Gurh is the price winter pays to set foot in Bengal. It adds mystique to nearly anything, renders sweetness less evil, and sweets far from ordinary. In short, Gurh, or Jaggery, is a delicious agent that makes Bengalis fête winter like a parched land soaking in rain.
Bengal’s affinity with sweetness is perhaps a logical upshot of once being the maker of the finest sugar. Legend has it that abundance of Gurh had lent it its ancient name ‘Gaud’. And, it was not until Bengal Renaissance in 19th century that native confectioners first turned ingenious by lacing Portuguese pot-cheese with Gurh, eventually elevating tame sweets to objects of desire - a pattern that soon spread far and wide.
Taste and seasonality together fuel the cult of Jaggery. Khejur (date-palm) Gurh, referred to as ‘Gurh’ henceforth, is high-born, wintry, polymorph and redoubtably surpassing in flavour and versatility an all-year Akher (Sugarcane) Gurh. Let us celebrate a ripe winter peeking at the method that runs this seasonal madness like clockwork. Bengal always made a generous host to Khejur trees that grow best in dry parts of Indian Subcontinent. Its sugary-sap is tapped in earthen pitchers and boiled over wood or coal to yield an earthy, nutty and most toothsome Nolen Gurh. Molten gold is what rivals it best in resplendence. Though roundels of stubborn ‘Patali’ upstage by lasting well past fleeting winters of Bengal, semiliquid Gurh is no less cherished in households as side with Luchi, bread and whatnots. Sap-tapping being a seasonal pursuit and Gurh a rarefied delight, wellbeing of those who live on it finely hinges on the fortuity of lush harvests of Khejur. So, coming of winter sets both the gleaners and artisans alike after fashioning the choicest lot of Gurh-infused sweets.
If Gurh is that raga a handful can deliver, the likes of ‘Sri Gobindo Bhandar’ of Bagbazaar or ‘Makhan Lal Das & Sons’ of Notunbazaar can safely be named as consummate exponents of it. But such establishments are now on the wane due to a rising shortage of Gurh for reasons that include a heightened use of date-palm trees as inexpensive fuel. In winter, sweetsmiths from all-over Bengal pitch tents across Kolkata to sell Gurh-based confections, namely Roshogolla, Kanchagolla, Gujia, Norom-pak [soft ones], Kora-pak [hard ones], Chandrapuli [lunar shaped made of grated coconut], Naru [orbs made of grated coconut and Gurh], Moa [a fluffy sweetmeat made with Gurh and Kanakchur Khoi], besides raw Gurh both as Patali and Nolen. Jalbhara, that once came into being to confound newlywed sons-in-law, trades in winter a lowly rose water for gooey Nolen as filling. Badamchak, or, Brittle made of roasted peanuts dipped in molten Gurh is another seasonal delight that sees one through any length of boredom. Though starting with any of them is always deliberate, ending is never. No wonder the owners and patrons of flourishing sweetshops are seldom found pleading almighty for everlasting winter.
End of chill in Bengal is both mourned like bereavement and tempered by stowing of Gurh to sustain until winter reappears. Some kind confectioners are now onto offering taste of Gurh round the year through preservation of ‘Patali’ by Freezing. Besides, availability of Nolen Gurh in friendly tubes by notably raising its shelf-life has buried a recurring woe of Bengal forever.
Enough said. Indeed, with Gurh it’s always easier to start than end. As litterateurs have always come in handy in summarizing difficult emotions, let’s wind up quoting the inimitable Sukumar Ray who extolled molten Gurh as one of the finest relishes of humankind -
“…kintu shobar chaite bhalo, pauruti aar jhola gur”
(Notwithstanding, what trumps all is runny Jaggery lapped up with Bread)
I make no secret of my fancy for things elegantly messy. Das Cabin of Gariahat, so, struck as unsurprisingly as its fabled Mutton Cutlet Afghani. Having waded through a gauche pile of delicious and gingerly gravy made of unpeeled potatoes, peas and some homespun spices, I bit into a crumbed mutton patty that tasted engaging, poised, timeless and chicly sensual - and, all this at a time when only leanness and baring all are touted en vogue. However, a meatier Kobiraji to dig into and surpassing ‘Kosha Mangsho’ gravy as covering tip the scales anytime in favour of Mutton Afghani of Mitra Café as a more yielding choice.
