And now for a happy Bengali food memory from my childhood.
I grew up ensconced and nurtured by the maternal side of my family. Every big occasion … Bengali new year, Lokhi Pujo, Kali Pujo, Christmas, the New Year … would see us congregate at our grandparents’ house. I was the first born in my generation. My brother followed. Then our cousins. Four boys and three girls in total. I’d moved out of the city by the time the youngest was born so we’ve never had a full house there yet. Someday …
The menu for lunch would be largely the same. Bhaaja (potato, brinjal, and in winter cauliflower, covered in gram flour batter and fried). Maachher jhol. Rohu or kaatla. With potatoes, and in winter green peas and cauliflower. Since it was for a special occasion, it would be an onion based curry. Occasionally Didu would make potoler dolma instead. Pointed gourd stuffed with mashed rohu and kishmish and cooked in a similar curry. Then there would be the piece de resistance. Murgir jhol. Chicken curry. And pulao. We called it just ‘pulao’. We hadn’t heard of the name ‘basanti pulao’ then.
I made Basanti pulao, with the Gobindo Bhog rice and turmeric from The Bengal Store that Pritha Sen had sent us, for dinner. Paired with a kaalia (sans chilli powder) made with the kaatla we’d ordered in from Poonam at Khar market. Added some cauliflower to it. You get this through the year in Mumbai. Used the mustard oil, cumin, coriander and turmeric from the Bengal, store along with garam masala and black pepper, for the kaalia.
My pulao follows a cheat recipe. I boil the rice and drain out the water. Then heat ghee (Country Delight in this case), add bay leaf, whole cinnamon, clove and cardamom, a bit of sugar, raisins and cashews, turmeric powder, and then the rice, followed by a dash of salt. Today’s pulao tasted byapok (mind blowing).
My late grandpa revered gobindo bhog rice and doted on my granny’s cooking.
He would have loved the pulao I am sure. Would have liked the kaalia too. I never got a chance to cook for him. I did make chicken curry once for Didu.
My cousins and I live in different parts of the country and world now. None in Calcutta. Didu’s house stays empty on happy occasions. Usually it’s just her and an attendant. The story of so many houses in Calcutta.
I wish I could convey a bit of the joy I felt as I relished my dinner of kaatla kaalia and pulao to Didu. With the happy memories from around her table as dessert.