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A request for shukto for lunch the next day left my mother slightly bewildered. I was home on vacation after two years of living abroad and was determined to get my hands on most of the dishes I grew up eating at home, especially the vegetarian varieties that I never quite appreciated as a child — shukto being one of them. In the many years of living away from home, I realised that it is almost always possible to find or recreate the ‘meaty’ delights, which typically don’t require seasonal produce. Your greens, on the other hand, remain elusive. Sure, we inhabit this global-glocal world where arguably most things can be procured, but the taste of home, even without a generous helping of nostalgia, is something that is hard to attain, when far away. While Bengalis have spread their love for ‘posto’ (poppy seeds) and ‘paanch foron’ (Bengali five spice mix) far and wide, there remains a great deal that is still indigenous and exclusive to the land.
From leaves and stems
Let’s start with the shaaks, as we call our leafy greens. Not many culinary traditions in India champion the shaak the way Bengalis do. There are nearly 30 varieties found and cooked across the state. Traditional recipes rarely team the shaak with other ingredients, not even the humble potato. Palong shaak bhaja, the most popular variety in the state, just needs a tempering of mustard seeds, dried red chillies and ginger, and stir frying for about five minutes till the leaves wilt. The methi shaak bhaja (fenugreek leaves fry) hits the right note with some chopped garlic, in addition to the regular process, as does the lal shaak (sauteed red amaranth leaves), a winter staple. A personal favourite of mine is the paat shaaker dal (a jute leaf dal dish) that combines the greens with a boiled mash of moong and split pea. Tempered with green chillies and nigella seeds, this dish leans slightly on the sweeter side and is a summer hit in many homes.
Ranking high among the heartland specialties is the kochur shaak (stalks of Colocasia). The plant grows most commonly in backyards, especially near ponds as outgrowths, and kochur shaak er ghonto (mishmash) is a dish that is derived out of the stem. With ponds fast disappearing from our landscape, this greenish-purple vegetable is becoming rarer by the day. Unlike the other shaaks, this recipe requires a more complex spice mix, comprising hing (asafoetida), whole cumin, bay leaves, along with ample amounts of grated coconut, ghee and milk. The technique of cutting the leaves vertically is crucial to this dish.
Speaking of cutting, one dish that requires surgical precision is the mochar ghonto – not to be confused with the coffee; here it is pronounced with the ‘cha’ sound. Mocha or banana blossom is shaped like a corn with layers of maroon leaves hiding rings of long, pale yellow flowers. Each flower requires removing the fine petals and filaments; this tedious process demands that prep time begin a day early, because even a single forgotten filament can turn the whole dish into a pungent disaster. The remaining bits are finely chopped and soaked in salt water, before being cooked with aromatic spices, coconut bits, potatoes and chickpeas. The mocha occupies a golden spot in Bengal’s vegetarian food landscape – given how intricate the dish is, a successful mochar ghonto is seen as a rite of passage among Bengal’s cooks. I still remember the day I cooked the dish from scratch; when it came out tasting just like my mother’s, I probably felt every layer of joy, as was ensconced in those mocha leaves.
The shukto is a vegetable stew of sorts that offers ample leeway in terms of ingredients.
In conclusion
A rich culinary tradition paved by repressive ways of patriarchy – the origin story of Bengal’s vegetarian cooking is hard to stomach. Most traditional dishes don’t involve current staples like potatoes, tomatoes and cauliflowers – they didn’t reach Bengal until the 19th century and even then, it wasn’t easy to procure them. With the widows being confined to their immediate surroundings, most of these dishes emerged from basic kitchen gardens and backyard outgrowths. As food historian Chitrita Banerjee writes in her book quoting a 19th century Bengali author, “It was impossible to taste the full glory of vegetarian cooking unless your own wife became a widow”. In the face of tremendous odds, their ingenious minds contributed greatly to the originality and subtlety of Bengal’s vegetarian cooking – one that is entrenched in its controversial history and geographic abundance, and therefore, hard to recreate away from home.
All images via Shuttestock.
