AUTUMN MORNINGS. There’s a crisp, nippy breeze in the air. The shiuli flowers adorn the courtyard. The chirping birds have taken over the soundscape of the para. It’s been four days since Uma left for her marital abode in the hills with her sons and daughters. The pandals have been taken down, the loudspeakers uninstalled. There’s a lull, yes. While “ashche bachhor abar hobe (it will happen again next year).” there’s still a longing to be happy again, to celebrate again, and to feast again.
Perhaps, it’s in this passing melancholic spirit, that the enigma of Kojagori Lokkhi Pujo truly comes alive. The arrival of the full moon night following Durga Puja – the grand fest of anything and everything Bengali – marks another chapter to the community’s festive spree. It’s almost as if the Mother Goddess knew that her departure would inevitably make her devotees sad and thus to cheer them up she decided to send along a parting gift.
Lokkhi Pujo, like most festivals, carries a specific significance while holding unique meanings for those who observe it. If one were to ask me what it meant for me, it would just be (and quite obviously) good food, good food and only good food. A bountiful feast. After all, how else do you commemorate the goddess of bounty, wealth and prosperity?
While growing up this one particular festival would make my stomach churn with this insatiable hunger right from the time I would wake up. It was almost like one knew that there was something great coming up and one just couldn’t contain that anticipation. While the male elders of the family would rush to the market to lay claim on the finest produce – from an assortment of vegetables, leafy greens, coconut and sweets (of course, duh) – the women in the house would quickly begin with the cleaning and dusting chores. That meant the breakfast would be something easy and quick: shuji’r polao (upma), chirey’r polao (poha), or for some lucky ones even luchi torkari. My father would opt for the easiest option: buying kochuri or luchi from the nearest mishti shop, thus sparing my mother from the early morning kitchen chores altogether. This was his way of expressing his love and concern for my mother who would be fasting the entire day and spend the afternoon cooking the most exquisite bhog platter for the goddess (and me!).
The prep work would almost begin a night in advance with the kids helping the mothers scrape nearly a dozen coconuts while also stuffing their mouths with the frequent chunks that come off along with the scrapes. It was the incentive for which we would volunteer wholeheartedly. And it was just the beginning, for the real deal happened later in the night. The women in the house would then use the scraped coconut to make a variety of sweet delights. They would mix a share of it with grated jaggery (in some households, they also use cardamom for fragrance, but we didn’t) and saute in a deep pan for almost an hour, stirring continuously, and then shape them into small balls – and thus we had our narkeler naru. Some of the coconut would be mixed with sugar, condensed milk and cardamom, and then moulded into diamond-shaped burfi. We called them narkeler tokti. My grandmother was known for shaping them in designed moulds (artistic patterns of leaves, flowers, fish, conch shells etc) and we would watch her make them in complete awe. She was like some superhero who could possibly win over the world with those designer burfi. As I grew up, I was told, the consistency of the mixture was different from that of the usual tokti: it was finer and had more condensed milk thus lending it enough flexibility and shape to be moulded into designs that remain prominent once set. We would call it chhaacher tokti sondesh. In Bangla ‘chhaach’ means a mould; ‘tokti’ because it used the same ingredients and tasted almost similar, and ‘sondesh’ because it had that finer texture akin to sondesh’s. The leftover scraped coconut was often mixed with the leftover crumbs of tokti and naru and mixed with some milk to form a filling for patishapta. It’s not supposed to be as tight and rigid as that of a tokti or naru, and not as fine as a sondesh. It should be just in between. Patishapta resembles closely to a crepe made with rice flour and/or semolina (sooji) and refined flour (maida) batter. Then there would be sweet rice crisps (moa/murki), either fashioned into fist-sized balls or small globules, made with jaggery and puffed rice. It is no less than Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.
We all grew up to take different jobs, different disciplines and fields of interest, but on that night we would be expert negotiators. “We did so much for you all, and you can’t let us eat some of these sweets? That’s not fair.” We were, at first, shunned away saying that it was all for the goddess and without her tasting it first we couldn’t even think of laying our hands on them. But then, with our innocent faces and genuine appeal, we would be able to melt our grandmother’s heart and she would reserve some for us in a different container. Later, we got to know that she would do it nonetheless, whether we demanded it or not. Thakumas were indeed a special kind.
Now, coming back to the Lokkhi Pujo morning. Breakfast had been had, all shopping completed and diligently handed over to the womenfolks of the house for the next phase of preparation. I loved it. Imagine a courtyard filled with piles of potatoes, brinjals, pointed gourds, pumpkins, cabbages, cauliflowers, radishes, and beans, among other veggies. Then bundles of spinach (palong shaak) or Malabar spinach (pui shaak) piled up in one corner to be cleaned, washed and soaked in huge containers filled with water. Talking about containers, Lokkhi Pujo also presented the opportunity to take out the whole kitchen armoury for it is no less than an armageddon. The biggest of kadhais, dechkees, thaalis, dongas, baatis, haathas and khuntis would be out in the kitchen courtyard, all washed and cleaned.
Kilos of gobindobhog rice would be cleaned, washed and soaked in water for a variety of purposes. Primarily it would be used for the bhoger khichuri, and then for the payesh (the ‘param anna’). Some of it would be ground in a mortal pestle to form a thin slurry which would be used later in the evening to draw alpona (rangoli) around the house. Only these rangolis were devoid of any colour; they were just beautiful, intricate patterns often adorned with a feet motif as a reference to the goddess entering the household during the full moon night. As for the payesh (or kheer or pudding), it is made with rice, milk, dry fruits, cardamom and sugar/jaggery as per one’s taste and choice of flavours.
The prima centrepiece of this festive feast at our home has always been the khichuri. Sona moong dal, moderately roasted, mixed with gobindobhog rice and potatoes, cauliflowers and other vegetables, and then tempered with loads of ghee and a selective blend of spices and condiments makes for a porridge that bears the potential of giving the biriyanis and pulaos of this world a run for their money. Complementing this khichuri is the quintessential labra (variants include ghaynt, chorchori depending on the choice of vegetables, the cuts and the consistency) made with a bountiful assortment of fresh vegetables and greens with the tempering of panch phoron and tej paata (bay leaves). Some households might also add fried bori (lentil balls) for an extra crunch or texture. Then, there’s a dalna (a rich gravy-based dish made with one vegetable headlining the whole affair) – we have always preferred phul kopi'r dalna (made with cauliflower) during Lokkhi Pujo. Another focal point of this festival’s platter is the tele bhaja, which is basically fritters of all kinds, made with brinjal, potato, pointed gourd, pumpkin, bitter gourd, lady finger and cauliflower to name a few. Our family usually sticks to five types of bhajas, considering the number is auspicious. A sweet-cum-tangy chutney follows as a palate cleanser. Made with either raw mangoes, tomatoes, apples, pineapple, dates, tamarind, or even the more exotic items such as aamra (hog plum), jalpai (olives), karamcha (Bengal currant), or chaalta (wood apple), this chutney is quite a banger of a dish and is polished off in one go and often requested for second, third, or even more servings. And with the payesh, we finally sign off this gastronomical kaleidoscope.
But bhog being bhog isn’t easy for grabs. It needs to be earned, relished and remembered. Once all these dishes are prepared, they are neatly (and aesthetically) served in those mega thaalis and offered at the altar of the goddess. A ceremonial coconut is then broken, and its water is stored in a vessel and some fresh coconut is scraped off. This scraped coconut is then mixed with flattened rice (poha/chirey) and some sugar to form a flaky mixture which we call chipitok and is perhaps my favourite dish of the entire festival. Once the women of the house finish the puja and finish reading the brotokatha and paanchali (a text detailing the origins and significance of the festival, the fast and the feast with hymns of Goddess Lakshmi) the feast is opened for the rest of the family.
An important thing to note and highlight here is that not every Bengali household prepares the khichuri bhog. Some have a dry and simple version (khada prasad) which includes luchi, sooji’r payesh and a variety of sweets. In some families, the meal also includes fish, and that too specific species of fish, fried and/or cooked in a gravy without the use of onion and garlic. Some families do the whole affair without using any form of cooked rice. There are likely various combinations of foods and different ways the festival is observed among communities across Bengal and beyond. However, one thing is certain: it evokes a sense of festive joy and optimism. As a child, it was the joy of seeing the adults toil and conjure up this massive feast, and as an adult myself, it is the joy of remembering those good old days when my mother would express her unconditional love for me by giving me the first serving of the chipitok. And the word ‘calories’ was not in my dictionary.