Hitting the Bengali sweet spot: How to have their mishti and eat it too is the dulcet dilemma

Last month our cook came to me looking distinctly unwell but claimed he had no idea why he felt that way. Knowing his weaknesses, I sent him off to the local doctor in Kolkata immediately. The reason was just as I expected, but his random sugar test came back with a number that left even me dumbfounded nonetheless: 575. And seeing my expression of horror he said sheepishly, "What can I do? So many boxes of mishti (sweets) come to the kitchen all day!"

Needless to add, all mishtis have been immediately (and permanently) diverted from the kitchen. Orders have been issued that they should be distributed to others in the household and visitors, but in suitably modest quantities of course, keeping sugar levels in mind. It has proved to be a popular solution with everyone except the cook. The idea of doing without sweets is anathema to many Bengalis, at least above a certain age, so our cook's despondence is expected.

Mishti is the language of love, respect and hospitality for Bengalis, wherever they may reside. Being presented with half a dozen different mishtis per person to quaff when visiting a Bengali home is not unusual. Nor is the hurt look in the hostess's eyes when only a single one is eaten, with protestations about doctor's orders to cut down on sugar. "Sooo little won't harm you," is the usual reply, to which the only acceptable response is eating all of them.


The centrality of sweets to every aspect of Bengali life is unmistakeable. Kolkata, still the epicentre of this culture, is the only city I know where neighbourhoods are known by their mishtir dokans (sweet shops) and limited quantities are almost de rigeuer. There are family sweet businesses with multiple outlets, but the most sought-after ones are still small and content to be so. Debates on the relative merits of the same mishti across stores are long and intense.

I was reminded of this while listening to a fascinating talk in New Delhi last week by Ishita Dey, an ethnographer who has written a scholarly book on mishti in "epaar-opaar" (this side and that side of) Bengal. This very intrinsic part of Bengali life seen through the lens of a scholar was strangely befitting. How can mishti - a metaphor for Bengaliness - not be (de)constructed via the academic chhach (mould) of caste, gender, migration, "socialities" etc?

What could have been a desiccated academic discourse, however, turned out to be a delightful journey through Bengal's borderlands with Dey pointing out many quirks about mishti culture. For instance, on "this" side, Bengalis buy mishti by the piece while on "that" side it is sold only in kilos. And that sweetmakers are no longer necessarily of the same caste anymore on both sides of the border but are still mainly men; women are only present in limited segments.

Dey's point that two major ingredients of mishtis, milk and sugar, are classified as essential commodities reminded me about the scarcity era of my childhood. Back then, summer brought on the 'milk control order' which restricted it being used to make commercial sweets, paneer and ghee to ensure enough milk for households. Did shortages make us savour milk-based sweets more at that time and has today's plenitude diminished that desirability? Maybe.

Our cook's sugar level is now down to 140, probably more due to medicines than my mishti ban, but I fear a relapse soon. Like a recently reformed smoker, if he sees sweets constantly again, he will probably not be able to resist. With doctors increasingly targeting sugar as public (health) enemy No 1, can Bengalis forsake their love affair with mishti? I think not. So that legendary Bengali intellect must collectively focus on how to have their mishti and eat it too.