Much as I love blogging, spending Nobomi morning hunched over my laptop wasn't part of the original plan. But things have come to such a pass, with wife and son both down with viral fever, and lovingly returning my favour of tending to them by passing on their infection to me, this is the best on-the-spur-of-the-moment Plan B I could come up with.
Not that Plan A was likely to be any different than other years. Deemer Devil in Kaalibari, Kosha Mangsho in Chittoranjan Park, downing vodkas till late in the night, listening to Mone Podey Ruby Rai blaring as you enter the Rajender Nagar mandap -- that's been pretty much Pujo in Delhi the past few years.
I am more of a Probashi (non-resident) Baangali than a true-blue Delhi Bong. As a bona fide Delhi Bong, one should have ideally been a student of Raisinha Bengali School, one should have spent some, if not considerable, part of one's misspent youth in Chittaranjan Park, and one should be able to speak incorrect Baangla with a certain degree of confidence.
I can't rightfully lay claims to none of the above. And while my command over Baangla is not what it used to be, you still wouldn't catch me introducing myself, a la lot of Delhi Bongs, as : "Ami Baangali hochhi". Years ago, when I first heard that, I couldn't help but retort : "Aato din ki chhili, bhai?"
This Pujo I had made grand plans of spending it with my odd assortment of cousins and uncles in Kolkata. The idea was to indulge in a serious food fest, now that the days of drinking binges are sadly behind me, thanks to those darned clogged arteries. On good days, I romanticize the arteries being filled with vodka and orange juice and butter chicken. On bad days I know better -- it is those bad marriage days that have clogged them arteries.
Anyway, back to my joyous plans for the City of Joy. I would kick off the food fest with Naan and Kosha Mangsho, washed down with a glass (or may be a few bottles?) of beer, on Shoshthi evening at Amber with Partho, more a brother than a brother in law, and Jhili.
Another option was Mutton Biriyani and Kebabs at Zeeshan's, opposite Partho's house in Park Circus. Legend has it there is more oil in Zeeshan's Kosha Mangsho than in entire Saudi Arabia. If he sees me eating there, Sanjay Mittal, my cardiologist, would have a cardiac arrest. On second thoughts Zeeshan is avoidable.
Shoptomi morning, lazing in the bed, may be even catch a movie on HBO or Star Movies. Or may be a shopping expedition to Rashbehari Aveneue to buy a Punjabi (Did I ever tell you about the chaos -- and consternation -- caused aboard Rajdhani Express many moons ago when a train attendant, in an unmistakably Bengali accent that Pronob Babu would have been mighty proud of, announced: "A Punjabi has been found in the bathroom, owner may collect.") One of those Baatik designed kurtas that you would never find at Fab India.
How about Shoptomi evening with Bappa Da, sampling the culinary delights of Park Street?
My favourite Park Street restaurant used to be Skyroom, which shut down years ago. Then it was Waldrof. I used to love the Peking duck at Waldrof. After closing down in 2003, the restaurant relocated on Russell Street, but the food wasn't the same, and worse, the old charm was gone for ever. Today there's no Skyroom, no Waldrof, no Blue Fox. But you can still have that tall glass of Tom Colins in Mocambo. And then try some Chelo Kabab at the slightly rundown Peter Cat.
But don't fret. Nostalgia may take a beating on the newlook Park Street, but Kolkata still offers as many gastronomical choices as Calcutta did. When he heard I was coming down for Pujo, Borokaku had promised a grand Oshtomi dinner at Mainland China, the restaurant that keeps the Chinese flag flying in Kolkata.
Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men! Instead, I had paaurooti (Bengali for bread) dipped in lemon coriander chicken soup from East Patel Nagar's pride, the Baithak restaurant.
BOO-FRIGGIN-HOO.
Twelve hours and a sleepless night later, we are into the aforementioned Nobomi morning, with yours truly hunched over the laptop.
Aashchhe Bochhor Abar Hobe? No way, Baapi!
Not that Plan A was likely to be any different than other years. Deemer Devil in Kaalibari, Kosha Mangsho in Chittoranjan Park, downing vodkas till late in the night, listening to Mone Podey Ruby Rai blaring as you enter the Rajender Nagar mandap -- that's been pretty much Pujo in Delhi the past few years.
I am more of a Probashi (non-resident) Baangali than a true-blue Delhi Bong. As a bona fide Delhi Bong, one should have ideally been a student of Raisinha Bengali School, one should have spent some, if not considerable, part of one's misspent youth in Chittaranjan Park, and one should be able to speak incorrect Baangla with a certain degree of confidence.
I can't rightfully lay claims to none of the above. And while my command over Baangla is not what it used to be, you still wouldn't catch me introducing myself, a la lot of Delhi Bongs, as : "Ami Baangali hochhi". Years ago, when I first heard that, I couldn't help but retort : "Aato din ki chhili, bhai?"
This Pujo I had made grand plans of spending it with my odd assortment of cousins and uncles in Kolkata. The idea was to indulge in a serious food fest, now that the days of drinking binges are sadly behind me, thanks to those darned clogged arteries. On good days, I romanticize the arteries being filled with vodka and orange juice and butter chicken. On bad days I know better -- it is those bad marriage days that have clogged them arteries.
Anyway, back to my joyous plans for the City of Joy. I would kick off the food fest with Naan and Kosha Mangsho, washed down with a glass (or may be a few bottles?) of beer, on Shoshthi evening at Amber with Partho, more a brother than a brother in law, and Jhili.
Another option was Mutton Biriyani and Kebabs at Zeeshan's, opposite Partho's house in Park Circus. Legend has it there is more oil in Zeeshan's Kosha Mangsho than in entire Saudi Arabia. If he sees me eating there, Sanjay Mittal, my cardiologist, would have a cardiac arrest. On second thoughts Zeeshan is avoidable.
Shoptomi morning, lazing in the bed, may be even catch a movie on HBO or Star Movies. Or may be a shopping expedition to Rashbehari Aveneue to buy a Punjabi (Did I ever tell you about the chaos -- and consternation -- caused aboard Rajdhani Express many moons ago when a train attendant, in an unmistakably Bengali accent that Pronob Babu would have been mighty proud of, announced: "A Punjabi has been found in the bathroom, owner may collect.") One of those Baatik designed kurtas that you would never find at Fab India.
How about Shoptomi evening with Bappa Da, sampling the culinary delights of Park Street?
My favourite Park Street restaurant used to be Skyroom, which shut down years ago. Then it was Waldrof. I used to love the Peking duck at Waldrof. After closing down in 2003, the restaurant relocated on Russell Street, but the food wasn't the same, and worse, the old charm was gone for ever. Today there's no Skyroom, no Waldrof, no Blue Fox. But you can still have that tall glass of Tom Colins in Mocambo. And then try some Chelo Kabab at the slightly rundown Peter Cat.
But don't fret. Nostalgia may take a beating on the newlook Park Street, but Kolkata still offers as many gastronomical choices as Calcutta did. When he heard I was coming down for Pujo, Borokaku had promised a grand Oshtomi dinner at Mainland China, the restaurant that keeps the Chinese flag flying in Kolkata.
Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men! Instead, I had paaurooti (Bengali for bread) dipped in lemon coriander chicken soup from East Patel Nagar's pride, the Baithak restaurant.
BOO-FRIGGIN-HOO.
Twelve hours and a sleepless night later, we are into the aforementioned Nobomi morning, with yours truly hunched over the laptop.
Aashchhe Bochhor Abar Hobe? No way, Baapi!
3 comments:
"Ami Bangali hochhi" was a gem. I remembered all the people who have said that to me over the years.I was wondering how your Pujo went, when I read this post. Anyway, Shubho Bijoya.
"No way, Baapi." That was a terrific one-liner to end a very enjoyable piece. I chanced upon this piece thanks to google, and read your other blogs too. Enjoyed most of them. I like the way your mind works, and loved your way with words. Very Bengali, I must say even at the risk of sounding awfully parochial. I am a Dilli Bong living in Pune. I work with an NGO which works with abandoned children.
Shubho Bijoya rajanda...
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