Last night I remembered the shingara didu fed me when I visited her last Sunday.
Of how they were, objectively speaking, the best shingara I’ve had.
The thin maida crust was pure love. Like a grandmother’s hug.
Encased in it small cubes of potatoes, as cheerful and coveted as sparkling diamonds in a ring.
The potatoes were soft and pliant, and yet had a reassuring bite. With the inherent sweetness of starch. Interspersed with bites of crunchy peanuts. And the odd bits of potato peel. And the occasional fibre of finely chopped ginger that you plucked out and placed on the saucer.
Last night I wished I could have ten at one go again. With a bowl of ketchup on the side. As I would when I would go to visit my grandparents on weekends after we moved into Calcutta. With my parents dropping me.
Not worrying about what this would do to my fasting and PP scores, as I did when I had 2 from the 4 she called for that evening.
Preceded by the tragi-comic tableaux of didu trying to explain to her day ayah where to get the shingara and roshogolla from, how much to pay, how much change to get back.
Back then dadu would bring the shingara on his way back from his evening walk.
And didu would take them out from a thonga for their first and for 7 years and 364 days, their only naati. A chubby, bilet pherot, fussy, pampered one. Who was a picky about his food. The daddy of Baby Loaf. Baby Raja.
How I wished I was 8 again and not 48 last night. P
Ps: For the more pedantic of you, the shingara is from Joy Guru sweets. Don’t bother with Google maps. You would find equally good ones in the myriad sweet shops that crisscross the city of joy. 4.30 pm is the best time to get them. When a fresh batch has been made
Something I wrote on the spur of the moment today after I woke up. Even before I brushed my teeth!
