How a literature festival brings Bengali sweets to life, celebrating the emotional connection of ‘mishti’

Nearly 70 years ago, when my parents had just been posted to Karachi—then the capital of Pakistan—my mother got a phone call from the Prime Minister’s House. As the wife of the junior most diplomat at the Indian High Commission, she was naturally quite flabbergasted. Even more so when she was told that the prime minister’s wife, Begum Hamida Mohammed Ali, wished to speak to her. A very sweet voice at the other end introduced herself and asked Ma’s name—in Bangla. My parents knew, of course, that Prime Minister Mohammed Ali Bogra was from East Bengal (then East Pakistan) but speaking Bangla was not exactly very common in that country. Begum Hamida’s second question took Ma by surprise. “Can you cook?” On getting an affirmative answer, came the crucial third question, “Can you make Bengali sweets?” Once again getting a positive answer, came the even more important query, “Will you make some for me?” From a diplomatic and personal standpoint, it was a request Ma could not refuse! And thus began the very sweet—albeit short—friendship between two Bengali ladies and the emotion that bonded them: mishti. Ma made a different sweetmeat every time Begum Hamida called her and took it to the prime minister’s residence and thus got a ringside view of a truly extraordinary woman, whose campaign a few years later led to a key change in polygamy laws in Pakistan. But that is another story. This one is about the importance of mishti in the Bengali psyche. When a dear friend’s daughter married in New Delhi last December, the wedding buffet had 22 types of Bengali mishti on offer for guests. There was a mishti to tempt every kind of palate—soft, hard, crumbly, crunchy, spongy, juicy, dry, over-sweet, barely sweet. All Bengali festivals, religious events and social gatherings—even solemn ones—are incomplete without mishti. Before the advent of chhana’r (cottage cheese) mishti, Bengal had an older tradition of sugar candy, from batasha to nakuldana. While the art of homemade mishti is on the wane now, the popularity of sweets from shops continues unabated. Whether made at home or in a workshop, mishti remains a very personalised, handcrafted food that employs millions of people in Bengal and sates the cravings of millions more. That deserves a place in eclectic discourse. This week’s inaugural JLF—not Jaipur Literature Festival but Jugal’s—is an idea that should have come to fruition a long time ago. A literary festival to examine the myriad aspects of Bengali mishti, a word that signifies both sweetness and sweets, should have been a no-brainer, especially for a state and a people who traditionally prize intellect, relish debate, cherish good taste and have also created the most extensive repertoire of sweets in India, if not the entire world. Yet it took Lahana Ghosh, a feisty female scion of Jugal’s, a 100-year-old Kolkata sweet shop, to actually make it happen, that too at the magnificent colonial era Town Hall just off the Maidan in the centre of the city. A litfest organised by a mishti’r dokan (sweet store)? Many would smirk at the idea, perhaps even add “this can happen only in Kolkata” with a roll of the eyes. But it is a brilliant initiative and the perfect ode to an industry that is the lifeblood of Bengal. West Bengal Tourism’s catchline is ‘the sweetest part of India’, underscoring the importance of mishti. Yet there has been little effort to articulate and disseminate the multi-layered story of mishti itself. The state has Geographical Indicator (GI) status now for Bangla’r Rosogolla, Joynagar-er Moa, Bardhamaner Mihidana and Sitabhog, and many are in the pipeline, but the business promotion has to include raising public awareness of and appreciation for the stories of mishti. An installation at JLF not only explained the stages—from milk to finished mishti—but also the ingredients that go into it, from types of milk and sweeteners (sugar and gur) to the different ‘paak’ or consistency. There is clearly more to mishti-making than throwing together milk and sugar. Even so, successive generations of Bengali sweet-eaters know less and less about the traditions of mishti-making. That hardly engenders respect for mishti or their makers. Consider this: no place other than Bengal has so many ways of making sweets from, say, cheese—chhana. But while western cheese-based desserts (tiramisu, New York cheesecake,) have a coolness factor today, mishti does not. Why not? Some of the blame can be put on the new fixation on the Instagrammable factor of everything, including food. Mishtis have not adapted to this new aesthetic—shape and presentation have not changed since they were invented. And part of it is due to a lack of proper marketing. Every successful handcrafted food product in the West has an attached legend, a mystification that inevitably leads to admiration for those who create it. Few desserts in India have been able to achieve that reverence for both history and art, notably nimish, the Persian-influenced airy concoction of milk froth from Awadh. Some of Bengal’s sweets are just as complicated and delicate, but how many of us can name one? Every handcrafted product—edible, quaffable, wearable and usable—can thrive only when there is all-round appreciation. Thus West Bengal has the strange paradox of a booming industry but a dying craft: the ‘karigars’ who make the mind-boggling array of sweets do not want their children to take up the same profession despite passionate avowals that Bengalis and mishtis are inseparable and sweet shops dot every street, perennially teeming with people. The legendary Bangladeshi fashion designer Bibi Russell put her elegant be-ringed finger on it at JLF when she said that calling the sweetmaker a ‘karigar’ –an artisan—pointed to the cause of the problem. There has to be respect for the critical skill of the people making the sweets, otherwise there is no incentive for their sons (yes, moyras or mishti-makers are still overwhelmingly male) to continue the family profession rather than seek respect elsewhere. That respect, at one level, can be demonstrated by better wages and work conditions in a mostly unorganised and small-scale industry. But that would also mean the public accepting higher prices for their favourite mishti, a prickly issue in a price-sensitive market. While there is reverence for mishti pioneers from KC Das, Ganguram and Nakur to Bhim Nag, Balaram Mullick, Jugal’s and more, that esteem is not extended to the anonymous hands that actually make them. A concurrent aspect is quality, also dependent on knowledge and appreciation. While GI can affix a place of origin, the onus of making sure the art of making that sweet is not diminished by poor execution is on both the government and the eating public. If both are aware of what a kind of mishti must taste like and won’t accept anything less, the skills of good mishti-makers will gain in value. But the drawbacks of ensuring consistency in a diffused industry are obvious too. This JLF has made a commendable beginning by giving time and space not only to discussions about the place of mishti in Bengal’s history and culture but also the impact of modern issues – from the participation of women to the future of dairy products in the light of methane emission of cattle. But this is just a tantalising foretaste. The future for JLF—Lahana shows every intention of making this unique mishti-focussed discourse an annual event—is clear: to create (or change?) awareness of the nuance and romance of mishti to attract all ages and to brainstorm solutions for a sugar-based industry when health and sustainability are new buzzwords, to safeguard not only mishti but also the livelihoods connected to it. I can picture my mother and Begum Hamida smiling approvingly upon her initiative! The author is a freelance writer. Views expressed are personal. Read all the  Latest News ,  Trending News ,  Cricket News ,  Bollywood News , India News  and  Entertainment News  here. Follow us on  Facebook,  Twitter and  Instagram.