There is a certain unruliness to pui shaak that I have always admired. It does not grow—it advances. It claims. It curls its soft, insistent tendrils around anything that dares stand still long enough: a rusting railing, a forgotten trellis, the corner of a window that once framed monsoon afternoons. In my garden today, the Malabar spinach is staging a quiet coup, leaf by luminous leaf, its succulent greens spilling over themselves in a kind of joyous excess.
The leaves are thick, almost indulgent to the touch—cool, fleshy, and faintly slick, as though holding within them the memory of last night’s rain. The metuli, those delicate buds, begin in a hopeful green and slowly deepen into a rich august purple, like ink staining the edges of a letter. The tender shoots, green veined with hints of violet, feel almost alive in the hand, as if they might curl back toward the vine if left unattended.
And suddenly, without warning, I am no longer in my present garden. I am back in Karimganj.
Our old house wore its pui vines like a slightly disheveled shawl. They grew amok—over the boundary walls, across the courtyard, threading their way into the everyday. There was no disciplining them. They belonged as much to the house as the red oxide floors and the smell of boiled rice at noon. I remember watching the tendrils grope and clasp, their slow choreography unfolding over days, unnoticed until they had already taken hold.
It is impossible to separate that memory from what arrives on the plate.
A curry—deep, comforting, unapologetically Bengali. The pui shaak melts into a silky base, its gentle viscosity binding everything together. Cubes of eggplant collapse at the edges, soaking in the flavours like willing conspirators. Jackfruit seeds—earthy, nutty—offer resistance, a quiet bite that anchors the dish. And then the Katla—firm, riverine, its flesh absorbing the vegetal sweetness of the greens while lending its own richness to the broth, Pui Shaak diye Maacher Jhol.
As it simmers, the kitchen fills with a scent that is both green and ancestral. There is the softness of leaves surrendering to heat, the faint bitterness that sharpens the appetite, the warm, unmistakable perfume of fish meeting spice and memory.
The first taste is always a return.
Not just to Karimganj, or to a house long left behind, but to something more elemental—the way food gathers time, holds it gently, and then releases it, one spoonful at a time. The pui still grows wild. And in its wildness, it remembers for me.
Pui Shaak diye Maacher Jhol
Ingredients
Method
- Soak motor dal for 5–6 hours. Drain and grind into a smooth paste with minimal water. Whip the paste well until light. Add salt.
- Fry small, flat dumplings in hot oil until golden. Drain on kitchen towel and keep aside.
- Marinate fish with turmeric and salt.
- Heat 3 tbsp oil and lightly fry brinjal cubes. Remove and keep aside.
- Add rest of the and shallow fry the fish pieces. Keep aside.
- Temper with bay leaves, dry red chilies, and kalonji. Allow it to splutter.
- Add potatoes and pumpkin with a little salt. Sauté for 5–7 minutes.
- Add jackfruit seeds and cook for 2–3 minutes.
- Add jhinge, pui metuli, and half of the ginger paste. Cook for about 5 minutes.
- Pour in 1/2 cup warm water and milk. Add a pinch of sugar. Simmer for 2–3 minutes.
- Add fried fish, dal dumplings, and chopped pui leaves.
- Cook until all vegetables are tender. Turn off heat, adjust seasoning, add remaining ginger paste and ghee.
Pui Shaak jhol with eggplant, jackfruit seeds, and Katla maach —rich, comforting, and steeped in Bengali monsoon memories.
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