I always consider myself more Assamese than Bengali. My first responses are mostly in Assamese, if not the convent-fostered English, and I am bred in the laahe-laahe syndrome. A certain sense of tranquility reigns my life, almost to the point of bringing it to devastating turns, for myself and for near and dear ones. The sound of the raindrops on tin-roof, the length of the tea-garden greens, the bihu-bonfires -- the more I think of it, the more I believe in the goodness of Assam.
Having said so, let me tell you a true story. Last Sunday, October 12th, I returned from a ten-day tour of Bhutan. I had some of the loveliest local meals and drinks -- Ema Dasi (a curry made out of some onions and loads of red chillies boiled in local cheese, to be had with red rice) and Ara (an alcoholic drink made out of corn). My companion, LK, is a strict vegetarian and tee-to-taller. But the nicest thing about her was that she never objected, rather sometimes she insisted I have a beer or two (Druk makes good lager). And then there was this nice thing about us, mutual bonding. I actually enjoy veg-food, she was for waterfalls and me all for mountains, making us a wonderfully weird team. By the way, we share the same birth date.
So, we reached home inside 10 am and L was delighted with the Bengali spread of luchi-chholar dal. She had a flight back to Chennai at 4 pm and was to report to the airport by 2 30 pm. Around 1 pm, lunch done and Bhutanese stories exchanged with other friends, L suddenly remembered she had to take home Bengali sweets and we made a dash for Sen Mahasay. She is one sniffer of a woman and realized this was not the store she took her sweets couple of years back from. One thing should be mentioned here, earlier this year she gave up sweets -- for the tenure of a year.
We cabbed it two blocks down to the nearest VIP Sweets. By this time my hormones were dancing wildly inside me and till the little moment which it took for me to cross the road to the glassed shelves, the sweets literally cried out at me. The boy behind the counter was handling L's order very idly, perhaps because it was lunchtime. L daintily asked for a Kheerkadam and being the sniffer made me taste it. She ordered five packets of eight sweets each. That was the moment I became Bengali. The pleasure after the first bite in to the mishti was magnificent. It was like melting into the arms of the lover after a long time, like you were born to be there.
And then I gladly agreed to taste the rest of the sweets in lieu of L. I was actually feeling bad for her with all the orgasmic sounds she had to encounter. So finally I suggested a spoon of Mishti Doi and convincingly explained to her that it is a milk product, not a sweet. The delight on her face after that spoonful was impeccable. Her order hiked up to two kilos of the same. It was like siblings going to the local fair and hitting the balloons to win a teddy home. A joint joy. Enchanting. Only people with sweet-tooth can feel the necessity of half a bite of a sweet post lunch or dinner. This was it.
That afternoon with my Bengali emotions grounding the flag over the Assamese nostalgic one, I relished the sweet victory of the genes.
Having said so, let me tell you a true story. Last Sunday, October 12th, I returned from a ten-day tour of Bhutan. I had some of the loveliest local meals and drinks -- Ema Dasi (a curry made out of some onions and loads of red chillies boiled in local cheese, to be had with red rice) and Ara (an alcoholic drink made out of corn). My companion, LK, is a strict vegetarian and tee-to-taller. But the nicest thing about her was that she never objected, rather sometimes she insisted I have a beer or two (Druk makes good lager). And then there was this nice thing about us, mutual bonding. I actually enjoy veg-food, she was for waterfalls and me all for mountains, making us a wonderfully weird team. By the way, we share the same birth date.
So, we reached home inside 10 am and L was delighted with the Bengali spread of luchi-chholar dal. She had a flight back to Chennai at 4 pm and was to report to the airport by 2 30 pm. Around 1 pm, lunch done and Bhutanese stories exchanged with other friends, L suddenly remembered she had to take home Bengali sweets and we made a dash for Sen Mahasay. She is one sniffer of a woman and realized this was not the store she took her sweets couple of years back from. One thing should be mentioned here, earlier this year she gave up sweets -- for the tenure of a year.
We cabbed it two blocks down to the nearest VIP Sweets. By this time my hormones were dancing wildly inside me and till the little moment which it took for me to cross the road to the glassed shelves, the sweets literally cried out at me. The boy behind the counter was handling L's order very idly, perhaps because it was lunchtime. L daintily asked for a Kheerkadam and being the sniffer made me taste it. She ordered five packets of eight sweets each. That was the moment I became Bengali. The pleasure after the first bite in to the mishti was magnificent. It was like melting into the arms of the lover after a long time, like you were born to be there.
And then I gladly agreed to taste the rest of the sweets in lieu of L. I was actually feeling bad for her with all the orgasmic sounds she had to encounter. So finally I suggested a spoon of Mishti Doi and convincingly explained to her that it is a milk product, not a sweet. The delight on her face after that spoonful was impeccable. Her order hiked up to two kilos of the same. It was like siblings going to the local fair and hitting the balloons to win a teddy home. A joint joy. Enchanting. Only people with sweet-tooth can feel the necessity of half a bite of a sweet post lunch or dinner. This was it.
That afternoon with my Bengali emotions grounding the flag over the Assamese nostalgic one, I relished the sweet victory of the genes.
1 comment:
all bongs r born with sweet tooth:) i remember the plate full of sweets offered at every Bengali home after bijoya dashami ... there is even a song 'ami Kolkatar rasogolla'
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