Nostalgia comes in different shapes and sizes. Wrapped in layers of memory, sautéed with titbits of imagination and relished with a satisfying, almost orgasmic after taste- one that you can conjure up only in your gastronomic mind space.

When you can close your eyes and feel the soft crunchiness of the grated coconut in your mouth melting effortlessly in the mustard paste gravy of the ilish bhapa (steamed hilsa), you know you are hit by the syndrome. Sunday afternoon cravings of maangsher jhol bhaat (rice with mutton curry) or an irresistible urge to devour a plateful of white fluffy luchi (Bong version of pooris) with mom special alur dum (soft over cooked potatoes concocted in dry tomato gravy laced with wisps of coriander), you know you are bitten by that bug.

When the maid prepared mixed vegetable curry stares at you with its profound eat-me-if-you-can nonchalance and vivid flashes of muri ghonto (a spicy delicacy prepared with fried fish head, potatoes and a dash of rice) overpowers your senses, you can clearly tell the symptoms.

Bongs epitomise a quintessential breed of food connoisseurs who can go to any length for their gastronomic pursuits. Our debates gregariously flavoured with elaborate discussions of what we had for lunch and what is in store for dinner. The zealous discovery of a newly opened Bengali eatery in a foreign land or the quest for their roots that binds the probashis (non-resident Bengalis) in a ‘knotty’ affair, just like the intricate mishmash of strings on a bhetki machher paturi (betki fillets in mustard paste wrapped in banana leaf) which you precariously try to tackle with your suitably greasy fingers, adamant not to give up.

Are we, the bongs the only race raving about our culinary varieties having been exposed to a vast epicurean universe? Are we obsessed when it comes to our authentic Bengali fare and love to break into endless high pitched debates on taste variations for ‘ghoti’ and ‘bangal  ranna’- the eternal tussle between East and West Bengal with a self-proclaimed one-upmanship of the latter in culinary expertise.

Do we so frequently hear our non-bong friends and colleagues gloating with equal fervour about their curd rice, lemon rice, rajma chawals, daal roti or the butter chickens of the world? The way we, the ravenous souls can bring the house down with endless discussions of our all-consuming nostalgia of khichuri, ilish machh bhaja (khichdi with fried hilsa) on a rain-soaked afternoon or the cathartic effect of telebhaja (deep fried snacks)- peyanji, alur chop and beguni (onion, potato and aubergine fritters) to go with a steaming cup of tea, full bodied and very Darjeeling, after a hard day at work?

‘You eat non-veg every day?’, a wide-eyed colleague asks as she takes out a bunch of rotis and an insipid looking kundru sabzi from her dabba.  ‘Yes’, I reply, displaying with flourish the leftovers from weekend’s home delivered spread-enchor chingri (jackfruit curry with shrimps), alu posto (potato cooked with poppy seeds) and Pabda machher jhal (a sweetwater fish curry dipped in mustard).

When the colleagues discuss animatedly about their spectacular gains in a stock market upswing or how they sealed a prized deal of an 80 lac flat in suburban Mumbai, I wonder for a moment if I have my priorities right. The thought lurks there uneasily yet persistently like a fish bone stuck in my throat. But, what the heck! I brush off that momentary deviation, admonishing my wayward mind venturing into such futile pursuit of material gains and concentrate on my Pabda with renewed vigour.

On days, when the maid prepared food repels me to the extent that I resort to cup noodles for dinner, I ask my mother what is there for dinner at home.  Topshe machh bhaja, Haansh-er dim er dalna (duck eggs in a delicious tomato-onion gravy flavoured with garam masala), meter torkari (spicy curry made of mutton liver peppered with garam masala), all of them my favourite dishes.  “Come home and I will cook for you,” mother adds in an apologetic tone, almost embarrassed for rustling up such an eclectic spread in my absence.

I tell her that like “ghraneno ordho bhojonong” (the aroma of food fulfills half your appetite), I am pleasantly satiated by imagining the dishes and their tastes that lingers in my mouth. Their taste augmented by dollops of love that only mothers can add. The red yolk of the duck egg spreading its warmth like sunshine on a ‘veg day’ observed in a week to curb monthly expenses in our childhood days. The liver curry reminiscent of the times when mutton was a luxury bought once or twice a month and liver was what we could afford. The batter fried topshe machh, symbolising occasional splurge during festivities like bhai dooj.

 If you are a bong, then the mild reassuring waft of paanch foron (the five essential spices in almost every Bengali dish- mustard, fenugreek, cumin, aniseed and black cumin seed) will invariably transport you to the childhood days with the comforting chhank chhonk (sound of spices simmering in hot oil) implying that Ma is somewhere around. When after a hearty meal, the palate craves for a sinful helping of mishti doi savoured with a sublime piece of nolen gurer shondesh, the taste can unlock a thousand sensation out of your memory chest, including the mellow sunshine on wintry mornings.

Food nostalgia is all about reliving the experience of food and its associated memories and stories that all of us long to share. Yes, we the bongs might go a bit overboard on food fetish talking about it effusively with a great deal of passion, but we all have our own food nostalgia memories, irrespective of where we belong to. The taste of ‘Maa ke haath ka khana’ will always be missed, however gourmet meals we may have at Michelin star restaurants. The makke ki roti and sarson da saag, the daal baati choorma, litti chokha and puran polis of the world will continue to linger on our taste buds and fondly remind us of the best days of our life.