There are loves in our lives so deep, so fragrant, and so compelling that they define us in ways nothing else can. For me, that love has always been gondhoraj lebu, Bengal’s fragrant ‘king of lemons’. This citrus marvel, with its intoxicating tang, as Bengalis would say, has a ‘deebhine’ (read: divine) aroma, and has been my unwavering companion, tucked safely in my heart and luggage, whether I am traveling within India or journeying to distant shores.

During my childhood, I was first introduced to the gondhoraj when my father was transferred to Calcutta and we shifted lock, stock and barrel. One Sunday lunch I noticed a wedge of a delicately sliced fruit. I did not know what it was. My mother squeezed a few drops of it over my dal and rice. That was the first time I got a whiff of this aromatic fruit — the lebu. And I fell in love.

My passion for gondhoraj goes to the extent that whenever I am in Calcutta, I would personally go to Baithakkhana market and handpick the best of gondhoraj lebu with its leaf on as they are the most fragrant. In fact, to ensure that my love stays close to me, I had actually taken to grow gondhoraj in the backyard of our humble abode in Lonavala. To my despair, while the plant grew and also bore the humble fruit, they had no smell! So this is the delicate lemon.

While there have been many experiments done with gondhoraj at Oh! Calcutta, from improvising a Bhetki Gondhoraj, which is a fusion of gondhoraj, lime juice, garlic and ginger paste on bhetki fish, to adding a few drops to my vodka, gin or beer. But one of the recent revelations has been experimenting with adding gondhoraj leaves to the homely chicken curry, which I have titled Lebu Pata diye Murgir Jhol, a major attraction today in Oh! Calcutta.

But as all great love stories go, this one too has its heartbreaks.

It was during my recent trip to Japan with my family, a land known for its own delicate artistry and culinary brilliance, I had not known that my love for gondhoraj would be put to the ultimate test. I carried a stash of these beloved lemons, specially handpicked, wrapped carefully in muslin and flown from Calcutta, nestled within my luggage, envisioning evenings of fragrant nostalgia amidst sushi and sake. We landed at Tokyo’s Narita Airport and we were asked to join a line, where I could read that certain agricultural items were quarantined in this country. Everyone in the family started to coax me to bin it immediately, as they were not willing to stand with me in the fight for my love.

As the line began to move, my heart was growing weaker and while I tried reasoning with one of the officials, the only verdict I got was “Restricted agricultural items”, as if those golden-green gems were mere produce and not the heart of a Bengali soul. I quickly broke away from the line and rushed to the nearby restroom as I bid adieu to the evergreen lemons by binning them. As they disappeared from view, it felt as though a piece of my identity had been taken away.

What followed was two long days of melancholic wandering through the streets of Kyoto and Tokyo. The cherry blossoms, the impeccable sushi, even the majestic Mount Fuji failed to lift my spirits. My senses, usually alive to every culinary nuance, felt dulled. It wasn’t just the gondhoraj itself I missed, but the memories and emotions it carried — the essence of the lazy Calcutta afternoons, my mother giving us piping hot ghee bhaat (rice with clarified butter) with Musoor Dal and Aloo Bhaja whenever we were hungry. She would add a few drops of gondhoraj in the dal and magically even the simple of meals would get elevated to heavenly delights, a childhood spent in the lap of this fragrant king.

Eventually, like a wounded soldier must rise, I resolved to push through this despondency. Japan had its own treasures to offer, and I slowly immersed myself in the umami-rich depths of miso soup, the delicate sweetness of mochi, and the robust flavours of ramen. But deep within I knew that no culinary brilliance could truly replace the gondhoraj’s intoxicating charm.

Returning to Mumbai weeks later, my heart still yearned for this fragrant muse. The moment I stepped into my humble abode, I was greeted with a steaming plate of rice and fish curry — a classic Bengali meal — and a fresh stock of gondhoraj. As I held the love in my hands and immersed in its aromatic fragrant, with great reverence, I sliced two plump lemons and witnessed the golden drops of love pour on my fish curry.

As the juice mingled with the soft grains of rice and tender fish, the familiar aroma filled the room, transporting me back to a place of comfort and joy. Each bite was a reunion, a celebration, and a homage to the gondhoraj lemon — the king that had been wrongfully exiled but had now returned to its rightful place.

This wasn’t just a meal. It was a heartfelt tribute to my first love, a reaffirmation of its place in my life, and a reminder that true passions transcend borders, customs, and even heartbreaks. In the end, gondhoraj wasn’t just a lemon; it was is an emotion, a soulful companion that made every meal a journey worth savouring.

Long live the gondhoraj!

Anjan Chatterjee is the chief of Speciality Restaurants, which owns Mainland China, Oh! Calcutta, Cafe Mezzuna, Sigree Global Grill, Hoppipola, Asia Kitchen and more. And yes, he is a foodie