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.