Bong men can't cook (unless they get married)

Okay the title of this post is an invitation for trouble. But before any of you fly off your handle and start protesting violently do read through this post and give me a fair hearing.

I was talking to someone the other day who was trying to tell me about his culinary prowess. Now the fact that this person was male, unmarried and a bongoshontan* made it a little hard for me to believe that he could and would be able to rustle up a meal. The truth of the matter is almost every single unmarried Bong** guy I have come across seems unwilling to spend time in the kitchen unless there is a dire emergency. And by that I mean either severe gastric pangs. Or a girl-pataoing, impression creating, show-off involved. Outside of those circumstances I refuse to believe a Bong guy will toil for hours in the kitchen preparing ras malai and palak paneer.

I know you will toss statistics around about how most of the famous chefs are male and how men are passionate about their skill and do it out of the sheer love of cooking, unlike women who do it because historically speaking they have always been expected to prepare the food. And then we have people like Gordon Ramsay who go around spreading stories like this. And I am not denying any of that. It could very well be true. I am talking about a completely different genre here. And that is Bong men. And yes, I am stereotyping. And generalizing. Because every single Bong guy I have seen has never willingly tread the culinary path. And I think I even the know the reason for such apathy. It's the Bong women!

You see right from the beginning the little Bong guy is taught that cooking is a woman's forte and the kitchen is Mom's domain. A haven where men do not trespass. So the Bong Mom cooks and cleans and spends hours inside the kitchen while the menfolk get fed and coddled and protected from any sort of culinary exposure. Take for example my Dad. A typical Bong male who went from the pampered preserve of my Grandmother's sanctuary straight into the one prepared by my Mom. I have never seen my Dad fetch a glass of water for himself, let alone getting his own food. Yes, that is how mollycoddled he has been. And the strange thing is no one in my family finds it unusual. And we have a long line of culinary-dysfunctional males in the family. Every uncle, every cousin, every single male member has never had to cook or work in the kitchen. Ever.

So I know what you are saying at this point. That it is a problem in my family. A strange familial malfunction. But the fact is I have seen this same problem in almost all Bong male friends. Take P for example. All his life P has never had to fend for himself because Momma always took care of him. And then P decided to step out of his known territory. He came to the US for higher education. And P learnt that Momma wasn't around to prepare food anymore. So what would any normal person do in this case? They'd learn to cook and feed himself, right? But not P. He found a place where they sold Indian food and started having lunch and dinner over there. And P was quite proud of his ability to prepare the occasional Ramen noodles (if you can call that preparing). And it was exactly the same for A and S and D and AD. Eat out every day and have instant noodles when they were in a "cooking" sort of mood. That is until they got married. A-ha! You did notice that this entire generalization was against the unmarried kind (save the exceptions from another generation like my Dad).

Once these malfunctioning men get married things start changing. A little. They start learning new things. That the kitchen is not meant for the woman alone. And that a little help goes a long way (and I will refrain from elaborating here). And that cooking isn't all that difficult to begin with. And may be once in a while it can even be fun. So they start with cutting and slicing and doing the dishes to watching the milk so that it doesn't boil over and move on to more technically challenging things like following a recipe and preparing food. I have seen a newly wed Bong guy trying to impress the missus with an "apple" curry where he chopped up potatoes and apples (for the lack of any other available vegetable) and got dinner together before his wife came home from work. Needless to say the wife was very specific about the kind of help she desired the next time she asked him to cook anything. But Bong men learn fast. And one guy who tried to substitute cooking oil with cream cheese, cooked chicken in it and ended up with a charred, half-cooked mess that no one would eat, can now boast of making the best chinese food this side of the Atlantic.

So what is it about marriage that makes the guy want to wear the apron? Is it the desire to help the wife with household chores? Is it a new-found interest that they inherit along with the wedding band? Is it the fact that they have a person who will endure all culinary experiments and appreciate every effort? Or is the desire to survive the "unable to cook" reputation that is almost as unpalatable as the one with Bong nicknames.

So please bear with me while I wipe away tears of laughter when I hear an unmarried Bong guy say he makes the best Biriyani and Chicken chaap.

* bongoshontan son of Bengal
** Bong Bengali

The Bong immigrant

Disclaimer: This post does not intend to offend anyone. All characters are a figment of my imagination with some help from SC. Any stereotyping is purely intentional but does not aim to cause any offense to anyone.


There is a strange social heirarchy among people here in the US depending on their immigration status. And nowhere is it more apparent than in a large social gathering of desis. Take for example the community Durga Pujo. If you've ever been to a Pujo in the US you will know what I am talking about. The first few words coming out of the mouth of any Bong at a Pujo is a dead giveaway as to which strata of the heirarchy he belongs to.

The largest number of any single category comprises the naturalized citizens. The immigrants of the 60s and 70s, primarily engineers , some doctors and a few others who had the dream and the money to make it to the US during that period. They are the easiest to spot. They are usually in their ethnic best, beautiful fanned out dhuti, gold rolex peeking from under the sleeve of the giley kora punjabi, everything that spells out the success story spanning the last three or four decades. The women are equally adorned in the most gorgeous of sarees, the brightly colored silks, the Bomkais, the Balucharis, the Valkalams, complete with tons of gold jewelry that would put any bride to shame. They are usually the ones who are running the show, the people you turn to for help and advise regarding everything, from which car needs to be sent to bring the priest over, to where the spare vessels are, and where one can find aamer pallab. They are the ones who will call everyone bhai or bon and one always refers to as dada or didi, no matter how old they may appear to be. They are the eternal Santosh-da, Malabika-di, Shyamal-da and Konika-dis of the Bong community settled in the US. When they sit down together to talk about things you hear them discussing on whether to invest in a second home, or whether they should finally have the pool in the backyard and whether it is worth holding on to the ancestral home in Mallick-bajaar or to give in to the demands of the promoter who wants to build a huge apartment complex.

The second category of people you see are the ones who are waiting to gain the "settled" status. They are the working force, the ones on a working visa, the H1B. They are much younger than the previous lot, resplendant in their Pujo attire. Their punjabis are usually a little longer than the previous generation and reach down below the knees almost obscuring the fine craftmanship of the dhuti from Kolkata (usually of the colored silk category). And they always have a long uttariya (stole) round their necks. They usually cluster in groups to discuss about the current situation of the Government, the Dow Jones index, the housing market, investing and most importantly the green card status.

Then you have the other side of the work force, the research scientists, the exchange scholars, the ones on a J1 visa. Considering Bongs are prone to giving in to higher education and acquiring degrees, every gathering has their share of postdoctoral fellows. The ones that are in the US on a short term proposition. Although some of them plan on eventually returning to India, most would like to spend a few working years in the US earning enough money to get their savings account going strong and generating a few papers in international journals before they ultimately go back home. They can often be seen sporting a long kurta (courtesy Fabindia) over a pair of jeans with white Nike sneakers begging for attention. Their conversation generally revolves around visa issues, getting waivers from the India Government, the H1B cap, and funding problems with diminishing research grants.

And then you have the students. The ones on the F1 visa. The lowest rung on the social ladder. The ones that will arrive in groups. In second hand Nissans and Toyotas. Carloads of eager, bright eyed kids, bursting at the seams with enthusiasm, with unwashed hair and bleary eyed from too much Bacardi and beer the previous night. The ones that everyone bullies around. To help with decorating. Running errands. Poribeshon. The ones who will sport a volunteer badge to get free admission. The ones who will stand in line twice to get two helpings of food. And the ones who will be seen at the entrance flashing their student ids.
"Dada student achhi. Discount deben?" *

Yeah, the all too familiar social scene at my local Pujo. And its almost here. I can almost feel it. The Pujo-Pujo gondho (smell) as the quintessential Bengali will tell you. When the sky is all blue and the air is crisp and there's a slight nip in the air at dawn. I can barely wait.

* I'm a student. Do I get a discount?

Of kaashphool and Pujor gondho

‘Tis that time of the year. I can almost hear the “kashor-ghonta” (gongs and bells for the Bengali uninitiated folks), visualize the “Sarater aakash” (blue skies with wispy white clouds), and smell the happiness that is all pervasive. Yes, it is Pujo time and I would be amiss if I did not write something about my favorite time of the year to be in Calcutta.

So what is it about Durga Pujo that makes every Bengali nostalgic, happy and sad at the same time? Why do Bongs go crazy just thinking about Pujo? There’s a song that goes “Pujor gondho eshechhe….” That alone could sum up the kind of feeling that is associated with Pujo. And trust me, Pujor gondho is something that seems to be unheard of outside of Bengal. I mean we try to simulate the conditions, make do with every available resource and yet, there is always something missing. The core of Durga Pujo is the atmosphere, the throngs of people who make Durga Pujo so special.

The highly charged atmosphere that almost beckons you to be a part of it, live it, feel it and be one with the feeling. The countdown probably begins a month in advance when shops stay open till late at night to accommodate customers with their shopping after office hours. You have to get new clothes and shoes. And you buy for all your near and dear ones. That is Pujo. You share your happiness with your loved ones. And during those five days everyone is out on the streets wearing the latest in ethnic and western wear. And of course by evening there are hundreds of women limping along thanks to the blisters caused by the new sandal. It’s all an integral part of “Thakur dekha”. Starting from “Chakhu daan” on Shasthi to “Kola-bou snan” on Saptami, “Shondhi Pujo” on Astami to “raat jege Thakur dekha” on Nabami. And “Thakur baran” , “Shidur khela”, “mishti mukh” and “kolakuli” on Bijoya Dashami. And yes thinking of “kaash phool” and “Shiuli Phool” and “Dhaker awaj” and “Dhunuchi naach” brings a tear to my eye. And even as I thirstily search the internet for a glimpse of my favorite pandels and Thakur, it is not the same as walking the streets of Calcutta from Ekdalia Evergreen to Hindusthan park to Triangular park and Samaj Sebi, from 23 pally to Mudiali to Garia Naba Durga and spending hours at Maddox Square checking out the guys (and girls) and eating out every day and not having to work or study for those five days.

And for those who can read and understand Bengali it is all summed up in this verse that someone sent me. I would give credit if I knew who wrote it, but whoever did managed to say it all and more…..

pujo manei pujor kodin porasuno bandho
pujo manei satsakale seulifuler gandho
pujo manei sandhyebela thakur dekhar bhir
hoichoi r utsabete chardeek asthir.
pujo manei patsalate bajlo chutir ghonta
pujo elei chhelebelai paliye fere monta.
pujo manei ma duggar asur nidhon pala
anjali r prosad petam pujor dupurbela.
pujo manei notun jama notun notun saaj
alpona r thakurdalan daaker sajer kaaj
pujo manei pujosankhya didir sathe aari
didi akhon onek dure,didir swasurbari.
pujo manei mahalaya kashfule math sada
pujo mane aponjoner tane poruk badha.
pujo manei sagar pahar ekchhutetei pari
swapne kakhon pouche jetam meghbhasano bari
pujo mane dhaker baddi,pujor bisorjon
asche bachor abar eso monkharaper mon.
ajke pujo anyorokom annobhabe ase
bhorer bela sisir pore? seuli gandho bhase?
hoito ase!hoito sabai bodle gechi aaj
bohumulya samoy akhon sabar bhison kaaj.
bhalo theko bondhura sab bondhu thakuk mone
pujor dine chelebela abar poruk mone.

pujoi jodi thako tumi gharer theke dure
bare bare barir katha ase ghure phire
baje nako dhak ekhane bajenako shakh
suninako hajar loker basto hakdak
pujor dine aamar ar tomar mukh
buker moddhe gumre othe bhison kono dukh
jodi ami petam duto masto baro dana
ure jetam sunnopathe, thaktonako mana
kakhon je ma elo ar kakhon galo chole
hajar rakom kajer chape sabi gelam bhule
tobu tumi eso mago eso barbar
asbe tumi bhebei moder sab akakar.