It is that time of the year again.
The week when the wheels of Lord Jagannath’s mighty chariot begin to turn, carrying with them not just the Lord, but memories too.
It is still early.
The first rays of the infant sun have only just begun to tinge the eastern horizon with gold.
There is a nip in the air after last evening’s stubborn drizzle.
The red-crested bulbuls hidden among the vines in the garden break into the occasional hullabaloo, punctuating the sublime stillness of the morning.
I am making Mathapuli for the Lord this morning.
I potter about my kitchen, waiting for the sun to gather enough courage to light the room.
Weighing out the lentils.
Scraping fresh coconut.
Slivering a knob of ginger.
Wondering if it is still too early to wake the household by switching on the grinder to pummel the lentils into a smooth paste.
And then, without warning, memory takes over.
A kaleidoscope of sepia-tinted images drifts past in slow motion.
The Rather Mela of our childhood.
Dada. Bapi. And me.
It was the high point of our childhood calendar—anticipated for weeks, spoken about endlessly, and remembered long after the last stall had packed up.
In an instant, I am back in the sleepy town of Karimganj.
Dusk is settling over the little town.
Garlands of coloured bulbs flicker to life, bathing the fairgrounds in a warm, magical glow.
Loudspeakers crackle with devotional songs one moment and old Bengali film melodies the next.
A giant Ferris wheel turns lazily against the crimson evening sky, coaxed into motion by a moustachioed man in a shiny floral shirt, leaning with all his might against its rusted wheel, while his eager young sidekick watches and learns. Brightly painted gondolas rise above the rooftops before dipping once more into a fairy-tale of lights below.
Children tug impatiently at their parents’ hands, eyes sparkling with excitement, darting from one attraction to another with the boundless energy that only a mela can inspire.
Every few steps bring a fresh temptation.
Balloon sellers balance impossible bouquets of crimson, yellow and sapphire blue.
Wooden toys.
Lacquered spinning tops.
Bamboo flutes.
Miniature aluminium cooking sets.
Garish paper pinwheels.
All jostle for space on crowded stalls.
I tug gently at Bapi’s hand, pointing towards a little cooking set arranged on a faded jute sack.
He looks at me, smiles that familiar smile, pretends to bargain for a few moments before surrendering.
Coins change hands.
I walk away clutching my treasure as though I own the world.
There are magicians drawing delighted crowds, bioscope men inviting us to peer through painted boxes into distant worlds, fortune tellers with brightly feathered parrots, and merry-go-rounds whose cheerful music seems to float effortlessly across the entire fairground.
And then come the aromas—the true map of the mela.
The smoky perfume of peanuts roasting over glowing charcoal.
Oversized papad bhajas blistering in giant iron kadhais filled to the brim with shimmering oil.
Jhal muri tossed theatrically with mustard oil, green chillies and coriander in battered tins well past their prime.
Makeshift sweet shops, their glass showcases gleaming beneath harsh tube lights, stacked high with crisp khajas, syrup-soaked delicacies and trays of freshly made sweets.
And somewhere, always, the unmistakable perfume of hot jilipis drifting lazily through the evening air.
Every breeze carries a different fragrance, each one promising another delicious discovery.
Cut to the present.
The grinder has fallen silent.
Mellow sunlight has claimed the kitchen.
The steamer is on the stove and the gurgling water is making a fuss.
The batter for the Mathapuli rests patiently in a bowl, ready for the steamer.
I smile.
Perhaps that is what festivals are truly about.
Not merely rituals performed or recipes recreated, but memories quietly awakened.
A drizzle-soaked morning in Bengaluru finds itself holding hands with a bustling Rather Mela in Karimganj.
The little girl who once returned from the Rather mela clutching a miniature khelna baati set quietly meets the lady shaping offerings for the Lord in her own kitchen.
Mathapuli is said to be among the cherished offerings to Lord Jagannath.
Delicate yet comforting, simple yet deeply soulful, Mathapuli embodies everything that makes Odia temple cuisine so enduring.
There is no unnecessary flourish here—only patience, devotion and the quiet confidence that the simplest things, when made with love, are often the most profound.
And as I place my humble offering before the Lord, I realise that perhaps the sweetest thing I have made this morning isn’t the Mathapuli at all.
It is the journey back home.
Jai Jagannath.
Mathapuli
Ingredients
Method
- Drain the soaked urad dal and grind it into a smooth paste using the least amount of water possible.
- Transfer the batter to a large bowl and whisk vigorously until it becomes light and fluffy. To check if it is ready, drop a small spoonful into a bowl of water—it should float.
- Add the drained whole moong dal (do not grind it), grated coconut, thinly sliced coconut, sugar, salt, ghee, grated ginger, coarsely ground black pepper, and cardamom powder to the whipped urad dal batter. Mix well.
- If the batter feels too thick, add up to ¼ cup water, a little at a time. The final consistency should resemble a thick cake batter.
- Grease a steaming tin or pan generously with ghee and pour in the batter, spreading it evenly.
- Steam over medium heat for 40–45 minutes, or until a skewer inserted into the centre comes out clean.
- Let it rest for 5–10 minutes before unmoulding.
- Serve warm or at room temperature.
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