Tales of Spice and Curry

It is not often that one meets a chef and food writer who is an ex British RAF pilot, a stage lighting specialist an an expert on all things curry. But then again Pat Chapman is not your regular bloke. This bright-eyed 64-year-old has visited India 44 times and his personal roots lie firmly intertwined with the history of India. It is not much of a surprise that Chapman carries the sobriquet of Curry King confidently and is as eloquent with his knowledge of the different masalas and spices as he is deft with preparing dishes based on andaaz. Recently in town for a special demonstration on marinades and grills, Pat Chapman held forth on what curry meant for the British people and how he has in his own way tried to popularize the concept without owning a restaurant, or manufacturing ready-to-eat TV dinners a la Sir Noon to the populace, thus making it nearly as ubiquitous as the neighbourhood fish and chips in 21st century UK.

According to old family records and his grandmother's stories, Pat Chapman can trace his history right back to the first British presence in the country. In a tale that reads straight out of a great East-West novel, Chapman's great great great grandfather came to India with the East India Company merchants way back in 1715. Not too much is known of this period and it is only in the the mid-19th century that the trail picks up again with his great grandfather who was enlisted in the British army and was living in India with his wife and infant daughter. As the tide of favour turned against the ruling powers and found expression in the 1857 Sepoy Mutiny, great violence ensued throughout the country. Chapman's great-grandfather and his wife were killed and the little daughter ended up as the sole survivor of the family. Although she was raised in England, the moment she came of age, she returned to India to study at the St Joseph's College, Nainital and lived here till things got unpleasant for the Raj. Her daughter, Patrick's mother was also born in Nainital. When his grandmother did return to England, she carried with as a legacy, a wealth of culinary knowledge from the country. And it was this legacy that she passed on to her grandson Patrick.

Patrick grew up eating Indian food at a time when it was a rare thing in England. "I remember in those days there were 6 Indian restaurants in all of Britain while today, there are over 9000. Things are very different now and everything is available in your local mom n pop store. When I was young, I remember my grandmother ordering spices from the chemist as that was the only chance of getting a hold of them," says Chapman.

Growing up in the wake of a post World War II England, Patrick developed an interest in curry as a hobby. Since he had grown up eating Indian food, he decided to take his interest and knowledge a step forward by helping out friends, colleagues and acquaintances with recipes and information about spices. In keeping with this, he founded the Curry Club, an offline social network (this was 1982) to disseminate information about Indian curries. This hobby expanded into a full-time profession and very soon, Chapman was a consultant, cookery show host and food writer with his recipes and knowledge about Indian food making him a much coveted expert in the field. It is thus quite apt that Pat Chapman was in fact invited by the Kerala government to give a talk on spices at an agricultural fair.

According to Chapman, the term 'curry' which has been appropriated into the British culinary vocabulary today, is a word that is unmatched by anything else from another geography or another cuisine. "The word curry describes a dish, a meal and the food of a nation and I don't think that there is anything quite like it," says Pat Chapman. Chapman who travels across Britain giving cooking demonstrations and teaches amateur as well as first-time cooks the nuances of spices, encouraging them to move beyond the Chicken Tikka Masala and its clones realizes that the diversity of Indian food is far too great to be captured by curries alone. "Since the earliest settlers and consequently the earliest restaurants in England were the Punjabis, that is also the Indian food which has remained most popular in the nation. Today, we have broken away from the stereotypical pastiche of Indian food that used to dot every menu in London. Chefs are introducing regional cuisine as well as fusion," says Chapman even though he remains a purist who loves the authentic and often fiery nature of curry rather than hybrid versions of the same.

Chapman stands as a beacon of Indian food in a foreign land helping make it global, accessible and giving it the recognition that it deserves. He is the undisputed curry king who loves his Goan Vindaloo which he believes gets its right flavour only with the hard-to-get toddy vinegar and the high levels of heat that might make most people squirm, but rests easy in the belly of the 'Curry King' .

(this was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 1 November 2014)

the young and restless clothes maiden

It was a bright Saturday morning, the kind of day you'd imagine that pretty young things would be lunching with friends or sunning themselves at the park, instead, here they were at a mall, standing in a serpentine queue (at a quick count I estimated nearly 150 people standing in line) for a chance to catch the opening of the much-awaited affordable and trendy high-street fashion store--Forever 21.

On the selfsame Saturday afternoon, the borderline decrepit Garuda Mall in Bangalore was dotted with young girls and well preserved older women carrying the huge signature bright-yellow shopping bags. Some, barely able to contain their excitement had upended their bags on the benches outside the store and were comparing notes about their loot with friends.

The queue that I contemplated standing in for precisely two seconds, was full of young girls 21 and younger, dressed in their fashionable best with candy coloured lips and skinny jeans in pop colours. Pop and indie dance music boomed from the interiors of the store (special note must be made of Sia's Chandelier which has lodged itself in my head as a permanent earworm), keeping spirits buoyant. The girls (they were all women in all their late teen and early twenties, wit blazing hormones and dapper spirits. A few male stragglers stood around shuffling uncomfortably, no doubt waiting to surprise their girlfriends and win a few brownie points), stodd patiently conserving their energy reserves like sprinters waiting to take their turns at athletic heats.

The atmosphere was charged as the security guards would remove the ropes guarding the entrance and let the next group in. All around me I could here whispered asides about the fashion and affordability quotient of the brand that was enough to send young'uns into a tizzy. I shamelessly eavesdropped as one girl recounted stories of a sale at another Forever 21. There was jostling and pushing, tugging at errant arms and legs of the same pair of jeans and tops, and jackets and even shoes sent flying by the fashion marauders. This was a whole new retail experience, slightly surreal and entirely exciting.

 I was hardly a callow young girl and had few pretensions of being forever 21 in any part of my body apart from my head. Yet, even I wasn't immune to the attraction of this store, counting down the days till its opening. While, I made it a point to shop it big brands only during the sale season, this store offered stylish alternatives of the same outfits at full price that were otherwise available on some lucky days on some backstreet alley export rejects store. While, out of respect for my age, I didn't stand in the queue and returned in the evening, I also did get my Forever 21 fix on the very first day that it opened.

By the time I returned to the store, the staff was seemingly on their last legs. There were mountains of tried and discarded outfits just about everywhere. The brave would stick their arms in and pull out gems fro those selfsame pile, while a more lazy shopper like me dawdled through the stands of the sprawling 8000 sq feet of neon-lit space and picked up bits and bobs in various shades of black that suited my age and body type. Showcasing their winter line, the orderly display had, by 9 pm, turned into one large blur of plaid minis, woolly shrugs, faux leather jackets, trendy tan-coloured workman boots and distressed denims. It was also populated with dazed boyfriends, tired mothers and giggly girls whose energy had not waned in the least after standing in lines for the changing room, lines for bills and lines to reach particular stands.

As I managed to grab my purchases and make my way to the billing counter without losing either limb or life, I spotted a pile of ankle socks with little pugs, kitties and lions going rrrr and realized that it is perhaps this quirky take on style that makes every shopper here truly feel the lightness of youth!

(this was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 24 November 2014) 

One more cup of coffee for the road

(the best-ever spoof of the original)

There is something almost cerebral about sitting in a cafe sipping a cuppa with good conversation, or a good book for those who trammel the solitary path. I grew up in a pre-liberalization era when neon-lit chain coffee shops did not dot every single neighbourhood in the country. The American, British and European chains had still not made inroads into metros and most people had vague ideas about the pronunciation and spelling of espresso and cappuccino. My notion of cafes was derived from the old colonial tea rooms and coffee houses where I got the first whiff of freshly brewed coffee and also learnt that meeting for a cup of coffee was a leisurely activity that had little to do with the temperature of the coffee in your cup and more to do with the cash in your wallet that allowed you to order endless cups, the conversations that meandered over topics and issues with differing levels of engagement, the number of cigarettes remaining in your packet and time that was remaining to while away the in-between hours, to seek shelter and succour on rainy days, to kindle romances old and new, to strike up intellectual debates, to share confessions, to have tear-stained goodbyes, to people watch and to invigorate the body reeling under a late summer afternoon lassitude. Going back in time, there are cafes that I remember as milestones in my life.

College Street Coffee House
As a young student, peeling walls, grime, cigarette smoke, jholas, khadi kurtas and the occasional strain of guitar accompanied to Dylan songs had an unbelievable and near-irrational attraction for me. Thus the first time I ever stepped into the legendary College Street Coffee House, my own imagination sufficed to make this a place of unmatched atmosphere. Redolent with stories of the revolutionary Naxals who hatched their plots over cups of the famous coffee, artists and filmmakers like Satyajit Ray, Ritwick Ghatak and Aparna Sen who had adda sessions accompanied by mutton cutlets and the literary icons of the Hungry generation including Shakti Chattopadhyay who used this buzzing space as a platform for hot debates, Coffee House is an indelible part of any Calcutta student's growing-up years. This coffee house fuels romantic notions of history and revolution and is a near time capsule of the 60s and 70s when flower power, anti-
establishment struggles, protest literature and music was at its all-time peak.

 The Tea Stall at Prafulla Chandra Sarkar Street

As a wide-eyed rookie reporter, I have drunk cups of lebu cha and milky tea boiled beyond oblivion in a kettle that had probably been around since the beginning of time. Sitting on the grimy steps of old hardware shops under the magnificent arches of a quintessentially colonial building in Calcutta that housed one of the foremost papers of the country, it was this ever-bubbling kettle that was companion to many hours spent in the company of all manner of journalists, smoking cheap cigarettes and discussing a city in political disarray.

Flury's, Park Street
 Flury's, an age-old tearoom in Calcutta's famous Park Street is the place that always made me linger over my cuppa. For a pastry shop that opened in 1927, this cafe has seen a changing world and its own rather remarkable journey has been from neighborhood confectionary to a decrepit colonial coffeehouse to a stylish cafe/restaurant/bakery after the fashion of a turn-of-the-century European tea room done up in pink and a rich chocolate brown. This was a far cry from its earlier stodgy avatar as a dingy, cavernous room with air conditioning that would chill you to the bone. I saw the downed shutters on a holiday one summer. I was about to begin the process of mourning when I heard the whispered word "renovation" that was murmured by all who passed the mysteriously shrouded corner. And one fine day it reopened. The new Flury's straddled history and a modern chic. I returned to the city. I returned to Flury's and it became a place for endless conversations, bitter reminiscing, good-natured camaraderie, sweet romance, and maddening love. I lived out all my separate selves here – as a poor student scraping together just enough for that Viennese coffee; as a struggling  journalist looking for a story; as a  tourist introducing others to the delights I had known. I fell in love with my husband over cups of coffee in Flury's and made life decisions about leaving the city and all that I knew along with Flury's. Till date, I have never found a replacement.

 A Parisian Cafe
 As a traveller, I have joined the legions of map-scanning, Lonely Planet toting, sunblock wearing hordes who have sat in a cafe in the shadow of the Louvre in Paris. The love affair with the city has been as much about walking the streets by night as it has been about sharing space with skinny French women on the outdoor terraces of cafes in the August sun watching the world go by as we all sipped on our cafe au lait in comfortable silence. Paris was the city I had dreamed about my whole life and in those dreams, I was always sitting by the Louvre or the Seine, drinking black coffee, smoking elegant slim cigarettes, eating flaky croissants and talking to strangers about Sartre.

Urban Cafe Crawlers
Today, as an urban migrant moving from one city to the next, anonymous as I search for the familiar -- the cafe that I can haunt. Since I have no emotional maps to refer to any longer, all I can do is break down the familiar into familiar smells and tastes of caramel macchiato and hazelnut frappes. Thus I have become a part of the floating population that lives in neon-lit chain coffee shops, drinking cups of characterless coffee and over-sweet confections in order to stave off being a legal alien.

(This was published in the New Indian Express Bangalore on 30 October 2014)

A Sweet and Savoury Superhero

Diwali is the time for all things sweet and a representation of the victory of all things good. Drawing the two themes together is an artist whose unique creations will pique your curiosity and your sweet tooth at the same time.

Artist Rajkamal Aich is the man behind some essentially Indian and quirky superheroes like the Samosa Boy, Jalebi Woman, Laddoo Boy, the Misti-Doi Man and the Bengali Vampire, all of whom represent the common men and women and a rather uncommon imagination.

These superheroes are a departure from the rather cliched interpretations of mythical characters and gods and draw on one of our country’s greatest universal as well as diverse aspects—its food! Each of these characters are common folk who don their super avatars when threatened with real injustice. Thus the ordinary Chotu Lal turns into Samosa Boy who can throw his samosa with “a deadly accuracy which explodes when it comes in contact with chutney.” Similarly Jalebi Woman is a regular Bengali girl called Mishti Bose who takes on the bad guys in her superheroine avatar where she “dunks enemies into sugar syrup after tying them in knots.” His characters are drawn from personal food memories like the jalebi. “I remember eating freshly made and hot jalebis after cricket practice at 6:30 am when I was a child. And this memory somehow translated into the inspiration behind the Jalebi Woman.”

Then there are the characters who have a slightly darker bent like the Bengali Vampire who sucks life out of plump and juicy rasgullas, leaving them as juiceless corpses. He is the scourge of all things sweet. Perhaps his polar opposite is the Misti-Doi Man who is an ordinary government employee hassled by his bosses and his wife. He finally finds meaning and purpose in his life as the Misti-Doi Man after he discovers that he can give his enemies high blood sugar.

 Rajkamal Aich’s creations capture a child-like innocence where ordinary street food items transcend their humble origins to become a representation of the common man who could be a superhero by night. ‘Just like kids can transform a cardboard box into a plane, a castle or a ship with their imagination, I have taken food like jalebis, laddoos, the Bengali favourites of mishti doi and rasgulla and turned them into anthropomorphic super creatures who fight against evil with their very unique culinary powers. Interestingly, Rajkamal doesn’t really envision a comic book life for his characters.

Meanwhile, one can enjoy the brief linear tales of these sweet heroes on his Facebook page called Indian Superheroes. He is also the perfect artist for Diwali and his beautiful limited edition art prints are an ideal festive gift adding that touch of humour to your walls. The 14”x14” prints can be ordered via his Facebook page.

(pics from Rajkamal Aich's Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Indian-superheroes)


(This story appeared in New Indian Express Bangalore on 20 October)

A Bellyful of Celebrations In KL

 Kuala Lumpur or KL glitters by night. It is Fritz Lang’s Metropolis where towers and spires of chrome and glass exuding a diamond brilliance stretch towards the skies competing with the glittering stars. The city is a futuristic and grand sonnet in steel. It is also a city of brand names and numerous malls--Southeast Asia's offering to the capitalist gods.

As me and my husband are driven to our bed in the 22-storey tower in the heart of the city with
a lovely rooftop pool in the shadow of the Petronas Towers, we are shocked by the contrast with
our own home city of Kolkata from where we boarded the flight some 4 hours ago. The two cities
are a study in opposites and if there is one place they converge -- that would be in its largesse -- in
welcoming migrants and refugees and offering them a place they can call home on this crowded earth.
It’s two days before Christmas and a nice feeling to wake up to a gorgeous view of the city’s
impressive skyline.

And the first sight on our agenda is Petaling Street with its impressive gates opening on to an older world removed from the glamorous malls and corporate skyscrapers--the city's age-old Chinatown. Once inside, we were greeted by strange snake-like creatures on grills, herbal concoctions being served out of beautiful Chinese teapots in tea shops, vendors selling 'fake originals', stores with a line of roast ducks hanging from
hooks. There were stalls selling longan (a litchi like fruit), stalls selling Chicken Rice and Indian food especially virulent orange tandoori chicken. Most of these stalls encroached on to the road itself, making sure the food was literally in your face, tempting you as you took your next step forward. And if somehow you resisted, then there were the old toothless ladies waving bowls under our noses, a live advertisement for their stalls which were slightly less conspicuously placed. Unable to survive the sensory assault, we stopped at a stall which had a crowd milling around it.Chicken Rice could very well be the national dish of this country, considering its ubiquitous presence just about everywhere -- from the Air Asia flight into the country to mall food court kiosks. Our dish came with a giant bowl of stock, little servings of red chilli paste, sliced cucumbers and a large portion of sliced chicken. The chicken was poached with its shiny outer skin providing nice texture. The reason this dish is so popular is because it’s a simple balancing of flavours and textures--the smooth tender chicken, the sticky grains of rice, the sharp edge of the red chilli, the cool crunch of cucumber and the hot broth to dunk your rice into.

After many icy tender coconut drinks and many miles walked on burning asphalt and air conditioned
mall floors, we decided to make our next food stop at the giant among malls – Berjaya Times Square.
From steamboat restaurants to tropical fruit salads to sushi bars, it was all under one cavernous roof
and like in the adventurous spirit of things, we made our way from one kiosk to the next ordering bits
and bobs of grills and poaches, sushi and fried chicken, shaved ice, coconut and red mung beans, till
we were ready to pop at the seams.

KL despite being the capital city of a predominantly Islamic country, was the proverbial melting
pot of food, language and culture. Its population is largely made up of Malays, Chinese and Indians
with Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism being predominant religions and yet, none of these facts deter
its cosmopolitan crowd from coming out with it Santa Hats and bells and whistles and celebrating
Christmas eve with an unmatched gusto. We were told to make our way to Changkat Bukit Bintang, the busy-buzzy street lined with bars, al fresco restaurants and cafes specializing in food from across the world, this was a street with character and drama. Quiet and sunny during the day, this looked like a street grabbing a quick afternoon siesta in preparation for the big night ahead. As I sipped on fruity cider in a quaint wine shop, we watched the late afternoon sun fade into a dusky orange, I watched the city begin to heave and awaken for KL was a city of the night.

I pondered over the cultural chequered the fabric that clothed this country and marvelled at its ability
to integrate with all. It was a traditional country keenly aware of its history, its religion, its language
and its roots. It was also a supremely liberal country. A small case in point was the fact that I was
sitting in an outdoor cafe, drinking my cider near the heart of a predominantly Muslim city. Across
the road, a Tamilian family in traditional attire were dumping bags of groceries from an international
supermarket chain into the boot of their car. A few streets away, pretty young things were powdering
their noses for a night out on the party strip at Jalan Sultan Ismail. A few intersections away, Chinese
housewives were gathering their pots and pans with simmering soups and crackling roasts and making
their way to the night markets on Petaling Street.

While, we were eating lunch, Bukit Bintang had bedecked herself with tinsel, silver bells and fairy
lights. Even in the sharp humid air, the smell of Christmas cake and mulled wine were hard to miss.
As the muezzin gave the call for the evening prayer, I linked arms with the husband and made our
way back to our temporary home in the clouds only to emerge a few hours later when the Christmas
Eve celebrations were in full swing. Malaysians (the mixed Indian-Chinese and Malay populace), migrants, expats and tourists jostled for space on Bukit Bintang. It was a night that took me back to Park Street in Kolkata, where people of all faiths and all walks of life come together on a brightly decorated stretch of the city, celebrating Christmas, far away from the land of its origin, with great bonhomie and fervour. Maybe the two cities weren't so different after all.

My thoughts were interrupted by a group of bikers who looked straight out of the Terminator series
who had arrived at a pub across us with much fanfare. They just added to the oddball mix of people.
We readjusted our Santa hats with glittering light baubles on its end, dug into our roast turkey with
stuffing, counted down to midnight with the rest of the street and burst into crazy impromptu jigs with
strangers who had become friends over the course of this crazy evening and we ushered in a truly
merry Christmas on a balmy tropical night.

This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 16 October 2014

When the Devi transforms the city

The crisp Sharad sky is corn blue and there is a light breeze fanning the dusty trees on
the arterial roads of Calcutta. There is a particular smell in the air as the season begins to turn. The kaash phool (which is actually not a phool or flower but a species of invasive perennial grass) makes its appearance on empty fields and abandoned lots, dressing them up in beautiful white. Rendered immortal through Tagore's poetry and captured for posterity in Satyajit Ray's lens, the bobbing white heads of the kaash phool are nature's way of ushering in the Devi Paksha or the fortnight of the goddess.

Every year during Durga Puja, the old city heaves a sigh, tucks its ungainly bits under her and rolls over, presenting her best face to the world. Just like Ma Durga who returns to her parental abode every year bringing renewed hope and joy, for those five days, Calcutta also transforms into the grand doyen, reliving her remembered past as the proverbial big city with bright lights.

Durga Puja is entirely unique in its scope as it transcends its religious connotations and becomes a social event celebrating the arts, the culture of the city and its people. Ma Durga is a goddess for all and as sweaty faces jostle against each other, eager to catch a glimpse of her multi-hued glory at the various pandals (temporary structure housing the idol or protima) dotted across the city, the invisible curtain between communities and classes falls away.

I joined the hundreds and thousands of people from various walks of life, dressed in their Sunday best, milling about on the once familiar streets of the city, now rendered entirely unrecognizable with the decorations and the lights. And despite being a witness to the goddess year after year, I am still as wide-eyed as when I saw the first idol inside the first pandal in my neighbourhood. From my point of view as a knee high toddler, Ma Durga was a study in perspective. Nothing loomed larger or appeared grander in my universe. And surprisingly, every protima and every pandal I saw in the subsequent years continued to inspire the same feeling in the years that followed. I have seen visionaries and lunatics, touches of genius and touches of the absurd - from a Harry Potter- inspired Hogwarts pandal to one created out of Maggi noodles, from the US presidential campaign represented through lights to a goddess bedecked in a see-through white sari, from an edible biscuit pandal to a 3D printed goddess battling a centaur, there are no boundaries and no inhibitions as far as interpretation is concerned.

The colours of the Rio de Janeiro carnival, the splendid costumes and craftsmanship of the Venetian masked festival, the music and gaiety of the New Orleans Mardi Gras and the spectacular floats from the French Riviera -- all fade in comparison to the spectacle that is Durga Puja. The sheer scale and magnificence of the craftmanship that defines the festival, the reverberating frenzied tempo of the dhaak (local drums), the journey of the exquisitely cast idols from the lanes of Kumartuli (the potter's lane in Calcutta which has been making idols of gods and goddesses for several generations) to the Byzantine streets of North Calcutta, the modern thematic twists of South Calcutta and reimagining of the tableau in which the Mother slays the buffalo demon, Mahishasura, the image of married Bengali women resplendent in their white saris with red borders smearing each other with the bridal sindoor -- each sense is engaged in this celebration and they all seem to come together in one perfect and unanimous whole.

Greasy food, noisy cap guns, joyrides on ferris wheels, old fashioned flirtations in pujo pandals and a wonderfully dressed-up city and her people -- this festival celebrates the goddess and her great feats as well as art, life, youth, nostalgia and hedonism with equal gusto. Armed with a camera, good walking shoes and an appetite for the offbeat and the unusual, Durga Puja in Calcutta is right in the heart of the madding crowd, where the pulse of the city lies. For five days, the city does not sleep and the sounds, lights and excitement that is Durga Puja keeps spiralling upwards from Shashti to Saptami to Ashtami to Nabami and finally ends with the bittersweet immersion on Dashami.

The city sleeps thereafter reeling under the weight of her acquired persona. But then there is the rallying cry of Aashche Bochor Abar Hobe (It will happen again in the coming year) and I return to a different city, a different life with the assurance that I too shall return to my homeland in the coming year to witness yet another visit from Ma Durga.

 This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 9 October 2014

Durga Puja: a time to eat and pray

 It is a fact universally acknowledged that conversation at a Bengali dinner table will inevitably revolve around food and matters of the digestive tract. And it is in perfect sync with this idea that almost every big or hole-in-the-wall shop selling sweets and fried savouries is flanked by a medicine shop for that quick after-meal pudin hara digestif. Thus for any self-respecting Bengali, all festivals big or small are as much about the special foods prepared for the occasion as they are about the rituals and religiosity. Durga Puja, which is the biggest festival of the Bengali calendar is an occasion to pray to the goddess, show off the entirely new Puja wardrobe (with a new daytime and nighttime outfit for each of the five days) and eat with abandon and without a care for diets or restrictions otherwise followed through the year. And this is hardly a tradition restricted to Calcutta or the big metros across the country. Every community or household puja in India, has its own special menu for each day of the festival. Typically, most Bengali households close their kitchens for the five days of the puja and queue up for the afternoon bhog. The evening is a different ball game altogether when all and sundry dressed in their Sunday best make their way to the numerous food stalls and gorge on deep fried and terribly delicious temptations on offer. Here is an easy primer to help identify the foods blessed by the goddess and eaten by her ever-hungry devotees.  

Bhog
Among one of the unique aspects of the Durga Puja is the fact that there is a clear demarcation between sacred food or food that is offered to the goddess and then eaten by her devotees and street food. Bhog (or the offering to the goddess) is typically vegetarian and comprises Khichudi (the Bengali version of Khichdi or Kedgeree). This wholesome dish has its own special recipe in every puja pandal and household. Accompanied by deep fried vegetable fritters and a mixed vegetable preparation, the khichudi, while varying in its sweet and spice index, remains a community puja food, cooked in giant cauldrons and relished by thousands on a daily basis. Dashami is usually celebrated with a lavish meal of Kosha Mangsho (dry spicy mutton) and Luchis (the Bengali version of pooris made with maida).

The Street Food
Large food courts serve tangy chaats, jhaal muri (the Bengali version of the popular bhel which is dry puffed rice with julienned onions, green chillies and peanuts and topped with a generous sprinkle of mustard oil), fat kathi rolls overflowing with kebabs, fried and crumbed fish fillets, chicken and lamb.
Interesting Bengali innovations and Puja pandal favourites include the Dimer Devil or the Egg Devil (a hard boiled egg covered in a minced layer and then crumbed and fried), the Kabiraji Cutlet (literally the poet’s cutlet where minced mutton or chicken is crumbed with bread and covered with a layer of egg to create a greasy, filling) and the mochar chops (a minced banana flower filled chop). For those looking for a more substantial meal, there are numerous specialties like Hilsa fish and prawn stalls offering generous portions of curried, steamed and fried fish with mustard sauces and steamed rice. Then there is the Kolkata-style biryani — a unique evolution of the saffron yellow Awadhi biryani, but with a whole boiled egg and potato.
There really are no rules and from all— vegetarian thalis to tacos and burritos, the Durga Puja street food courts straddle the local and the international, the big brands and the neighbourhood caterer with equal laissez faire.

Anandamela
Literally translated as a fun fair, this all-woman initiative brings together families, old and the young as they turn cooks as well as entrepreneurs for an evening. Wives, daughters and mothers of committee members and associates of a particular puja whip up their family favourites gleaned from age-old recipes and set up little stalls to sell their produce. From pickles to pakoras, from cakes to pilafs, the sky is the limit and the imagination is extraordinary. This little food festival encourages healthy competition between the ladies and also provides first timers with a perfect and expansive introduction to Bengali cuisine.

 This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 29 September 2014