Calcutta Diary: The poor have it with salt, chillies, and, perhaps, onions. The better off, if
they eat it at all, can add anything. From fried fish to mutton curry. This is a traditional dish of
Bengal, so why do the middle/upper classes hold it in such contempt?
By Gargi Sen
Paanta bhaat is fermented rice that is high on probiotics and profoundly cooling. Left-over rice at
night is soaked in water, and the next morning it ferments slightly. The water, somewhat cloudy, is
had separately, and the rice is relished with green chillies, chopped raw onions, little mustard oil and
whatever else your budget stretches to.
The poor have it with salt, chillies, and, perhaps, onions. The better off, if they eat it at all, can add
anything. From fried fish to mutton curry.
I had no idea of this dish, or, had no way to taste it, until I moved to Calcutta from Delhi in the post-
pandemic era. I had, of course, encountered it in Bengali literature, and I remember being intrigued by
it.
Inevitably, the narrative moved into a different trajectory, and Paanta bhaat fell by the wayside.
However, it remained lingering in my subconscious, as a redolent, interesting reminder of something I
was missing and wanted to taste.
Indeed, it was in Aruna Chakravarti’s Jorasanko that I read a detailed description. ‘Jorasanko’ is the
name of the palatial home of the Tagores in North Calcutta — a must visit for all who are interested in
the life and times of Rabindranath Tagore and his family. Kadambari Devi, sister-in-law of Tagore,
was rather appalled at the neglect of the boys. An old retainer was meant to give them food, but he
would deprive the boys, and pocket the food and money.
Coming from a middle class background where the emphasis was on food for children, Kadambari
Devi was shocked at the apathy in this rich household. She began to oversee their food and prepare
Paanta bhaat for the three boys, Rabindranath, Somendranath, and their nephew of the same age,
Satyendranath.
It’s worth quoting an excertp here:
“Paanta bhaat! What’s that?” Satya exclaimed, his eyes round.
‘Left-over rice soaked in water. It ferments a little and tastes delicious…”
“Chha!” Satya made a face. “Who wants to eat left-over rice?”
“Lots of people eat it, Satya. The amount of rice that is thrown away every day in this house could
feed a family of five for a month.”
That evening, the boys came home from their school, the Oriental Seminary, to see Kadambari
sitting in the gallery outside her room, mixing rice with salt, oil and green chillies in a high-rimmed
bell metal kanshi. Three medium sized bowls containing molasses, tamarind pulp and slivers of
lemon, and another larger one, full of red-hot shrimp curry, waited in readiness.
The three looked on in wonder, and with a tinge of dismay in their eyes as Kadambari’s expert fingers,
picked up chilli after chilli, and, cracking them open in the edge of the kanshi, crushed them in the rice.
Half of it was mixed with the shrimps, and the other half with molasses and tamarind.
Then, when all was done, she divided the two mixtures, equally, between her three charges, serving
them on separate thalas, with a pinch of extra salt and wedge of lemon in one corner.
The boys were delighted with the complex and nuanced taste, and, thereby, demanded Paanta bhaat
every day. And, in this manner, they became slaves to Kadambari Devi.
I had some difficulty in finding out the exact technique of making this dish once I moved to Calcutta.
My relatives or few friends I had, had never had it. Eventually, I learned the recipe from Mintu Babu,
my cousin’s driver.
And it was exactly as I had expected.
Cooling, delicious, and tasty.
My friend, Arundhati Ghosh, mentioned that she used to have it with sattu or chaatu, roasted, and
ground chick pea. You mix sattu with water and make a paste, add green chillies, onions and some
mustard oil.
And that’s it.
Sattu also was new to me. It was delicious.
After a few weeks, I started to add chunky peanut butter to the mix. I don’t think anyone adds peanut
butter, but that slightly sweet taste is a wonderful contrast to the spicy sattu. Over time, I have tried fried eggs, soy-sauce egg, left-overs, and a few other things, but, eventually, returned to sattu and
peanut butter.
And it is a very satisfying meal — every time.
People, though, find it strange, that I eat Paanta bhaat and live to tell the tale. I found their
disdain strange!
This is a traditional dish of Bengal, so why do the middle/upper classes hold it in such
contempt?
A kind of answer came from an exchange on Facebook, which I read. Most of the participants
had never eaten it, and, yet, all their servants did and do. The left-over rice is meant for servants, and
they, naturally, make Paanta bhat.
So it’s a class divide, I figured.
What still puzzled me is that out on the streets, people are constantly eating chops, cutlets,
savouries, and a whole host of hot, wonderful snacks, often called ‘tele bhaaja’ — fried in mustard oil.
None of those are made by the middle class. It’s always the working class who make and serve these
delicious snacks on the streets of Calcutta and across Bengal.
Sometimes, the shops may be owned by the middle or upper classes, but the ‘creators’ are working
class. Many of them are hard working women, young and old, Bowdis and Mashimas, who earn an
extra-living by working hard in little, thatched shops, especially in the evenings.
A beguni or pyaaji, costing Rs 5 or 6, with a hot cup of sweet milky tea, is stunningly fulfilling as an
evening snack. Plus, a smoke in the end!
Even in the famous sweet shops of Calcutta, it’s the same story. So, where does the disdain come from?
A disdain for a traditional, Bengali dish?
I find a similar, typical disdain for people of different states of India among the bhadraloks of Calcutta
— the derogatory branding of communities and people. Mero for Marwari, people from Marwar,
Rajasthan, Ure for people from Odisha, Bhhaiya for the hardworking people from Bihar, especially the
working class who sustain the informal sector of Calcutta along with migrant Bengali workers from the
suburbs and villages, and Madraji for everyone from the South of Vindhyayas, are the ‘Bengali names’
for people who populate the state. Many of them have been here for decades.
I am quite puzzled really.
Tagore faced a similar disdain for his work. Historian Tanika Sarkar, once told me in an
interview that a magazine called Shonibarer Chithhi (‘Saturday Letters’), would abuse him in each
edition. Tagore’s text was apparently given to students of MA in Bengali literature, during their
examination — to correct punctuation!
This is the level of contempt a section of his contemporaries had for him.
I have often wondered — why?
Was it because he was a Brahmo, and not a Hindu?
Or, was it because he continued to administer the family lands, personally, often directly involved with
the life and times of the tenants and workers, as against the ‘popular ways’ of Calcutta life where the
rich, feudal and powerful landlords were often an ‘absentee’?
Or, was it simply because he was just too good and rare, and much too versatile and brilliant?
Besides, not everyone hated his work. The radical poet, Sukanta Bhattacharya, who died tragically very
young at the age of 20, left a wonderful repertory of poems, including revolutionary poems. His
brilliant poem, ‘Diashlai Kathi’ (I am a little matchstick), is nothing but a call for revolution, the fire of
the matchstick spreading in the nooks and by-lanes of villages, cities and small towns.
One of his poems, Runner, on the postal workers who would run long distances, barefoot, to deliver
letters during British times, has been rendered into a beautiful song by Hemant Kumar. His admiration
for Tagore can be witnessed in the poem — Rabindranather proti. Surely, talent recognizes talent.
In any case, the Nobel prize changed popular perception to a large extent. Overnight, his persistent
abusers morphed into ardent admirers of Tagore!
This obsessive Bengali contempt for other people, cultures, food and lifestyle comes from where?
For instance, Chasha, farmer, is a pejorative term in Bangla for someone uncouth and uncultured. And,
truly, only in Bengal have I found this abuse for those who toil so hard on the land under the scorching
sun, rain or cold, and grow our food.
In the north and west, there is largely respect for farming and farmers. There is an understanding that
our survival is dependent on them.
Look at the immense respect and stoic support which was rendered for the brave farmers, their women
and children, by the people of their states, who led a difficult and protracted struggle against a
dictatorial regime at the borders of Delhi! Their great and glorious struggle, finally, achieved victory,
against all odds — but look the sacrifices made by them and their fighting families! So many of them
died on the battle-front of this historic and peaceful struggle.
Not so in Bengal.
I have begun to believe that the truncation of people and land that began with the
Permanent Settlement Act in 1793 has completely alienated the urban, middle-class Bengali from
their roots. I have begun to also believe that the horrific Bengal Famine of 1943 has deeply and
profoundly terrified the middle and upper classes, and, therefore, they want to create a Laxman Rekha
between themselves, and the poor and working class.
That is, the bhadralok and chotolok — lowly people.
‘We are not them,’ they seem to be saying. They hope, thereby, to never fall victim to such tragedies.
Nowhere else have I seen this contempt for the working class!
The middle/upper class use the honorific to address tui for the workers of this nation, so easily. Like
most Indian languages, in Bangla too there is apni, a formal address, tumi, between equals, and tui,
intimate address for those younger.
However, here, in Calcutta, a young man can easily use tui for an older man, or woman, as an
expressed sign of disrespect, and to reassert social hierarchy.
This is not intimacy. This is contempt.
And this contempt is actually a contempt for the self.
Otherwise, it would not be so easy to change opinions and belief. Today, Tagore’s birthday is
celebrated across the ‘Mahanagar’ with unparalleled frenzy. Apart from statues that are visible all
across, the West Bengal government under Mamata Bannerjee took a decision to play his songs at all
traffic lights all over the city.
It would be a surreal experience to travel through these streets. As you stopped at a traffic light, the
song would boom, and then fade away as you moved on, losing its soul and content in the chaos and
noise of an eternal traffic.
Thankfully, that experiment has been halted. Perhaps some bureaucrat figured out that this was
zactually nothing but disrespect for the great man.
(In a recent episode of Master Chef Australia, Paanta Bhaat was celebrated.
https://10play.com.au/masterchef/recipes/panta-bhaat-with-aloo-bhorta-and-white-soy-ginger-
sardines/r210707qsifn).
So, I live in hope. Perhaps, soon, Panta bhaat too will get its rightful place within Bengali cuisine and
not be relegated as food for servants, chasha, kaajer lok (maids and other daily workers), and chotolok
— the lowly working class.
The writer is a filmmaker and curator based in Calcutta. For many years, under the auspices of ‘Magic
Lantern’ which she ran for many years, she had organized a highly popular and annual international
film festival, showcasing young talent and seasoned documentary and feature filmmakers, plus panel
discussions, etc, at the India International Centre in Delhi.