Past forward

It’s water chestnut time of the year and the baskets at local markets brim over with this moss-green aquatic vegetable, whose spiny skin protects the succulent white ‘nut’ within. I enjoy experimenting with paniphal (to use the local name), using them in salads and meats, throwing a handful into Asian-inspired stir-fries, serving them wrapped in bacon as finger food, and dropping them into clear steaming broths. But my favourite avatar is the Sheherwali paniphal samosa: dainty golden-crisp triangles, where the subtle crunch of the paniphal replaces the customary potato mash filling, and the familiar North Indian samosa spice cocktail of cumin, asafoetida and aamchoor is given an unexpected, stridently Bengali stamp with the sweet richness of coconut.

I love preparing these moreish paniphal snacks because of the symphony of taste and textures they offer. And the pleasure is heightened by the knowledge that I’m preparing food that’s been created by the highly-evolved culinary tradition of Bengal’s Sheherwalis, a community of wealthy Jains who had settled in the state.

My first encounter with Sheherwali cuisine was at the home of the Dudhorias, Siddharth and Sangeeta. That splendid meal, and several subsequent interactions (always with food involved!) hosted by this couple have helped me learn about Sheherwali history, and its remarkable food practices that seamlessly combine Rajasthani, Bengali and Nawabi elements within the matrix of Jain strictures.

The Sheherwalis are devout Jains with roots in Rajasthan but who call Azimganj, in Murshidabad district, home. They speak a Hindi studded with Rajasthani, Bengali, and Urdu words; treat mangoes with the reverence a sommelier shows wine; and their vegetarian food, while maintaining rigorous Jain laws of no root vegetables or spices (onions, garlic, ginger), frequently features native Bengal produce like potol (wax gourd), jackfruit and its seeds, plantain (kaanch kola), wood apple (bel) and water chestnuts. They make generous use of the Bengali five-spice mix paanch phoron, black mustard seeds and mustard oil; but they also freely raid the Nawabi spice cupboard for the fragrant heat of cinnamon, cardamom, cloves and pepper.

The perfect blend

A raconteur par excellence, Siddharth’s spellbinding stories illustrate the remarkable business acumen and cultural adaptation that marked the Sheherwalis’ early, glorious history in Murshidabad. It’s a tale that begins some 300 years ago when some Jain families of Rajasthan took up the invitation of the Nawab of Murshidabad to come settle in Azimganj and Jiaganj, twin towns situated on either side of the Bhagirathi river. They travelled across the breadth of the country to provide financial services in a region prosperous with the products of its muslin weavers, bell metal artisans, silversmiths, jute producers and woodcarvers.

The settlers thrived, their wealth and community burgeoned, and gradually these people of the desert made the river-fed fertile Murshidabad plains their home. In their stately riverside mansions, they lived by Jain dictates of austerity. But they were far from insular, and interacted with the local Bengalis and the extended household of the Nawab.

Presented with Bengal’s year-round abundance of vegetables and fruit, they swiftly introduced these into their kitchen, modifying traditional Rajasthani recipes to include them, and also adopting Bengali and Nawabi spices and cooking methods, as long as no Jain dietary rules were broken. Inspired by the Bengali’s famed sweet tooth, soon they were patronising the local moira (confectioner) and also creating their own versions of the pitha (thin rice flour pancakes scented with rose water) and nariyal katli (coconut fudge).

They borrowed elements from the Bengali Babu’s wardrobe and developed a unique dialect. Gradually, this small community morphed into a culturally distinct group and came to be labelled Sheherwalis by Jains living outside Azimganj, the term referring to their urbane sophistication.

Wide angle

Nothing prepared me for the journey of discovery at that first fabulous meal. I had expected, I realise later, Marwari food with a twist. Instead, a steady march of texture, flavour and aroma, awed the senses. Everything was new, yet hinted tantalisingly at something familiar; we could recognise a spice or an ingredient, but only for a fleeting second as the sauce or the cooking style would be something we hadn’t experienced in this combination. Sangeeta guided us through each item.

Starters included flat round kachoris, exactly like the Bengali peas kochuri in appearance and crispness, but filled with cucumber and hung curd and redolent with the rich garam masalas of the nawabs. Lunch featured the humble potol , in a gravy fragrant with cinnamon and roasted jeera. In lauki but ka daal, lau (bottle gourd) and chana daal (Bengal gram), everyday fare on the Bengali platter, donned a light cloak of Rajasthani spices including asafoetida and red chilli.

In another dish, maariya, rice starch water, typically eaten in rural Bengal as no-frills high-nutrition food, was transformed into a dish fit for kings by adding it to arhar dal (red gram) richly scented with garam masala in whole and powdered form.

Sheherwalis have reinvented the Bengali khichuri into a dizzying number of flavourful forms. On this occasion we had khichuri cooked with yoghurt, besan (gram flour) and peas, infused with the complex, multi-layered aroma of several spices. Tempered mustard seeds gave the cucumber salad (raarhi) a Bengali touch while the missi rotis tricked us into thinking ‘Rajasthan’ only to surprise the palate with the pungent heat of the mustard oil in which they had been roasted.

All this was eaten with dollops of aam ki launji, a sweet-sour mango chutney that was a starburst of flavours in the mouth — the fennel-dominant paanch phoron, warm asafoetida, fiery green chilli. We finished with malpoa, a Bengali mishti the Sheherwalis love.

The meal was served on gleaming kasha flatware — the dull gold-hued bell metal that the wealthy of Bengal have traditionally eaten from. We were surrounded by exquisite silver artefacts and framed photographs that showed men and women in elaborate formal wear. Sangeeta, a textile archivist, jokingly grumbled how most of her winter is spent emptying steel cupboards of ancient robes made of the finest muslin and silk, sunning them and then putting them back, making sure she has changed the folds in order to prevent stress tears.

Tender, loving care

Like the fabric she works so hard to preserve, Sangeeta is aware that her family’s cuisine is a precious, but vulnerable heirloom. Realising that it’s imperative to take the cuisine outside the purview of private homes to reach a wider audience, the couple has worked to place the food in the public space. Sangeeta has trained chefs at ITC Sonar, Kolkata, in the distinctive principles, preparation, and presentation of family dishes. Recently, the five-star hotel hosted a Sheherwali food festival and a number of dishes are now options for a banquet.

To ensure that the treasure trove of recipes are documented, the Dudhorias also supported the publication of a coffee table book on Sheherwali cuisine and culture (Sheherwali: Regal Vegetarian Cuisine of Murshidabad by Pradip Chopra, 2012). They are also members of the Murshidabad Heritage Development Society and, amongst other initiatives, have started the Heritage Walk around Azimganj, which may soon feature a full Sheherwali spread for participants.

Arundhati Ray is a Kolkata-based food writer

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