The Snooty Sweetmaker: At Sinthir More in the northern suburb of Calcutta, there is a sweet-shop we call dadur dokan, or grandfathers shop. This is because the shop was presided over by a fearsome dadu, briefly adorned in a knee-length white dhuti, a white sleeveless vest, and a permanently sour expression. He took his customers money without ever taking any heed of their requests, which is why his shop doesnt sell such sacrileges as bhaja mishti (fried sweets), just the pure Bengali cottage-cheese-and-sugar-syrup ones. He once chased off a man who asked for jalebees. We dont make ucler-making fried sweets, he snapped, waving his red folded gamchha in the mans face till he finally hurried away. Another time, he pushed me down the queue because I asked for shingara (samosas). Were dedicated dairy-people, his well-trained middle-aged son informed me crisply. We dont truck with fried flour. Dadu must either either infirm or dead now, for I havent heard bark nor bite of him for the last two years (and I stopped by his shop often). But his heirs have carried forward his brusque stubbornness and pride. They still dont make jilipi and they still dont make samosa, but if you turn up at their threshold after eight, chances are youll only have dregs to choose from. Absence makes the heart fonder of all manner of strange things, but when I say I wish dadu had the capital to open a branch at Bombay, I dont say it out of misplaced affection for the man. I would still probably moan about his meanness once I had my pot of sweets safely in my hands, but what wouldnt I give to go home and see a bowl of his fresh roshogollas steaming gently on my table.
Posted on: Tue, 15 Apr 2014 12:15:58 +0000
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