An ode to shukto

My childhood was somewhat evenly divided between our home and my maternal grandma's place. As a result, my palate is an unholy love child of Ghoti and Bangal tastes. I love aloo-posto and chingri, and am equally enamored of the typical "machh er jhol" made in Bengal kitchens with bori and kalo jeere. But my favourite is shukto. 

Thammi, my paternal grandmother, used to make the most amazing shukto on certain occasions. I grew up on it, and loved it, although you couldn't tel thanks to the mandatory "bari'r khabar bajey" philosophy that every middle-class child has. Shukto was just present on the plate, and you had to eat it. 

Thammi passed away some nine years ago, and the compulsory shukto had all but disappeared from our plates. It did get cooked on some days, but seldom tasted like I remembered and never tasted like Thammi's. 

Cut to last year, when my kakima invited us for lunch -- an event to which I couldn't go since, well, I don't recall, I may have gone elsewhere. I got sent the food to have the next day. The platter consisted of dal, a preparation of chicken, and shukto. 

Now, my daily routine comprises waking up late, getting ready for work, eating a late-ish breakfast-lunch-first meal of the day combination, and leaving for office. So, there I was, sitting with a plate of the aforementioned items and mixing mouthfuls with rice (because, according to Ma, shukto must be had with rice), when I had a somewhat spiritual experience. 

I'm not joking or being hyperbolic, I'm pathologically serious about food, but the first mouthful of shukto transported me to ourold home, eatin shukto made by Thammi, surrounded by my parents, my uncle, aunt, cousin and grandparents. It reminded me of not just Thammi, but of joking around with my grandfather, who was perhaps the only person who would have backed me up if I'd murdered someone. This ballistic pocket memory hit me like a freight train (apologies for mixing up my metaphors. Or are they similies? I've yet to master the language). I called up my aunt and demanded more. For there MUST be more where it came from. And I was promised shukto on the next occasion. 

On that next occasion, I ate all the rice (I positively detest rice if it's not dressed as biryani or fried rice) with the shukto, and my poor aunt, who had cooked myriad dishes for the grand occasion that is me voluntarily attending a family thing, lamented how I wasn't eating enough. (I was eating enough). 

The next shukto day saw me eating shukto all by itself. I had successfully removed the pesky rice (and discovered, to my joy, that shukto CAN be eaten just by itself. At least, I loved it. Take that, Ma!) 

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that one bowl of shukto rendered me a poet. So now, I have a standing order of shukto whenever my aunt cooks. And I attend family get togethers more often now. And a dish of bitter vegetable curry brings me happiness.