There are precious few among you who haven’t yet, in their lives lived thus far, tasted a pure Bengali sandesh of the kind the taste and texture of which sticks to your tongue and your mind and your h...
There are precious few among you who haven’t yet, in their lives lived thus far, tasted a pure Bengali sandesh of the kind the taste and texture of which sticks to your tongue and your mind and your heart and your soul, and lifts your spirits in such a way that you seem to soar over all your daily trials, trifles and troubles as if gliding into a zone of utter peace and contentment that no one can take away from you ever. The euphoria is short lived, agreed, but can be renewed with more of the Sandesh consumed, though diabetes, in those who are prone to it, is a possible after-effect, but that’s after years of binging on the sweetmeats.
Anyway, to get back to the point, those of you who concur regarding the supremacy of the Bengali sandesh among the sweetmeats of India and the world will also vote for the natun-gur version to delight through winter in no measure less than the sada-sandesh that’s such a life-saver through the hotter months.
But have you noticed something? In both cases, the mishti is seen in either boring rectangular blocks or as regular spheres. The marvellously quirky shapes and designs of yore (the Chandrapuli is an exception that’s still stamped and shaped using wooden moulds) made using dies of wood, earth or stone have completely disappeared. Those rather odd but ceaselessly engaging designs —— thought to be hick in the age of machine-made-and-moulded sandesh where the decorations, like dressed up cakes and pastries, are always on the outside of the mishti and usually realised as flourishes like the toppings on ice cream and pizza, though in the case of Bengali sweets they tend to be by and large superficial —— are long gone, perhaps even from memory.
Natun Bazaar, on Chitpore Road, is where these mishti’r moulds would abound, because that’s the, now more than a-century-and-a-half old, place where the Bengali Sandesh’s evolution began from. The market itself, built in 1871 by one of Calcutta’s most flourishing businessmen, Raja Rajendra Mullick, holds within it some of the city’s oldest and pioneering sweet-shops, and if you venture within its labyrinthine passages with stalls crowding every inch of them, you’ll find also the original wholesale khoa-kheer market, its kiosks stacked with the undulating wheels of pale yellow reduced milk.
A sensory delight, the market and its mishti-makers or ‘moiras’ are alive and well and very, very busy at all times, given the Bengalis, of any age and gender, are not to be denied their mishti after daily meals on any account, ever.
Sadly, the superbly carved moulds that lent visual interest (and surely strong tactile pleasure) to the sweetmeats have lost their relevance and their artistry. Some can still be found, like the shankho (for the ubiquitous shaankh-sandesh) and taal-saansh (for the jalbhora), and things like swans (for the chokingly dry kora-paaker hans) and large fishes (an essential for biyer tattwa), but the other eccentric stuff’s been more or less written off.
This necklace is an ode to the lost moulds of Bengali sweets. We’ve chosen the ‘surjyamukhi’ and ‘aam’ as the apt examples to convey how much a source of delight these shapes and designs were to the sweets that they moulded for sale at counters and on special orders.
The round sunflower breaks that term and literally carves out a sun motif with curling flames that surround a petite double-bloom in the middle that looks more a daisy than a ‘surjyamukhi’, but that’s a minor fault considering the flames can easily be interpreted as the petals or ray florets and the flower in the middle as the disc floret —— but whose complaining about this not being, technically, the perfect sunflower when confronted by the delicacy of the mishti.
The ‘surjyamukhi’ moulds are in two sizes (the sweets were priced accordingly) and form the leading trio. Also they’re all framed by ball-borders and have generous ball-clusters fringing them across their lower halves, though in the case of the central medallion this fringe is attached to a swinging ‘smiley’ hanger and includes split-orbs that set the jewel all a tinkle when they move.
At the ends are the mango moulds, also in two sizes, and they’re also lovingly carved and edged partially with ball-beads. If you remember the maddeningly addictive aam-sandesh that was a minty green in colour and had a slight tang to it and a subtle scent of tok-mishti raw mango, that’s the one that used this mould to give it the shape of the fruit with ample decorative flourishes, though a smooth mango version was also popular for the kora-paak version.
In the jewel, the mangoes seem to be rejoicing with the surjyamukhi, and that’s what this design is about : a celebration of the art of sandesh-making, not just in the technical expertise required to create the sweet but also in giving them a visual definition that spoke of their softness of character and offered hints to their inherent taste. For instance, the sunflower would be stained a light yellow with saffron in the ‘chhana’ and on top would be reddened by a couple of strands of the spice allowed to bleed into the gamboge of the rest of the mishti. The aam-sandesh would use colouring at its bare minimum and would be flavoured discreetly with — and you won’t believe this! — aam-aada (mango-ginger) juice and never raw-mango pulp.
The moulds are threaded as a garland or a cheerful festoon that celebrate the wooden mishti-moulds of Natun Bazaar and as such Natun Bazar itself as the very halidom of the Bengali sandesh in its traditional moulded beauty. Yet, we’ve also hinted at their obsolescence by perforating the surjyamukhi discs liberally, but held hopes of a revival of these exquisite artisanal carvings to return the sweets — even if by option — to their glorious turn-of-the-century pulchritude. Let skilled artisans make the mishtis to be as simple and guileless as the greatest of their kind always were ; let them be created as the finest handmade chaana’r sweets in the world ; but let them also be presented at their decorative best without having to resort to facile frills that do nothing for them by way of taste or appearance.
Natun Bazaar is not a memory piece. It’s a call to arms in chaste guinea-gold (here, in a light vermilion polish) to renew, revive, revitalise, and restore a tragically forgotten Bengali industry — so much of it relying on the irreplaceably handmade — that once was essential to our sense of taste that always needed to comply with our reasoning of the aesthetic life as it must be led. Entirely realised in hand-wrought virtuoso naksha-work, the ornament is a tocsin for us to return to living, breathing culture what’s gradually being written out of it and into the history books. Why must we go to the Gurusaday Museum to see the stone/wood/clay mishti-moulds? The artisans and their next generation are among us. They’re trained and supremely capable but out of practice. All their skills require are genuine and generous patrons to make them flourish again. Natun Bazaar, the jewel, makes that a potent and everlasting quest.