I insist on accompanying Bapi to the baajaar.
It’s a bright spring morning, the skies a clear unbroken blue, the trees wearing crowns of ashok, palash and shimul.
First stop, vegetables.
Then the punctilious ritual of buying fish.
And finally we walk towards the butchers shop.
No Sunday is complete without a chicken or mutton curry and Maa’s request today has been to get mutton liver. With mango blossoms just beginning to appear in our backyard, she is keen to make Dida’s aam panchforon mete for lunch.
And Bapi’s quiet smile has already said enough about how much he adores the dish.
Harenkaka’s shop sits slightly apart from the main baajar. Not a store really in the modern sense, but a space that feels older than commerce itself.
A freshly slaughtered goat hangs from a hook, the morning still clinging to it.
Harenkaka is seated behind a thick wooden block, worn smooth by years of use—his presence as much a part of the place as the block itself.
A bushy moustache frames his pock-marked face. His vest has long outlived its prime, its once-white now softened into a permanent shade of labour. A checked lungi is tied with practised ease. In his hand rests the cleaver—not loosely, but with the familiarity of years.
Behind Harenkaka, slightly above eye level, is a framed image of Maa Kali. Fierce, watchful. Around it hangs a garland of deep red hibiscus—fresh, almost luminous against the muted tones of the shop.
Flies hover in slow, stubborn circles.
A couple of lean dogs linger patiently just beyond the threshold, their eyes fixed, waiting for the occasional scrap that might be flicked their way. Every now and then, a shadow passes overhead—an eagle, circling once, then swooping low before disappearing again into the brightness.
There is already a queue, I notice.
But it does not feel like waiting. It moves with recognition.
In this sleepy hamlet, everyone knows everyone else.
A nod here.
A question there.
The conversation steers to the bandh last week.
To rising prices, to trains running late, to letters that are increasingly taking longer than they should.
To whispers of agitation from further up in Assam.
To language, to belonging—spoken not loudly, but with a certain care.
Nothing is resolved.
Nothing needs to be.
Even Harenkaka looks up now and then—offers a word, a brief opinion—before returning to his rhythm.
The requests come fast.
“Half kilo keema chai”
“Raan ta bhalo kore keto.”
“Ektu beshi charbi thakuk.”
The cleaver answers them all—measured, certain.
Each strike against the wooden block deliberate. Almost ceremonial.
Tea arrives.
In clay bhaars. Filled to the brim.
Strong, sweet, carrying the unmistakable warmth of over-boiled milk and leaf.
Steam rises in thin, wavering threads, catching the light for a brief moment before dissolving into the air already thick with other scents.
Harenkaka takes a slow sip.
A bidi follows.
The first draw is deep, measured.
The smoke curls upward, uncontained, drifting into the open space—mingling with the warmth of tea, the faint edge of the shop, the dust of the road outside.
At the edge of this universe moves his attendant—Nitai, still in his teens. Quick with his hands, quicker with his eyes. He wraps the meat in shaal pata—broad, green, faintly fragrant—folding it neatly before securing it with a length of twine. He collects the cash, counts it twice, returns the change without a word.
And every now and then, slips away—just for a moment—disappearing behind the shop, where a hurried bidi can be taken out of sight.
We reach the head of the queue.
“Daktarbabu bhalo achhen?” Harenkaka asks with a broad grin on his face.
Liver wrapped up in shaal pata, we start the walk back home.
By the time we return, the hook stands empty.
The block rinsed.
The shop closing in on itself.
No abundance here.
No excess.
And for lunch, Maa cooks a tear-jerking spicy aam panchforon mete.
Even Dada, not a huge fan of liver, asks for a second helping.
Aam Panchforon Mete
Ingredients
Method
- Wash the mutton liver and marinate with 1/2 tsp grated ginger, a little turmeric powder, salt and 1 tsp mustard oil. Keep aside for 30 minutes.
- Dry roast 3 tsp panch phoron till you get a nutty aroma. Cool and coarsely grind. Keep aside.
- Heat mustard oil (keep 1 tbsp aside for finishing). Add remaining panch phoron, dry red chillies and bay leaves. Let it splutter.
- Add coarsely ground onion and fry till light brown and the raw smell is gone. Add half the ginger and green chillies, sauté for a minute.
- Add raw mango and cook till slightly soft.
- Add marinated liver, 1½ tsp roasted panchphoron powder, 1½ tsp grated ginger, salt and remaining turmeric. Cook on low flame for 15–20 minutes, stirring gently.
- Add sugar and adjust seasoning.
- Sprinkle 1/2 tsp roasted panch phoron powder and remaining ginger. Mix well.
- Drizzle the reserved mustard oil on top and serve hot.
If you love your mutton liver like we do, please do try these other mutton liver recipes from my blog .
1. Mete Chorchori
2. Mete Peyajkoli
Leave a Reply