Growing up in Calcutta (now known as Kolkata), where food is something akin to religion, and in a house presided over by my mother who was a fabulous cook, my memories of great food and grand meals are prodigious. Yet, when I sat down to write this piece, a single memory leapt to my mind — a memory from so long ago that it should have faded by now. Only, it hasn’t. Even today, on somnolent Sunday afternoons, I wistfully recollect our day trips to Barasat on the outskirts of Kolkata, where we had a bagaanbari (literally, a house with a garden), and where the caretaker would cook lunch for us visitors. The food wasn’t anything fancy, but sitting al fresco and eating off chipped, mismatched plates while the birds kept up a drowsy monotone of cooing in the trees above, everything tasted heavenly.
The caretaker-cum-gardener- cum-cook’s name was Ponchu. He must have had a more civilised name, or bhalo naam, as we say in Bangla. But he was universally known as Ponchu. I called him Ponchu da. In winter, and also in autumn and spring when the weather is pleasant in Kolkata, we went to the bagaanbari at least one Sunday every month, accompanied by either the extended family or some of my parents’ close friends.
