In Bengal, nothing is ever truly wasted.
Not the peel of a gourd, not the stems of greens, not even silence.
There was a time when poppy fields stretched endlessly across the land—pale blooms trembling under a distant, watchful sun. These were not fields of choice. Under the shadow of the British East India Company, farmers grew poppy not for their kitchens, but for opium—dark, resinous, and destined for ships that would sail far beyond their shores.
The milky latex was carefully scraped, coaxed out, gathered in slow, deliberate hands.
That was the part that mattered.
What remained behind—drying pods, brittle and hollow—almost insignificant. They hung quietly, rattling faintly in the wind.
But Bengal has always known how to listen to what remains.
Somewhere, in a modest courtyard edged with damp earth and memory, a mother must have picked up one of those pods, turned it between her fingers, and shaken it gently—listening to that soft, granular murmur within.
Seeds.
Tiny. Countless. Almost without weight.
Perhaps she rinsed them in cool water, then bent over the sheel nora in a soot-darkened kitchen, grinding slowly with green chilies and a pinch of salt. The stone would have answered in rhythm—steady, patient, almost like breath. A thin stream of mustard oil followed—pungent at first, then mellowing into warmth as it met the paste.
No elaborate spices. No excess.
Just instinct. And care.
Then it met fire.
And something shifted.
The raw sharpness gave way to a deep, rounded nuttiness. The paste loosened, softened, turned silken. Mixed with humble potatoes, it settled into itself—quiet, unassuming, yet deeply comforting.
Only then did it find its name.
Posto.
In many Bangal kitchens, posto was still not quite as beloved as mustard. The fierce, immediate bite of shorshe felt closer, more instinctive. Posto, in comparison, was gentler—almost reticent, revealing itself only to those willing to wait.
But recipes are not bound by preference alone.
They travel—with people, with memory, with time.
Some time in the last century, my great-grandfather, an enterprising young man with ambition in his eyes, left Sylhet for Kolkata to build a life anew.
When he made his home in a quiet colony in Howrah, he carried with him the flavours of the east—sharp, assertive. But kitchens, like cities, are porous. And over time, new tastes began to slip in—quietly at first, almost unnoticed, until they no longer felt new.
Among them was posto.
And when his third daughter was married off to distant Karimganj, she carried those flavours back with her—folded gently into the fabric of what she already knew.
In that faraway kitchen, my dida found her own language with it. The soft nostalgia of her Howrah years met the more fiery, instinctive palate of Sylhet—and somewhere in that meeting, something new began to take shape.
Not abruptly.
Not deliberately.
But slowly, as all lasting things do.
One of those quiet experiments endured.
Her Narkel Posto Katla—soft, rich, and gently indulgent.
A dish that does not belong to any single place.
A dish born of crossings—of rivers, of kitchens, of memory itself.
Narkel Posto Katla
Ingredients
Method
- Soak the poppy seeds in warm water for about 15 minutes. Drain and grind into a smooth paste with 2–3 green chilies.
- Lightly rub the fish pieces with salt and a pinch of turmeric. Let them rest for a few minutes.
- Heat mustard oil until it reaches its smoking point, then reduce the heat. Shallow fry the fish pieces lightly until just golden. Remove and keep aside.
- In the same oil, add the posto paste. Cook on low heat for 3-4 minutes.
- Add the remaining turmeric powder. Then gently stir in the whisked yogurt, keeping the flame low to prevent curdling.
- Add grated coconut (reserving a little for garnish), remaining green chillies, and a pinch of sugar. Cook patiently until the masala thickens and starts releasing oil.
- Place the fried fish pieces into the gravy. Coat them gently with the masala.
- Add about 1/2 cup warm water, cover, and cook for 5–6 minutes on low heat.
- The gravy should turn thick, creamy, and cling softly to the fish. Finish with a drizzle of raw mustard oil on top.
Leave a Reply