June Blooms

Vegetarians? Us?

‘But fish is a vegetable where Bengalis are concerned? Do you not call it a jal-tari – a water vegetable?’

I have now heard this from many a wide eyed non-bong.

True we are omnivorous as a community…that is we have remained the way God intended us to be…but we do have our share of vegetarianism.

And when we say vegetarian we probably outdo every other community in variety, quantity, flavour and last but not the least in following it to the ‘T’.

ONION, GARLIC ….very very non-vegetarian. How many Jains and other so called veg-Indians can claim to be as virtuous a vegetarian as our vegetarians? None. Not even the vegans that have now begun to flood the world.

Who but a Bengali can serve a vegetarian (Nirameesh) mutton curry as an offering to Kali on the night of Kali Puja?

Nirameesh you say?

Well, goat meat or lamb neither of them can measure up to the onion and the garlic on, I guess it should be called, the SIN SCALE. Cook the mutton without the perverse onion and garlic and you have a perfectly pious casserole.

But on a serious note think about a poribeshon kora lunch or dinner plate – one that the matriarch has taken care to supervise keeping in mind her family’s health needs. I simply cannot find the English equivalent of poribeshon kora. Next think of a similar platter from anywhere in India …lets be bold…anywhere in the world. Sure, I agree that the glory lies in the fish head, fish slices, meat curry etc but not one Bengali can ever get to that part of the meal without having to wade through copious amounts of shukto – the bitter mixed veg stew which is meant to cleanse the system, or the neem-begun (neem leaves with brinjal) or the karala-chorchori (bitter gourd with potatoes and brinjals)…remember one cannot just mix any old vegetable…there is quite a precise formula; the bhaja (fries) to tempt the palate; the dal (pulses for that first bit of protein kick)...different ones for different days …and of course not uniformly flavoured with the pyaz-tamatar-ka-tarka; the dry vegetables – the chorchori, ghonto, chechki; the wet vegetables – the dalna …foods that do not require a dal to provide the moist accompaniment; the very wet stew or jhol …a wonderful combination of vegetables and fish; the sweet chutneys that follow the non-veg items…to clear the palate of the strong flavours before the gently flavoured desserts can be served.


Note again the quantity of every item that is served…perhaps we are the only community that does not pick at their vegetables delicately. Come to think of it, we are hearty eaters.

Spare a moment for the way in which the humble import from South America transforms itself for the Bengali.

Every mother instructing the daughters in the art of fine cooking issues the following instructions for cutting the potato:


· Bhatey: the mashed version spiced with pungent mustard oil and green chillies
· Jhiri –Jhiri: fine strips that get fried to a crisp to go along with the dal
· Gol: thin flat round slices for a softer juicier fried version
· Chand: thick crescents for the jhol,
medium ones for shukto and chorchori
fine crescents for the fiery jhaal with mustard
· Lomba: like French-fries for Potol (Parwal) chorchori. Another variation is to cut the potato lengthwise into 4 sections, then slice each section diagonally into half. Here the potol is cut exactly like the potato.
· Dumo-Dumo: for the dalna where the potato is cut lengthwise, each half is cut once again lengthwise into two and chopped into 1 inch pieces retaining the curve on one side
· A finer dumo version: for aloo posto and ghonto
· Aadh-khana: halves for aloo-dum, mutton korma and macher kalia (fish kalia)

The northerner's fondness for Paneer (cottage cheese) however failed to percolate into Bengal. One can spot a non-probashi Bong by his wrinkled nose and the evident distaste on his face.

'Poneer?'

Channa (again cottage cheese) on the other hand caters exclusively to the famous Bengali sweet-tooth.

Vegetarianism in Bengal is probably as old as Vaishnavism and predates Chaitanya by several centuries. But even amongst the non-Vaishnavs it has developed into an art form catering to the days when fasts are observed, to the tastes of widows who may wish to continue with tradition and for the masses who are out to enjoy God’s abundance.

And No. Fish is quite definitely non-vegetarian. But where exactly on the SIN SCALE ?...well below onion and garlic obviously.

Neo Vaishnavism in Bengal

Chronicler, Antiquarian and Historian

JAMES TOD (1782-1835), British officer and Oriental scholar, was born on the 20th of March 1782, and went to India as a cadet in the Bengal army in 1799. He commanded the escort attached to the resident with Sindia from 1812 to 1817. In the latter year he was in charge of the Intelligence Department which largely contributed to breakup the confederacy of Maratha chiefs in the Pindari War, and was of great assistance in the campaign in Rajputana. In 1818 he was appointed political agent for the states of western Rajputana, where he conciliated the chieftains, settled their mutual feuds and collected materials for his Annals and Antiquities of Rajasthan (2 vols., 1829-1832). Another book of value, Travels in Western India (1839), was published posthumously. He returned from India in 1823, was promoted lieutenant-colonel in 1826, and died in London on the 17th of November 1835.

from the Classic Encyclopedias

Of the legends of Rajasthan

The citadel of Komulmer (Kumbhalgarh)

It is only in the cold season that the mirage is visible; the sojourners of Maroo call it see-kote or ‘castles in the air.’

In the deep desert to the westward, the herdsmen and travellers through the regions style it chittram, ‘the picture’; while about the plains of the Chumbul and Jumna they term it dessasur, ‘the omen of the quarter.’…

Let the reader fancy himself in the midst of a desert plain, with nothing to impede his scope of vision, his horizon bounded by a lofty black wall encompassing him on all sides.

Let him watch the first sunbeam break upon this barrier, and at once, as by a touch of magic, shiver it into a thousand fantastic forms, leaving a splintered pinnacle in one place, a tower in another, an arch in a third; these in turn undergoing more than kaleidoscopic changes, until the “fairy fabric” vanishes.

Here it was emphatically called Hurchund Raja ca poori or ‘the city of Raja Hurchund,’ a celebrated prince of the brazen age of India.

Lt. Col. James Tod

Flowering time in Bengal

'Look amongst the verses of Robi Thakur and you will know when the flowers bloom,' said my mother.

Shewli’r dale kuri bhore elo. ....The branches of the Shewli are fast filling up with buds
Togor phutilo mela..... .............The Togor is blooming a plenty
Madhobilotar khoj niye jai...... The Madhavilata’s news is sought
Moumachi dui bela.................. By the honeybee twice a day.

Robi Thakur

'And do not forget Kalidas!'

Shundori’r padaghate Ashok phool phote….When a beautiful woman strikes the Ashok tree with her foot it
shall burst into flower.

Kalidas

Ashok Shashti, the onset of spring, went by on the 1April 2008 when traditionally the mothergoddess Shashti, the preserver of children, is remembered and the Ashok flower eaten by all mothers.

Flowering time in Delhi

The stories that have come down from my grandparents have left me with vivid impressions of Bengal…the rich dark earth, the lily pools, the sparkling streams and leaping fish. To the picture my young mind added a clear blue sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds and a cool breeze that blew all year round. A countryside that never lay bare and boasted of either ripe golden grain waving in the breeze or young green shoots standing in flooded fields. My picture is perfect. I really do not wish to test its authenticity.

But Delhi is real and amidst the heat and dust and the negligence of the MCD lies a pretty picture that can occasionally push itself through the apathy into the consciousness. All of a sudden one day in May I was forced to notice that the red gulmohar and the dangling yellow lanterns of the amaltas had set the streets on fire. Does my grandparent’s homeland come alive like this? Quietly? Unobtrusively?

Hot and sweaty from my walk, I stumbled as I entered the gates. The paved tiles, once a lovely shade of mauve and blue, have been long reduced to a dull uniform grey. But scattered amongst them were tiny white flowers. In all these twelve years that I had lived here I was seeing them for the very first time. I picked up a few.

The chowkidar came rushing. ‘Kuch kho gaya?’

I nodded taking a deep whiff of the powerful perfume that lay in my palm. The tree? Where did it come from? I couldn’t recognize it. It didn’t seem to look like the one that stood outside my grandfather’s house, the one that he planted when he first built his home in Delhi. But there was no mistaking the fragrance. It was the bokul. I had strung them into little garlands many many years ago.

But more than thirty years have passed since then and a new thought came into my mind. This perfume is strong enough to trigger a migraine. I made my way home with my precious little handful leaving a bemused chowkidar behind and marvelled at the emotions that played across my mother’s face as I handed them to her.

Does the bokul flower in Bengal at this time? I wonder?

Wasn’t there a whiff of the powder puff like yellowy-green shirish last night as I shut the windows before switching on the air conditioner?

It made me look at Delhi anew. The years are past when my mother pointed out the flowers to me. But they are all still there. The champa or the temple flower – the creamy scented frangipani – is all around nestling in clusters amongst the thick dark glossy leaves, and the madhavilata has pushed its bunches of flowers rather aggressively through the grills along the railings. There was a time when I would break the flowers and suck at the nectar not caring whether it drew little ants into my mouth. Madhavilata

Now that I have begun remembering, did I not spot all of Shiv Thakur's favourites amongst the weeds...the large bells of the pristine dhutra (datura), the white and mauve akanda (calotropis) bunched up amongst the thick leaves almost turgid with poisonous milky sap? Is it just coincidence that Shiv's flowers come into season before Durga's little shewli?

The tough bougainvillea adorns Delhi all year long, and the brightly coloured lantana – one whose infamous past has long been forgotten – has invaded the mehendi hedges. Their uncomplaining abundance has driven them from popular notice.
The Oleander...The Bengali Karabi...comes in shades of white, pink and yellow.

But this year I must remember the flowers that had been a part of the old stories and keep a lookout for them as the seasons turn.

Permanent Settlement Act

Bengal Renaissance CLICK ON POSTER TO ENLARGE

Jamaishashti

Like I said sometime back, the Probashi Bengali community in Delhi was a little one. Everybody knew everybody more so when a wedding was being celebrated.

My maternal grandmother came from Bengal to marry my grandfather. The bride-to-be was to spend her first days in Delhi in her Pishemoshai’s house. It is an interesting fact about kinship amongst Bengalis…we have a specific designation for every relationship.

We do not hide behind a confused generic title of aunt or uncle. Her Pishemoshai was the husband of her father’s sister, that is her Pishi, and as the son-in-law of the family he was entitled to respect, the best of hospitality and pampering. The Jamai or the Bengali son-in-law has a special place in the family and a mere social visit occasions great celebrations. The favourite son gladly relinquishes his position as his mother and father fawn over his sister’s husband. But as if this is not enough, one day in every year is set aside exclusively for pampering and pandering. It is the Jamaishashti…as a matter of fact …Monday next… 9 June 2008.

The mother-in-law will fast all day and pray to Shasti, a form of the mother-goddess that dedicates herself to the preservation of children. Having concluded her private negotiations with Ma Shashti, these fortunate mothers-in-law proceed to whip up the finest of Bengali cuisine. The fathers-in-law having supervised the catch for the day, usually the largest & the fattest (the Bengali word for it is paka or ripe) rohu that was being saved all year long, bred in the fresh water pond that supplies the family’s need for carp and other sundry fish, would march of to the market, black umbrella in hand to buy personally the Bengali salmon – the hilsa, the blue freshwater jumbo prawns and the meat to be served. Another curious thing about Bengalis is that chicken has been frowned upon till as late as twenty years ago, and was not to be touched. Jungle fowl hunted in the wild, on the other hand was more than welcome. A discerning lot these old timers, considering the rather boring flavour of chicken today fattened as it is upon fishmeal.

The Jamai sits down, dressed in the clothes gifted to him on this occasion, accompanied by his father-in-law and joining them, if he is very lucky, is the eldest of his wife’s brothers. The small fry? Not a chance. They have to be content with leftovers.

One need not elaborate on the courses and the stages of a formal Bengali meal, the neat upturned cup of steamed rice in the centre, the fragrant ghee, the five fried vegetables, the many little bowls surrounding the central thala bearing green leafy combinations, the roasted faintly sweetened mung bean dal, the potatoes coated with the crushed seeds of the poppy, the richness of the carp curry, the fiery mustard gravy offsetting the delicate aroma of the hilsa caught in the short while that it spends in the fresh sweet water of the river before returning to its home in the sea, the redolent whole jumbo prawns that lend an orange colour to the coconut milk gravy, and the culmination of the meal with the rich aromatic meat curry. One need not elaborate on the tart sweetness of the mango or pineapple chutney to cleanse the palate before readying the mind for the last course. A new earthenware pot of sweet curds is opened and the creamy top reserved for the man of the day, the series of sweets in their delicate syrup base and the paish the rice pudding…never to be compared with the watered down version enjoyed by those not from the community. One need not elaborate on any of this for while the Probashi is danger of losing his language and his cultural heritage; the food culture has never been threatened. It has not just survived but can even be said to have thrived outside Bengal.

But my heart bleeds for those whose daughters have chosen to marry vegetarians. As for my grandmother, she will have to wait another day before the story of her wedding can be told.