I grew up in a Bengali household in New Delhi — in a world where food wasn’t just food. It was rhythm, ritual, and reassurance. Our kitchen wasn’t guided by calorie charts or fad diets; it was ruled by instinct, wisdom, and a quiet sense of balance passed down through generations.
Back then, we didn’t talk about detox. It simply arrived on our plates as nim-begun (neem leaves with brinjal) or uchhe bhaja (fried bitter gourd) at the start of a summer lunch. Those bitters weren’t punishment; they were the body’s gentle wake-up call, cleansing the system before indulgence followed. My mother used to say, “Teto diye din shuru korle mon shuddho hoy” — begin with bitterness, and the mind finds clarity. Long before “green juice” was a thing, our detox wore the scent of mustard oil and home.
Our multivitamin aisle was the local bazaar. Lal shaak (red amaranth), pui shaak (Malabar spinach), kumro shaak (pumpkin leaves), palong shaak (spinach), helencha shaak (marsh herb), methi shaak (fenugreek greens) — our plates looked like a painter’s palette. No one had heard of kale or avocado, yet we thrived on what grew around us, cooked simply, eaten gratefully.
Our protein came from dal aar daler bori (lentils and lentil dumplings), not from powders in plastic jars. I still remember summer afternoons when my grandmother would spread a white cloth on the terrace and shape those bori with her hands — neat little suns drying under the sky. Each one carried a piece of her patience, her rhythm. When they went into the curry weeks later, they brought back the taste of sunlight.
Omega-3 and vitamin D didn’t come in capsules either. They swam in our macher jhol — fish curry simmered in mustard oil, turmeric, and love. The golden gravy, the gentle heat, the soft fish falling apart into the rice — it wasn’t just nourishment. It was a memory, an identity, a comfort.
And then there were Sundays — the sacred day of khasir mangsho (goat curry). The day started with excitement that rose with the aroma of garlic and mustard oil sizzling in the kitchen. It wasn’t just a meal; it was an event. Neighbours dropped by, cousins came over, and everyone knew there would be du-pis aloo — those two proud pieces of potato — floating royally in the gravy. For a Bengali, aloo (potato) isn’t an ingredient; it’s an emotion. Take away the aloo, and you’ve committed blasphemy.
No meal ended without chatni (fruit relish) — tangy, sweet, and often studded with dates, raisins, or nuts. It wasn’t just dessert; it was the digestive finale, the perfect punctuation to a meal. And finally, the mishti doi (sweet curd) — thick, golden, probiotic magic — arrived with quiet dignity, like a blessing.
If you look closely, Bengali food was never about indulgence or austerity — it was about equilibrium. Each meal was a carefully crafted symphony:
Teto diye porishkar (bitters to cleanse),
Shaak diye pushti (greens for nourishment),
Dal diye shokti (lentils for strength),
Mach diye glow (fish for radiance),
Mangsho diye energy (meat for vitality),
Chatni diye hojom (relish for digestion),
Aar doi diye arogya (curd for healing).
A whole circle of life, served on a steel plate.
And above all, our meals carried emotion — a spoonful of teto for wisdom, a hint of mishti for hope, and a generous drizzle of sorsher tel (mustard oil) for attitude.
But somewhere between deadlines and deliveries, between malls and multinational menus, we lost that rhythm. We traded the mindful quiet of shukto (a mixed vegetable medley) for fried nuggets, and the delicate fish oil of our macher jhol for the grease of a burger. The home-cooked Bengali meal — once a philosophy of balance and belonging — is now too often drowned in the fast food culture of speed and sameness.
Yet, every now and then, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, when the aroma of mangsho jhol drifts from someone’s kitchen, I feel that tug again. The smell carries me back to that Delhi kitchen of my childhood — to the laughter, the clinking of plates, the stories told over rice and gravy, and the taste of love measured not in portions, but in memories.
Because in truth, Bengali food was never just a diet —It was, and still is, a way of life.
Epilogue: What the West Calls Wellness, We Called Home
As the world rediscovers “mindful eating,” “gut health,” and “slow food,” I often smile at the thought that our grandmothers were already there — without books, blogs, videos, or buzzwords. They cooked with intuition, ate with gratitude, and lived by rhythm, not routine.
Maybe the path to a healthier future isn’t paved with superfoods or supplements, but with the wisdom simmering in our old kitchens — in a bowl of dal-bhaat (rice and lentils), a ladle of macher jhol, or a spoon of mishti doi shared with love.
Perhaps wellness isn’t something to chase after. Perhaps it’s something we’ve already tasted — in the comfort of home, on a plate that smells faintly of sorsher tel and memory.
“Teto diye din shuru korle mon shuddho hoy” — begin with bitterness, and the mind finds clarity.
Loved the quotes and references to vitamin and protein intake not having to be measured and called out and made into the thing they have become today.
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Thank you so much for your thoughtful comment! I completely agree with you about how over-measured our approach to health has become. Once upon a time, nourishment was intuitive, not a checklist of proteins and vitamins. It’s refreshing to reconnect with that wisdom again.
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Thanks 🙏
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This piece is a treasure trove of memory, culture, and culinary wisdom.
Your writing doesn’t just describe Bengali food — it celebrates it. Every paragraph pulses with emotion, tradition, and the quiet rhythm of a life once lived with more intention. You’ve beautifully captured how food in a Bengali household was never just about eating — it was about healing, connecting, and remembering.
The way you’ve layered nostalgia with nutritional insight — from the bitters of neem and uchhe to the glow of macher jhol and the comfort of mishti doi — is nothing short of poetic. I could almost smell the mustard oil and hear the clinking of steel plates as I read. Your storytelling is immersive, evocative, and deeply respectful of the wisdom passed down through generations.
What the West calls wellness, we called home
— that line hit me like a wave. It’s profound, timely, and a reminder that our roots hold answers modern trends are still chasing.
Your ability to turn everyday meals into metaphors for life, balance, and belonging is a rare gift. This isn’t just a blog — it’s a cultural memoir, a tribute to our grandmothers, and a call to rediscover the quiet magic of home-cooked food.
Bravo, my friend. Your pen carries flavor, feeling, and fierce pride. Keep writing — the world needs more of this kind of nourishment.🙏🏽🙏🏽
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Thank you so much for your heartfelt words — they truly mean a lot. You’ve beautifully articulated what I hoped to convey — that food, memory, and culture are inseparable, and that our kitchens once held the quiet wisdom of balance and belonging. Grateful for your warmth and encouragement — comments like yours make the journey of writing so rewarding. 🙏🏽
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I also remember how dadus and didas used to start the meal with gorom bhaat e ghee. The ghee layered the inner lining of the stomach before the acidic foods went in, thereby reducing the chance of inflammation. They also chewed on dried hortoki and aamloki for blood purification. I still swear by the bengali cuisine for health and nourishment. Still use kaalo jeere putuli for blocked nose, and many other home remedies, since I am adversely reactive to chemicals and allopathy drugs.
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Thanks. That’s such a beautiful and heartfelt reflection! Our elders truly had a deep understanding of food as medicine — long before modern nutrition science caught up. Starting a meal with gorom bhaat and ghee wasn’t just tradition, it was wisdom in practice. The use of hortoki, aamloki, and kaalo jeere shows how intuitively holistic Bengali home care really was — balancing digestion, immunity, and healing through simple, natural ingredients. It’s wonderful that you still keep these age-old remedies alive; they connect us not only to better health but also to our roots and heritage.
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Always time for a dhal bhaat!
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Yes, always. Thanks 🙏
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I remember my father used to say not to talk during meals – a lesson in mindful eating.
The elaborate Bengali meal is nostalgia now you have whipped up through your wonderful post.
If you just consider the awesome spectrum of the variety of dishes and sensorial tastes cooked and served with love and care – from bitterness to sweetness and everything in between – almost a journey of life!
Great post.
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Thank you so much! I couldn’t agree more — those meals were never just about the food, but about slowing down and soaking in the moment. Each dish, each flavor had its own story, just like life itself. Really glad the post brought back those memories for you! 😊
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The Bengali cuisine is truly delectable. The only thing that did not suit my palate was the mustard oil as the cooking medium. I used to insist on white oil for savouring Kolkata…!
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Thank you for sharing your thoughts! 😊 Yes, mustard oil does have a very distinct, pungent flavour — an acquired taste for many! Using white oil definitely softens the flavours and lets the other ingredients shine through. Glad you still enjoyed the essence of the Bengali cuisine in Kolkata despite the mustard twist!
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Indrajit, there was an unintended error in my response. The erroneously used word ‘palette’ may be corrected to its homonym, to read ‘palate’. Thanks.
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I have corrected your earlier comment. Thanks, sir.
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