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Kolkata writes its own Winter’s Tale.
Oori babba, bishon Thanda!
Winter is on its way out of Kolkata, and so, alas, am I. I’ve shivered and snuggled my way through it to my sweaters’ content, moth balls turned to butterflies. Keep your kaala gaajar, I’ve gorged on kaancha gola, which is melt-in-the-mouth meld of chhena and the date palm’s fresh yield of nolen gur. Yes, NG is season’s OG. Flowing dark and gooey from earthen pots, pulverised from patali discs, it fires the creativity of Bengal’s magnificent, mishti-making moiras; how lightly this word strokes the tongue, unlike the heavy squat of ‘halwai’. Nolen gur elevates even every-day payesh. The duo then throws curdling to the winds, and cuddles up with winter’s other boon, komola nebu – that’s oranges for those to whom life has handed only a lemon.
Lowly cauliflower competes with palm-lofty nolen gur. Scoff not. Outlying Dhapa’s garbage-dump-turned-vegetable-gardens yield the crunchiest, whitest winter crop. Loaded on lorries, carted away in thela gadis, strung on bicycle handle-bars, it ends up in expectant kitchens. And in phoolkopir shinghara. For the Bong, finding these florets in this distinctive samosa is like discovering that Netaji is alive.
As much passion is unleashed in holding forth on sheet kaal ailments. Like Azad Hind Army, the recounting marches through wheezing chests, frayed lungs and ‘shugaar’-laden blood. Dry ‘skeen’ has a friend in Boro-leen, but air pollution is now Enemy No. 1. It dominates conversation. And plays spoiler for the culturati who shy away from once-iconic open-air concerts ‘because of terrible AQI’.
The brave still cruise down winter-whipped ‘Gonga’ – as the Hooghly is grandly called – past dilapidated wharf-side warehouses, which a more dynamic state would have modernised and monetised. Too much of both has claimed the other picnic outing. Sylvan bagan baris of the faded bhodrolok have succumbed to techie malldoms. But saucer-sized dahlias still stage their drama on mali-manicured lawns of industrialists’ mansions or grounds of Kolkata’s new, swanky soar. And a flaking old bungalow breathes one last gasp of glory via a brilliant petunia-pansy border.
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Alec Smart said: “The party’s over, but it’s never over for this political Pawarhouse.”
Disclaimer
This article is intended to bring a smile to your face. Any connection to events and characters in real life is coincidental.
END OF ARTICLE
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