offspring. And if one con siders curd led m ilk to b e the ‘ o ffsp rin g’ o f untreated m ilk, then this is indeed a serendipitous exam ple o f double entendre.

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In one o f the stories o f The Book o f Thousand Nights and One Nighty a beautiful female slave called Sympathy the Learned is brought to the court o f the Khalifa Harun-al-Rashid and quizzed by a series o f scholars and wise m en on different branches o f knowledge. In answering the questions o f a doctor about the tre a tm e n t and prev en tio n o f d ise ase , Sym pathy says that gluttony is the cause o f all disease. To avoid gluttony, one has to divide the belly into three p arts, one to be filled with food, one with water, and one with nothing at all so that the body has room to breathe and the soul can lodge comfortably. W hatever one may think o f the efficacy o f this charm ing form ulation (which is not so far from m odern directives o f health), the im age o f the Bengali m oira is that o f a man at the o th er end o f the sp e ctru m . A m ou n tain o u s figu re w ith a ballooning m iddle, he gives the im pression that all three parts o f his belly are m ore than full. He is a fam ously sedentary character, sitting all day in front o f his stove, surrounded by huge containers filled with chhana and kheer from which he con cocts the infinite variety o f sw eets that are synonym ous w ith gou rm et eating in Bengal. C lad only in the traditional white dhoti from the waist dow n, he leaves his torso bare except for a red and white checked gaamchha (napkin) flung over one shoulder and used frequently to m op his sweating face and neck. The aphorism about the m oira never eating sandesh is supposed to indicate a gluttony that has resulted in absolute satiety. It should be noted that the sandesh today is a totally different creation from the one offered to Chaitanya and his m edieval contem poraries.T he latter, as m entioned above, was m ade from sw eetened, solidified kheer. Since the dryness o f the kheer m ade it easy to preserve, Bengalis developed the custom o f carrying som e sandesh with them whenever they visited som eone. The term sandesh also m ean t n ew s, and the sw eet, th erefore,

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becam e the p erfect offerin g for a visitor b earin g n ew s, or interested in getting the host’s news. Chhana has different consistencies. As Achaya notes, ‘mild precipitation o f m ilk using whey yields a soft but perishable chhana product, while the use o f lim e juice yields a gritty one which sets to a hard, long-lasting product / It is hard to determine exactly when the term sandesh came to indicate a sweet m ade with chhana rather than w ith kheer. But it is reasonable to assum e that it had becom e com m on usage by the latter half o f the nineteenth century. Today, the sim plest Bengali sandesh is the kanchagolla (literally,‘uncooked ball’ ), that is, hot, sweetened chhana form ed into round balls. The term kancha (uncooked) does not indicate a lack o f processing by heat after the milk has been curdled. The chhana is actually tossed lightly with sugar over low heat and the m astery o f a m oira is indicated by the com plexity o f texture he can achieve despite the shortness of the cooking/processin g tim e. Som e o f the best kanchagolla is available from sw eet shops around the fam ous Kali tem ple in C alcu tta’s Kalighat neighbourhood. They are generally given as offerings to the goddess. O nce they have gone through the ritual o f offering, the devotees are free to eat and enjoy these soft yet grainy rounded shapes served on disposable plates o f shaal leaves, their m ilky flavour curiously enhanced by the slightly sm oky odour o f the leaf container. In m ore elaborate incarnations, the chhana for sandesh can be p ressed , dried , flavoured with fruit essen ces, colou red, coo ked to m any differen t con sisten cies, filled w ith syrup, blended with coconut o r kheer, and m oulded into a variety o f shapes (including those o f elephants, conch shells, and tigers). Fancy confectioners in Calcutta or Dhaka even take proprietary p rid e in a p artic u lar shape o r flavour o f san desh as their particular invention. The Bengali obsession with this sw eet is

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indicated in the flights o f fancy displayed in the nam ing o f different kinds o f sandesh. Bipradas Mukhopadhyay, writing in 1906, lists m ore than twenty nam es, based on the form , content, con sisten cy, and flavou r o f the san desh . A m on g the m o st m em orable are: abaar khabo (I want to eat it again), pranohara (robber o f my soul), manoranjan (heart’s delight), nayantara (pupil o f my eye), and ahladej putul (pam pered doll). In the heydays o f colonial rule, the British, too, were honoured, as indicated by nam es such as ‘good m orning’ and ‘Lord Ripon.’ Chhana-based sweets in Bengal (including both West Bengal and Bangladesh) are too num erous to enum erate in full. But som e o f the m ost famous deserve m ention. N ex t to sandesh, the roso go lla is the best known as the representative sw eet from Bengal. Its m ost obvious characteristic is that o f being soaked in syrup (ros). The other is the exquisite sm oothness o f the chhana. There is no room for graininess in a good rosogolla. A variety referred to as the sponge rosogolla (sic) is considered the best. O ther syrup-soaked sweets m ade from chhana include chamchaniy pantua, chhanabora, chhanarjilipi, rosomundi, golapjaam, and kalojaam. Som etim es the fam e o f a sw eet is tied to the name o f a place, as in the ‘kanchagolla o f N atore,’ the *monda o f M uktagachha’ , the 4chamcham o f Tangail/ Som etim es it is the name o f a shop that serves as a label o f excellence, as in the sandesh from Bhim Chandra N ag or the rosogolla from K. C. Das. O n e interesting point o f speculation is why these sw eets are rarely m ade at hom e, for the true subtlety and excellence o f m ost Bengali foods (vegetables, legum es, fish, m eat, and sweets not m ade from chhana) is generally to be found in home cooking. According to the eminent Bangladeshi historian, the la te P r o fe sso r A b d u r R az zaq u e , it w a s the p r o fe ssio n a l sweetm akers— many o f them M uslims— rather than the home

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cook, who were originally responsible for the creation o f all these chhana-based sweets. This seem s likely when one considers that Hindu households, with all their practices o f ritual purity, m ight initially have resisted the invasion o f the kitchen by a substance m ade by the Portuguese ‘heathens/ It would thus be left to the professionals, working in a shop and not a hom e, to ex p erim en t w ith a new m edium o f gu stato ry delight. The practice, once started , still prevails. And capitalizing on the enduring Bengali addiction for the varied, delightful offspring o f chhana, sw eet shops flourish in every corn er o f a city or town in W est Bengal and Bangladesh. The hom e cook need only step ou t to buy any chh ana-based sw eets he fancies and, therefore, has little incentive to invest tim e, energy, and skill in m aking them. The arrival ofVasco da Gam a in India signalled many pivotal developm ents in the history o f Europe and Asia, including the sad scourge o f colonialism. But today, in the com bined glow o f a p o st-m illen n ial and pre-m illen n ial ligh t o f enquiry, the Bengalis, at least, can savour a very special sweetness that is the gift o f the Portuguese. Sa n d esh I n g r e d ie n t s

4 lA litres of milk 340 grams o f sugar

,

2 or three limes cut into wedges M eth od

To m ake chhana for sandesh, heat the m ilk in a heavybottom ed pan. W hen it com es to boil, stir w ith a spatula and start squeezing the ju ice o f the lim es into it. K eep stirring, so that the m ilk does not boil over from the pan.

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W hen the m ilk separates into liquid whey and solid chhana, rem ove the pan and pour the contents into a colander. W hen it is cool enough to handle, rem ove the chhana, tie it up in a cheesecloth, and p ress as m uch o f the excess w ater out as possible. L et the bundle hang for half an hour to get rid o f all the m oisture. Take ou t the chhana, p u t it in a m ixin g bow l and knead it with your hands until it is a fíne paste. Ju d gin g how fine the paste should be is an art that com es only with practice. H eat a w ok over m edium low heat, add the kneaded chhana and the sugar, and fry, stirring constantly. W hen the m ixture com es away easily from the sides o f the w ok and the sugar has been ab sorbed com pletely, rem ove from the stove. Before rem oving, you m ay add som e rose w ater o r Indian kew ra w ater to flavour the sandesh. Pour the m ixtu re onto a plate and while still w arm , divide in to equal p ortion s and form balls. In Bengal, special w ooden or clay m ou lds are used to give a variety o f shapes to sandesh.

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F O O D , R I T U A L A N D A R T IN BENGAL

P

arallel aesthetic visions are called up by the conjunction o f

food and art. There are direct depictions o f food in art, in painting, literature, cinem a. Conversely, there is the artistry o f preparing and presenting food. But all such convergence o f food and art, however sublim e, is about food as an object o f consum ption and sustenance, either in the im m ediate present, or savoured as a m em ory, or anticipated as a future pleasure. But there is a third dimension, where food is the m edium for depicting the em otional, cerem onial, and ritual universe o f a people. It is a realm w here, having already experienced the p leasu res o f p rep arin g, presen tin g, and p artak in g, one has subsequently m ade it into a versatile m edium for both spiritual an d a r t is t ic c re a tiv ity , a m e ta p h o r fo r d iv e r se h u m an experiences. As in the sim ple and com plex conjunctions o f food and art am ong the Hindus o f Bengal. T he traditional life o f Bengal is rich in form , ritual, and aestheticism . In sacred and secular cerem onies, Bengalis have in v e ste d fo o d w ith in tr ic a te sy m b o lic sig n ific a n c e . An extraordinarily active folk imagination draws on food images to create verse, paintings, and craft objects. Gurusaday D utt, a m em ber o f the Indian Civil Service in pre-independence India, w rote about his own discoveries o f the entwining o f art, ritual, and cerem ony in rural Bengal in the course o f his official travels throughout the region between 1929 and 1933. He m ade a careful study o f the artistic and m usical traditions o f the villages he visited— traditions that the W estern-educated urban elite o f that tim e was barely aware o f and certainly did not value. And he m ade it his mission to preserve these traditions, support their practitioners, and focus public attention on them. In the course o f his observations, he realized that in this pre-em inently rural region o f the Indian subcontinent, alm ost every aspect o f life, however mundane,

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was an aesthetic ritual. Food, in that cultural m indset, was not only som ething to be consum ed for survival, but also an artistic m edium . It provided the raw m aterial for painting and making offerings to the gods; it enhanced personal experience when its shape, colour, and life becam e m etaphors for human existence; it acquired symbolic meaning and enriched social custom s with cerem onial value. And the creative force that was behind such transform ations was a rurally derived folk imagination, not the cultivated, educated, sophisticated m indset o f intellectuals. ‘The m ost outstanding feature o f the art o f rural Bengal,’ w rote Gurusaday D utt, ‘consists in its being synonymous with the life o f the people— their beliefs and their religion, their daily activities and their seasonal and social festivities, their work and their play. The whole o f life was conceived as an art and lived as an art.’ For many years after he recorded his observations, things did not change very much. Young girls in rural areas, as well as in the m o re tradition al urban fam ilies, w ere painstakingly trained in the art o f dom estic ritual and ceremony, many o f which were based on an innate respect for food— particularly the staple, rice, which had im m ense symbolic significance. An agrarian social structure that rem ained largely unchanged over the centu ries, despite the larger events o f history sw eeping over the Indian subcontinent, created a continuous collective consciousness that is to be seen in indigenous artistic endeavours, such as the making o f quilts, the decoration o f hom esteads, the com position o f verses, the devising o f innumerable rituals around the m ajor events o f life (weddings, births, and deaths), and the worship o f the gods. Food, whether in its raw form or modified through human preparation, runs as a constant m otif through these m odes o f artistic expression. A com m on Bengali adage refe rs to th irteen festivals in

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twelve m onths. Thirteen, o f course, is an apocryphal number. Festive rituals abound throughout the year and vary not only from village to village, bu t som etim es even from family to family. T he festivals range fro m the stric tly relig io u s (the worship o f specific deities in the Hindu pantheon), to the semisacred (the observance, usually by w om en, o f certain auspicious days in the lunar calendar, or the practice o f rituals in connection w ith a brata o r u n d e rta k in g /v o w ), to the entirely secu lar (weddings, birthdays, an infant’s first m eal o f rice, etc.). On all these o ccasio n s, village h o m es, w h ether rich o r poor, are d e c o ra te d w ith in tric ate p a tte rn s rich in sy m b o lism and artfulness. Traditionally, this is done by w om en and highlights an im agination based on an acute observation and appreciation o f the natural w orld and its products. A lm ost every visible area o f the cottage— the patio, the wooden colum ns supporting the roof, the floor o f room s where guests and relatives will assem ble, walls, and alcoves, as well as objects like w ooden seats and large pitchers o f water, are decorated with patterns in a style known as alpana (derived from the Sanskrit alimpana, ornam ental plastering). And the artistic m edium for such patterns is the staple food o f Bengal, rice. Only atap (non-parboiled) rice is used, usually o f the shortgrained variety. The rice is soaked in w ater to soften, then dried, and ground to a fine pow der which is held between the thum b and the tip o f the index finger and sprinkled on the ground to create the patterns the artist has in mind. Reminiscent o f the religio-artistic practices ofTibetan m onks, this technique is called gunrichitra or dhulichitra (particle painting or dust painting) in Bengal. A m ore durable m edium is created when the rice pow der is m ixed with w ater to make a thick paste. A rag, folded to form a tapering wick, is held in the hollow o f the palm , its pointed end being dipped into the rice paste and used

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to paint the alpana patterns. O nce dried, the patterns show up vividly white on earthen floors, wooden surfaces, or terracotta objects. O ccasionally, coloured dyes are added to the white rice paste. The drawing o f alpanas is always spontaneous.They represent a continuous tradition o f artistic form and technique am ong the w om en o f Bengal and the spontaneity o f drawing is a crucial aspect o f the art. There is no tem plate to refer to , nor any previously docum ented pattern to copy— only the knowledge o f patterns seen in the past and a com m unity m em ory o f motifs developed through the ages. A m ong the com m on m otifs are the flow ers, leaves, fruits, and vegetables that are a part o f the landscape. Ears o f rice, as is only to be expected, show up often, as do rice storage containers (dhaner morai) as sym bols o f plenty. For the artist, the act o f decorating a space or an object for a cerem onial purpose is vested with as m uch ritual significance as the eventual cerem ony itself. And the choice o f rice (paste) as the prim ary m edium o f painting reaffirm s the im portance o f this crop in Bengal’s life, a significance that has led to rice being considered synonym ous with Lakshm i, the goddess o f wealth, prosperity, and grace. Even when sated, Bengalis are reluctant to waste or discard the portion o f rice on their plates, lest the goddess perceive it as an insult and withdraw her favours. Another rem arkable exam ple o f the union o f food and folk im agination in art can be seen in the rich and varied collection o f chharas, songs and rhymes that are part o f a long-lived oral tradition in Bengal. O nly in the late n ineteenth and early tw e n tie th c e n tu r ie s w e re th e se rh y m e s c o lle c t e d and do cu m en ted in a system atic fashion. F o rem o st am ong the rescuers o f chharas were the poet Rabindranath Tagore and his nephew, Abanindranath Tagore. As is only to be expected, the chharas, even at their m ost fanciful or nonsensical, conjure up a

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faithful picture o f an agrarian society where life was ritualized, ex p ectatio n s w ell-d efin ed , the ro le s o f m en , w om en , and children unquestioned, and econom ic status often indicated by the food eaten every day. The rhymes are replete with im ages o f food, and key items recu r in m any fo rm s. T he re g io n ’s d iet includes rice, fish, vegetables, and milk and milk products. As a tropical land o f many rivers, blessed with fertile alluvial soil, Bengal produced all these foods in abundance, but social and econom ic inequalities determ ined the proportion o f individual access. In rhyme after rhym e, food is used to depict topograph y and clim ate, the interactions betw een family m em bers (o n e’s own as well as the dreaded in-laws), prosperity or want, and indoor and outdoor activities. It is not hard to imagine that w om en, who were in charge o f the kitchen, were also the creators o f these simple rhym ing verses that so reflect their own concerns. Fish and fishing are frequent themes. Many rhymes mention the son o f the family (far m ore im portant than the daughter, who w ould, after all, m erely get m arried and go away to her h u sb an d ’s h o u se) settin g o ff on a fishing ex p ed itio n . And num erous verses have the sam e recurrent im age o f two large fish (rui and catla, both o f the carp family) leaping out o f the river. The arcing m otion o f these graceful, silver-scaled, piscine form s struck generations o f Bengalis as one o f the m ost beautiful sights in their riverine land. In one verse, the m other ponders what nourishing food to give her son before he sets out on a journey and decides it will be prawns caught from the river, coo k ed w ith the eggplan t she has grow n in her gard en . A charm ing im age o f the close relationship betw een human beings and their environment occurs in another chhara. A young boy, trying to catch a powerful boal fish (a freshw ater shark), com es to grief when the fish capsizes the boat. D isappointed, the boy

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com es back to the shore. This am uses an otter so much that it gleefully cavorts in the river. The b o y ’s doting m oth er tells the otter to stop its antics for a m om ent and look tow ards the bank where her son, unperturbed by the loss o f his boat, is dancing no less expertly. Another gem o f a couplet, with an acute econom y o f w ords, evokes the image o f on e’s dream girl whose w aist is slim and supple as a pankal fish (sw am p eel, a com m on food fish in rural Bengal). R ice, the basis o f alm ost all m eals in Bengal, takes many form s. In addition to the variety and quality o f rice types— according to som e agricultural ex p erts, the terrain is varied enough to grow 10,000 indigenous varieties o f rice— the ways o f processing rice help create a whole eating universe out o f this one particular grain: puffed rice, rice flakes, popped rice (plain o r coated with sugar), each with variants, depending on the strain o f rice they are derived from and the way they are prepared and eaten. Rice flakes feature prom inently in both the chharas and the folktales o f Bengal because they are easy to carry for the intrepid hero setting out on his travels and because o f their versatility in com plem enting many other foods. In the heat o f a tropical sum m er afternoon, the flakes, soaked in cool water and accom panied by milk or yogurt, ground coconut, sum m er fruits like banana or m ango, m ade a m eal that was both so oth in g and filling. N u m ero u s v e rses m en tion such preparations m ade for the visiting son-in-law (the m ortal deity who held the happiness or m isery o f the daughter in his hands) by his attentive mother-in-law. For the traveller, rice flakes could sim ply be soaked in the w ater from a river or lake and eaten with a bit o f sugar. The longer the grains and the m ore delicate the variety o f rice, the lighter and tastier the rice flakes. In a society where the daughter-in-law was commonly v ic tim iz e d by h er m o th er-in -law , m an y v e rse s m en tio n

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placating the latter with an array o f gifts, one o f them being the fin e st q u ality o f flak ed ric e . A las, eq u ally n u m ero u s references to the unm itigated suffering and drudgery endured by the young bride at the hands o f her mother-in-law clearly dem onstrate how ineffective such gifts often were. The cook's pride in her own art, especially in the art o f preparing vegetables that the Hindu culinary tradition in Bengal is fam ed for, is also dem onstrated in som e delightful rhymes. In one verse, the speaker m entions a lightly seasoned vegetable stew o f baby p u m pk in s o r g o u rd s— v e getab le s that w ere considered the appropriate ‘cool fo od s’ during the summer. In another, a rich m erchant’s daughter boasts o f her special recipe for a combination dish including eggplant, green bananas, striped gourd, and climbing gourd. Beyond the norm al pride o f a good cook, this verse also illustrates the self-confidence, bordering on arrogance, o f a wom an from a wealthy family. O ne wellknown verse is about an ex p ert cook decrying the lack o f skill o f a young girl called Rani, who com m its the heresies o f adding hot chilli peppers to shukto, a mildly bitter dish, and ghee to am bol (a tart sauce, often tam arind-based, and always m ade with pungent m ustard o il). It is likely that the unfortunate Rani is being castigated by one o f her in-laws, who could make life m iserable for a new bride with barbed com m ents about her lack o f skills in the kitchen. S o m e tim e s, th e c o o k - a r t is t ’s p e r c e p tio n o f th e lu sh vegetative w orld she inhabits ex p resse s itse lf in innovative m etaphors. W ater lilies bloom ing in the still w aters o f a pond are com pared to writing inscribed on paper; buds positioned around green lily pads are thought to resem ble a dish o f cooked greens garnished with boris-—pellets o f sun-dried legum e paste. Spare, haiku-like verses evoke specific em otion s sim ply by positioning discrete im ages, including those o f food item s, next

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to each other. In one such verse, a sister’s longing for her absent brother is expressed through the con trast o f torrential rain under an ominously black sky on the far side o f a river, and a p ep per plant loaded with vivid scarlet chilli peppers on the bank where she sits alone. Perhaps the m ost repetitive food image in these chharas is that o f m ilk and its many derivatives— yoghurt, curds, whey, clotted cream , sar, and ghee. Milk is an expensive com m odity in India, som ething that only the well-off can afford— in m arked con trast to its affordability in E urope and N o rth A m erica. M others, even the poorest o f them , will do anything to give their children m ilk or milk products. Those who cannot are the m ost unfortun ate o f m ortals. Rhyme after rhyme refe rs to young children, especially the favoured m ale child, being given bow ls full o f warm m ilk, and varied combinations o f milk, rice, popped rice, bananas, m angoes, even jackfruit. In one verse, a m other calls her little boy, who answers from the kitchen garden that he is plucking greens for their midday m eal. In reply, she dism isses greens as not being the right food for her beloved son, telling him instead to com e inside for a m eal o f milk and bananas. So precious is m ilk, that in many verses and folktales, the cherished infant is referred to as a kheerer putul or a doll m ade o f clotted cream . Another indication o f the correlation betw een plentiful milk and familial prosperity is to be seen in recurring im ages o f rivers or lakes o f milk o r cream . And with the facile transcendence o f imagination, these sam e rivers are endowed with a wealth o f fish, which the beloved son can catch and bring hom e. Som etim es humour, verging on the black, is the tool for expressing the inadequacy o f the provider in getting enough m ilk for the family’s needs. In one chhara a wom an describes, tongue in cheek, how the one skimpy cupful o f m ilk she has

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m anaged to buy m ust be stretched to cover everyone’s needs. First, it will yield two kinds o f cream , as well as curds and butter, to be served at lunch and dinner. Then the two older sons will get som e m ilk to drink, while the frothing top layer from the heated m ilk w ill be reserv ed fo r the baby. A sick relative, who suffers from a chronic cough, will get his share of the m iracle fluid. N or can the pet bird be ignored— it has such a discrim inating palate that it refuses to eat birdseed. And who can forget that the head o f the family m ust be given his share? As for the lady herself, she cannot possibly eat a m eal without a bit o f yoghurt! The duality o f milk and rice is also echoed in other widely lauded w orks o f literature. In the Annadamangalkab/a, a long narrative poem w ritten in 1753 by Bharatchandra Ray (court poet to M aharaja Krishnachandra o f N abadw ip in Bengal), a sim ple ferrym an, who does not get swayed from the path o f virtue despite the travails o f poverty and want, finally receives his rew ard.The goddess Annada appears before him and prom ises to give him all he wants. True to his character, he asks, not for im m ense wealth, but for a guarantee that his descendants will always be able to afford rice and milk. This sym bol o f a desire that is m od est, w holesom e, and achievable is not generated entirely from the p o e t’s fancy. It is based on a long-held regional perception about im portant foods. W orshipping the num erous deities o f the Hindu pantheon, those from ancient Vedic tim es as well as those conjured up over tim e by the folk imagination, is part o f the daily life o f rural Bengal. Although the rituals, prayers, and offerings can vary from one deity to the next, som e elem ents are com m on to all such occasions o f worship. They reveal a fertile artistic imagination, springing from the tropical lushness o f the region. And fo o d , as p art o f such rituals, acquires both literal and m etaphorical relevance.

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Lakshm i, the goddess o f fortune, is one o f the key figures worshipped in Bengal. H er im portance, especially for women, is evident in the fact that not only is she worshipped with great pom p and cerem ony on the night o f the autumn full m oon (every god or goddess is honoured on a particular day o f the year), but also on every Thursday. Few Hindu hom es in Bengal will be without a special niche or alcove in which an im age or painting o f the goddess is enshrined. And the weekly worship o f Lakshmi dem onstrates how blurred the line betw een art and prayer can be, and how food serves as both an artistic and a ceremonial m edium . The rituals include the drawing o f alpanas around her shrine, the sym bolic offerin g o f food fo r her consum ption (including the essential rice as well as fruits and sw eets), and the reading o f a short narrative poem , the panchali, detailing her pow er and greatness. The symbolic use o f rice can also be seen in the p ra c tice o f fillin g a w ick er b ask et w ith dhan (unhusked ric e) and placin g it alon gsid e the im age o f the goddess. If, for som e reason, the image o f the goddess is absent, this basket, called jhanpi or patara, can be a substitute. And in m ost pictorial depictions, she appears with ears o f rice in each hand. Offerings (cooked and uncooked) m ade to gods and goddesses express the relevance o f food in life. N o puja o r act o f worship is com plete without the making o f offerings, however simple o r m e ag re . R ice, as e x p e c te d , is an in te gral p a r t o f such offerings. Unhusked rice and trefoil grasses (durba) are presented to the deities along with whole and cut fruits and other foods. The im pulse o f devotion is com plem ented with artistry. Even when a wom an is worshipping the gods in the solitude o f her own hom e, she will never set out her offerings in a slapdash fashion. C ut or peeled fruits will be arranged in circular patterns or in blocks o f colour and the dhan and durba will be positioned

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in the m iddle to provide a navel-like focus. Rice pudding (payesh) is one o f the com m onest cooked item s offered to the gods, com bining the two universally accepted item s o f nourishment. O nce prepared, the pudding is often decorated with dhan and durba before being offered. W orshipping the sun god (referred to as Itu puja or Ritu puja) is perhaps the best exam ple o f the ritual use o f food grains. A late autum n event, the practice consists o f filling an earthen pot with m oist earth and five kinds o f grains, including rice. A sm all copp er pitcher, filled with water, is em bedded in the centre o f the pot. O n every Sunday, for a whole m onth, women w ater the pot to allow the grains to germ inate and sprout, and pray to the sun god. By the end o f the m onth, when the harvest is in, they m ake rice pudding with the newly harvested rice, offer it to the god, and, finally, im m erse the pot o f germ inating grains in a pond or river. T h e sam e fo lk im ag in atio n th at d e v ise d th ese ritu a ls incorporating food and worship also created the secular rituals surrounding m ajor events like w eddings, births, and deaths. Food, invested with sym bolism and beauty, plays a large part in som e o f these events. W eddings am ong Bengali H indus are e la b o r a t e a ffa ir s , str e tc h in g o v er th re e d a y s, w ith th e preparatory rituals beginning even a w eek in advance. In a delta region whose rivers are prolific in fish, it is not surprising that Bengalis consider fish a sym bol o f plenty and use it in their wedding rituals. The Hindus o f West Bengal have the custom o f sending a tattwa or cerem onial gift presentation from the b rid e’s fam ily to the gro o m . A lthough the array o f gifts can vary, including clothes, furniture, jewellery or sweets, the centrepiece is always a carp, decorated elaborately with oil and vermilion. The largest fish that the family can afford is acquired for this purpose and the visual totality o f the apparition is stunning: gleam ing, pinkish-silver scales, the dark fins and tail, the lovingly

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painted verm ilion patterns, and the background o f green (the banana leaf on which the fish rests). Milk is another sym bol o f plenty and som e families have devised a charming custom for the b rid e ’s arrival at her in-law s’ . W hen the gro om returns with her to his' family hom e after the wedding cerem ony that took place at hers, watchful eyes coordinate her first step over the threshold with the boiling over o f a p o t o f milk. In other fam ilies, she enters holding tw o sm all live fish in her hand, which are released in the family fishpond to breed and multiply. As expected, the role o f rice is pivotal in these rituals. A part from the alpanas, which are joyously painted all over the house and on the piris where the bridal pair will sit, rice is also used to signify the auspiciousness o f the cerem ony. O n the night before the wedding, wom en in the b rid e’s family build a small m ound o f rice pow der (plain or dyed), called a sree. This is supposed to be a sym bol o f Lakshmi (Sree or grace being another name for her), whose favour is essential to the success o f the m arriage. D uring the actual wedding ceremony, which entails the pair having to walk seven tim es around a ritual fire built by a priest, popped rice is poured by them into the fire as a prayer for prosperity. The ritual o f baran, or w elcom e, is perform ed both when the groom arrives at the b rid e’s house and when he retu rn s hom e w ith her after the m arriag e . It is strictly a w om en’s ritual. A large brass platter, containing flow ers, leaves, the obligatory dhan and durba, and som etim es even small oil lam ps, is held by the m other or other senior fem ale relative and w aved in circular m otions in front o f the groom or the m arried couple, to the accom panim ent o f ululation and the blowing o f conch shells by other women. When m ajor deities are worshipped on their annual festive days, priests welcome them with a similar ritual. Before they finally enter the house, the bridal pair is given something sweet to eat.

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N o discussion about the recurrence o f food as both a theme and the raw material in indigenous Bengali art can be com plete without a m ention o f the work o f Bengali patuas or illustrators. Traditionally, every village had a resident patua, whose depiction o f divine figures or scenes from myths, epics, and narrative poem s often adorned the walls o f huts, or substituted for images in the household niche reserved for worship. The illustrations were rem arkable for their bold line drawings and vivid use o f pure unm ixed colours. The tradition o f patachitra or pat (as the illustrations were called) is very old and exists throughout the Indian subcontinent. Som e scholars consider the Bengali patuas to have been in flu en ced by the m in iatu re pain tin gs that flourished under the Rajput and Mughal rulers in northern India. W hatever the influences, over the course o f several centuries, they created a unique and unmistakable im print that cannot be seen in any other region. The preparation o f paper and colour for painting shows again how in tegrated rice was with the expression o f the artistic im pulse o f Bengal. G lue, prepared by boiling crushed rice, was first applied to individual sheets o f paper. Ten or twelve such sheets were successively glued together to form a thick pad, which was further hardened by being pressed over a wooden board by a stone pestle applied like a rolling pin. O nce the pad was dry and stiff, the patua could start the painting. The bold, vibrant colours used in illustrations were derived from natural substances like indigo, cinnabar, chalk, verm ilion, soot from an oil lam p and burnt rice, crushed and m ade into a paste with water. Each o f these was carefully m ixed in a solution made from the gum o f tamarind or a fruit called bel. The subjects favoured by m ost rural illustrators were, as dem anded by their clients, m ostly sacred— scenes from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, episodes from the life o f Krishna

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or from the life o f Sri Chaitanya. But one branch o f this art shows considerable urban influence and was highly secular in content, rich in acute social commentary. This is the body o f indigenous paintings known as the Kalighat pats, produced by illustrators who settled around the Kali tem ple in Kalighat, Calcutta. Although the tem ple was built in 1809, the, site had been dedicated to the G oddess Kali since the fifteenth century. R ural patuas, looking for m ore w ork, started settling there from the m iddle o f the eighteenth century. M ost w ere from the district o f M edinipur in Bengal. As the city o f Calcutta grew under the British and its Bengali residents developed the distinct ‘babu’ culture, the illustrators gave full play to their artistic im ag in atio n by d ep ic tin g d iffe re n t asp e c ts o f urban life. Eventually, their work spawned the famous w oodcut prints that v ivid ly illu stra te d the g e n re o f cheap ro m an tic th rille rs published by the local Battala press. O ne o f the best collections o f Kalighat pats can be found in the V ictoria and A lbert M useum in London. D uring colonial rule, the paintings travelled across the oceans as part o f the co llectio n s o f B ritish civil serv an ts and m issio n aries. The collection in the Victoria and A lbert M useum contains several pats which belonged to J. Lockw ood Kipling, father o f Rudyard and for many years Principal o f the Lahore School o f A rts (now in Pakistan). The K alighat paintings p ro ject the im age o f a society in flux, where the m en, who were in the external w orld, were caught betw een the servility demanded by their colonial m asters and the libertine pursuit o f sensory pleasures. Am oral attitudes and double standards were highly prevalent. O n the other hand, wom en, im prisoned in the hom e, continued the rural, ritualistic traditions o f their forebears. Many o f these rituals involved the elaborate preparation o f food and the Kalighat artists frequently

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focused on that. Cerem onies like jamaishashthi (honouring the son-in-law) or bhaiphonta (sisters praying for the welfare o f their brothers and feeding them a special m eal) are com m on subjects o f pats. Inevitably, they centre on food— a large plate o f rice and condim ents surrounded by num erous bowls containing an array o f fish, m eat, legum es, vegetables, chutneys, and desserts. But beyond the literal depiction lies the significance o f the effort behind these elaborate, m ulti-course m eals (the ideal feast was supposed to consist o f sixty-four dishes). For the son-in-law, the effort was in the nature o f a tribute— an offering m ade to the perso n who held the happiness, c o m fo rt, even the life o f a beloved daughter in his hands. In the case o f the brother, it was an act o f appeasem ent— the sister praying to avert the attentions o f the god o f death. In a m ale-dom inated society, a brother’s death was an evil to be feared; no one cared about the sister’s well-being. Even m ore rem arkable are the pats with vivid, intim ate close-ups conveying specific m essages. A m an’s hand clasps huge blue-black freshwater praw ns, a m edium -sized carp, and a lau or bottle gourd. The combination o f gourd and prawns, which will produce the classic lau-chingri, is a com m entary on the Bengali preoccupation with food— a fact well-noted in other parts o f India. Another drawing, titled ‘BiralTapaswi’ (the ascetic cat), shows up the hypocrisy o f many urban Bengalis who hid their dissolute habits under a surface sobriety. The im age is that o f a cat whose forehead and nose bear the markings typical o f holy ascetics who espouse a strictly vegetarian diet. But in its m outh, the cat holds a large praw n, which, obviously, it plans to devour in secrecy. A sid e fro m th e w o rk s o f illu s t r a t o r s , all the a r tistic endeavours surrounding the life and rituals o f Bengal stand out in their carefree assum ption o f im perm anence. O bjects and

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sp a c e s are d e c o ra te d w ith g r e a t in te n sity o f e ffo r t and imagination, although the artist knows that the work will vanish within days. Verses she com poses will never be attributed to h er and w ill p o ssib ly u n d e rg o su b tle m u ta tio n s in o ral transm ission. Accepting this transience as the inevitable fate o f art resonates well with the choice o f food item s as either the raw m aterial for art or the m eans o f exp ressin g— through m etaphor and sym bolism — the ritual significance o f life. As long as the land endured, these foods w ould keep on being generated. That assurance was enough to stim ulate the robust and prolific imagination o f Bengal. Anchored in a fertile alluvial delta, nourished by the richness o f its natural resources, spanning the belief system s o f animism and deism , Bengal’s artistry has taken the sustenance o f daily living and shaped it into a medium for investing life with meaning and ceremony.

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Portions o f this book have previously appeared in print— though in considerably different versions. The introduction and chapters 3 and 7 are based on columns written for the Boston Globe, Food Section. Portions o f chapters 4 and 5 were published in an essay in Petits Propos Culinaires, P rosp ect B ooks L td ., Lon don. A different version o f chapter 6 was published as an article in Gastronomica— -the journal o f food and culture published by U n iv e rsity o f C a lifo rn ia P re ss, B erk eley. C h a p te r 8 w as published in Granta 5 2 , a special issue on food. Chapters 9 and 10 were papers presented at the O xford Sym posium on Food and C ookery in 1999 and 1998 , respectively. I w ould like to thank Louise Kennedy, form er editor o f the Boston Globe Food Section for her support and encouragem ent and Anjum Katyal at Seagull Books for her creative vision. Chitrita Banerji