Yesterday, my WhatsApp pinged with a familiar joy – a picture from my friend Aranjit. It was a snapshot of a creamy, golden chicken dish, lovingly prepared for his son. The caption simply read, “Murgi Posto.” And just like that, a wave of nostalgia, a deep-seated craving, washed over me. Posto. Opium poppy seeds. Just the word itself is enough to make any Bengali’s heart flutter a little faster. It’s a culinary obsession, a flavor etched into our collective memory.

Historical Background

Later that lazy afternoon, as the fan whirred overhead and the Ranchi sun beat down outside, my mind wandered. How did this tiny, unassuming seed, a mere byproduct of the infamous opium plant, become such an integral, such a beloved part of the Bengali kitchen? It felt like a story waiting to be unravelled, a secret whispered through generations.

My curiosity led me down a rabbit hole of history. I discovered that the poppy seed’s story stretches far back, across civilizations. Ancient Egyptians, as far back as 1550 BCE, knew of its soothing properties, listing it as a sedative in their medical texts. The Minoans, those ancient inhabitants of Crete, even used a concoction of poppy seeds, opium, milk, and honey to lull their babies to sleep. Imagine that! Even the Sumerians, those pioneers of civilization, cultivated poppies, believing in their power to aid sleep, boost fertility, and even grant invisibility!

In India, the poppy seed’s initial role wasn’t in our flavorful curries, but in medicine. The Dhanvantari Nighantu, an ancient Ayurvedic text attributed to the very God of Medicine, Lord Dhanvantari, mentions poppy seeds as a remedy for various ailments. It’s fascinating to think that this ingredient, now synonymous with delicious Bengali meals, once held such a significant place in traditional healing.

The narrative took a dramatic turn with the arrival of the Mughals. Emperor Akbar, with his keen eye for trade and aesthetics, recognized the potential of the opium plant. Its cultivation flourished under royal decree, and the vibrant crimson flower even found its way into the intricate patterns of royal textiles.

Interestingly, the whole poppy seeds were already finding their place as a spice and decoration in baked goods across many cultures. And in India, the humble white poppy seed was quietly gaining traction as a natural thickener and flavor enhancer. It was in the royal kitchens of Bengal that these tiny, non-narcotic seeds, left after the extraction of opium, first began to subtly influence the gravies, adding a unique texture and richness.

But the true turning point, the event that forever intertwined the fate of the poppy seed with the Bengali palate, came with the British East India Company. After the pivotal Battle of Plassey in 1757, Bengal became their stronghold. Suddenly, vast stretches of fertile land were transformed into a sea of swaying poppy fields, all to feed the insatiable demand for illegal opium in China. The native farmers, their hearts heavy with the loss of their rice paddies and jute fields, watched as their livelihoods were replaced by this crimson tide. The British, meanwhile, reaped a dark harvest, becoming the world’s largest drug dealers by the dawn of the 20th century, leaving a devastating trail of addiction in China.

Amidst this backdrop of exploitation and despair, a culinary revolution, born out of necessity, was quietly brewing in the Bengali countryside. Robbed of their staple crops and often facing the grim reality of husbands lost in an opium-induced haze, the women of these farming communities were forced to become resourceful. They foraged in the forests, by the ponds, in the groves, desperately seeking ways to supplement their meager meals. And then, they noticed the mountains of dried poppy seeds, discarded as waste by their colonial overlords.

Evolution of a Dish in the Bengali Kitchen

Necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention. These women, with their innate culinary wisdom, began to experiment. They ground the seeds into a paste and, to their surprise and delight, discovered a nutty, creamy richness. This paste, when mixed with the pungent warmth of mustard oil, transformed their humble meals of পান্তা ভাত (panta bhaat) – leftover rice soaked in water – or simple boiled potatoes into something surprisingly satisfying. In the intense heat of the Bengal summers, they also found that the poppy seeds had a cooling effect on the body. And just like that, from the ashes of exploitation, a culinary treasure was born: the Bengalis’ cherished posto.

A Culinary Legacy

Today, recipes featuring posto are abundant in Bengali kitchens, both rural and urban. From crispy posto bora (poppy seed fritters) to the simple yet sublime aloo-posto (potatoes cooked in poppy seed paste), the fiery kancha posto bata (raw poppy seed paste), the rich murgi-posto (chicken in poppy seed paste) that sparked this very train of thought, the comforting dim-posto (eggs in poppy seed paste), and the elegant rui-posto (fish in poppy seed paste) – the possibilities seem endless.

The story of posto is a poignant reminder of a complex history – a tale woven with threads of the drug trade, exploitation, and the resilience of the human spirit. Eating posto is more than just savoring a delicious dish; it’s acknowledging a culinary legacy born out of hardship, a testament to the ingenuity of those who transformed waste into a cherished ingredient. It reminds me of how humble beginnings can sometimes lead to the most treasured traditions, much like how the once-peasant dishes of pâté and foie gras in Europe now grace the tables of fine dining establishments.

So, as I think about Aranjit’s murgi posto, I’m not just imagining the creamy texture and the nutty flavor. I’m also picturing the fields of crimson flowers, the resourceful women who first discovered the magic within those tiny white seeds, and the long and fascinating journey that has brought this humble ingredient to my plate, a taste of history in every delicious bite. And in that taste, I find not just satisfaction, but a deep connection to my roots, a quiet acknowledgment of the stories our food carries within it.