The first time we encountered it, we were sipping tea out of pretty bone china cups at the shop across the road from the homestay we were putting up at. We had told the shop owner, Raja Das, the day before that we found the three-sip bhaanrs most inadequate and he had brought out a tea set he had been gifted when he got married. Seeing me stare at the toto loaded with huge dekchis, or aluminium containers, Raja explained that it was ferrying sweetmeats. I remembered the boxy aluminium vans that transported products from the factory to the famous sweet shop near my home in Dum Dum and thought the toto of towering dekchis was the Murshidabad version.
It was the week before the Pujas, the weather was still muggy though it had finally stopped raining. We had nipped up to Murshidabad for a quick vacation before the crowds hit the former capital of Subah Bangla, which boasted some famous Durga Pujas. So far, the only evidence I had seen of the festival was a pandal just around the corner from the teashop and bang in front of the Dakshin Darwaza, or South Gate, of the Killa Nizamat, which now holds the remnants of the past glory of Bengal nawabs. The chairman of that puja committee was a nawabzada who lived close to the gate and he took his duties very seriously, I was told.
In the half hour we spent at the teashop, I noticed at least three other totos of towering dekchis amble by. I asked Raja whether there were many sweetshops in the locality. We were only a stone’s throw from Chowk Bazaar, the main market in Murshidabad city. “Oh no,” said the young man, “There are only about two decent sweetshops. Most of us buy sweets from these totos.”
He explained that every morning sweetmeat makers or moiras from Jiagunj — about six kilometres away — load up the wares they make on totos and sell them on the streets of Murshidabad. Before I could quite grasp that our dessert of the day was aboard the towering toto, the last one of them rolled out of hailing distance. We waited for 15 more minutes but there were no more towers of dekchis rolling our way. Disappointed, we set off for sightseeing.
Murshidabad is a surprising city. A half-hour’s ride on a toto took us deep into the countryside. I pointed out to the children turmeric fields, paddy fields and marigold fields, banana groves, mango groves and guava groves. Incidentally, Plassey the eponymous battleground is now famed for its delicious guavas. I pointed out to my companions four men lounging under a mango tree. But they were rivetted by another sight — a cycle van loaded with aluminium containers trundling down the road.
The first dekchi that Haripada Das uncovered held the chanabora Murshidabad proudly claims as its own. It looked much like a browner pantua but tasted like heaven — barely sweet with the tang of cottage cheese, creamy, melt-in-the-mouth. Haripada explained that it is made only of chhana or cottage cheese while the pantua and gulabjamun also have maida and kheer. The next sweet he presented — he turned unstrapping the vessel and lifting the lid into a performance — was a chhanar jilipi, bumpy rather than sleek ones we are used to seeing. Its taste reminded me of the homemade ones I had had in my childhood.
There were more pantuas and langchas jumbled up in another vessel, lily-white rosogollas we paid no attention to, diamond-shaped fried sweets called “concerter chamcham” that were a speciality of Malda. There were still-warm terracotta vessels of blushing mishti doi, trays of monda and sandesh. My favourite was the sandesh that looked like kalakand but tasted like kanchagolla with a touch of salt. I didn’t much care for the overtly-sweet chamcham though it was a hit with my friend with the sweet-tooth. Even my husband, who is not really a sweets man, gobbled up four.
The next morning found us again at Raja’s teashop. This time we were there to catch one of the towering totos of sweets.
