Wake up, Bapi whispers into my ears, the bus shall be here at six sharp.
Ten more minutes, I request earnestly as I pull the woolen blanket to over my ears. And then almost as an afterthought muse aloud, But the sun is not out yet. It’s still dark outside.
You don’t want to miss the picnic, do you ? Bapi reminds me.
That does the magic.
The bus journey is nondescript.
I sleep. Cuddled in the inviting warmth of Bapi’s arms.
Bapi wakes me once to show the infant sun appear on the distant horizon, a big dot of vermilion through an ethereal veil of haze.
We reach the picnic site. The hullabaloo of eager picnickers shakes me up from blissful slumber.
And there she is, I notice through half-opened eyes and a shroud of dreamy mist, a merry stretch of verdant green that extends all the way to the ageless grey-green river, a loquacious brook, an ancient banyan and a pandemonium of cantankerous parakeets for company.
Breakfast is quick to be served, buttered toast and hard-boiled eggs and oranges that are in season.
Piping hot tea for the seniors.
Horlicks for the kids. 
The group starts to scatter now.
Bedsheets and durries escape the clammy claustrophobia of bags and spread over the dew-kissed grass.
A hammock is strung across two gnarled guava trees.
More tea does the rounds.
A band of boys sit in a disciplined circle around a grandfather, enraptured, as he regales them with tales from the Panchatantra.
A bevy of grandmothers speak animatedly of their planned pilgrimage to the Char Dham in the summer, places they had long yearned to visit.
Here come the football-lovers.
Jerseys are proudly donned, teams formed, goalposts defended and the game begins.
And there are the cricket addicts.
Makeshift wickets are planted firmly into the moist earth, the creases drawn with care, an uncle volunteers to be the umpire (it’s not an easy job for disputes there shall be aplenty).
The opening batsman takes arrogant stance.
Luck doesn’t favour the badminton brigade though.
The boisterous winds set the trajectories of the feather shuttles in complete disarray.
Enthusiasm dampened, the group surrender to the fancies of nature.
Why not Antakshari ? Someone shouts.
And before I realise the serene stillness of the surroundings has been pierced by well, the cacophony of chorus singers.
I climb onto a trunk of a guava tree, not too high, and make myself comfortable.
From my vantage position, I now command views of the entire surroundings, all the way till the silver string of the horizon where the silver- grey heavens meet the grey-green river.
An uncle and his son, perched on a boulder by the brook, try their hands at fishing. The peals of laughter that reverberate across assure me that their efforts have not been futile.
A mother fusses over her son. He has not had anything since morning. She complains to whosoever she encounters.
Toddlers chase butterflies.
A girl is engrossed in a storybook, must be a thriller, a curious me infers.
Someone is flying a kite, an ebony black one with a smouldering orange dot in the centre.
Meanwhile Bapi joins a couple of uncles to get the fireplaces alive, bricks are assembled to form ovens, wooden sticks foraged from the site are given a liberal drench of kerosene and lit. A help fans the fire as billows of smoke gush out in feverish frenzy, sending everyone around to paroxysms of coughing.
My eyes burn.
The helps now busy themselves with mise en place, peeling, chopping, shredding vegetables, gutting and cleaning the fish, roasting spices and grinding them to powders. Under the supervision of Maa and fellow aunties.
And what’s that happening ?
A help has just brought at least a dozen earthen hnaaris (handis), he soaks them in water, gives them a vigorous scrub and leaves them to idle under the mellow sun.
Stoked by curiosity, I get off the tree and go looking for Maa.
What are these for ? I quiz.
Aha, that’s a secret, Maa curtly responds.
Not one to yield without a feisty fight, I keep pestering.
We are making hnaaribondho mangsho, Shoilo Aunty finally relents.
Hnaaribondho mangsho ? I echo back almost instantaneously.
Yes, Aunty explains, Mutton cooked in dum with whole spices, loads of onions and a glug of mustard oil. A delicacy from Dinajpur. Do you know where Dinajpur is ?
I nod, recalling recent geography lessons and the Gamira dance Bapi had taken us to last year.
The lunch that morning was delectable – rice, dal, jhurjhure aloo bhaja, phulkopir dalna, maacher kalia and of course the piece de resistance – hnaaribondho. Payesh and plum cakes for desserts.
Many winters later, as I prepare dough to seal the hnaari for hnaaribondho mangsho this morning, memories of the annual community picnics come rushing back and I wonder whether those blissful days of innocence shall ever come back.
More culinary delights from Dinajpur in later posts, do try the hnaaribondho mangsho the next time you crave for mutton. The honest earthiness of this finger-licking delicious dish shall win your hearts for sure !!
Hnaaribondho Mangsho(Mutton Cooked in Dum, Dinajpur Style)
Ingredients
- 500 g mutton curry cut pieces
- 3 tbsp yoghurt whipped
- 200 g onion cut into quarters
- 1 tbsp ginger finely chopped
- 1/2 tbsp garlic finely chopped
- 1/2 tbsp red chili paste
- 1 tsp turemric powder
- 8-10 dry red chilies
- 2 bay leaves
- 3 green cardamom
- 1 one inch cinnamon stick
- 10-12 green chillies
- 3/4 cup mustard oil
- 1 tbsp mustard oil for seasoning
- salt to taste
Accessories
- 1 1.5-2 lit clay hnaari (handi) with lid
- flour dough to seal the lid
Instructions
- Marinate the mutton with whipped yogurt, ginger, garlic and 3 tbsp mustard oil.
- Refrigerate for at least 2-3 hours. Even better if this can be done the night before.
- Add the remaining ingredients, give it a hearty mix, rub the marinade well over the mutton pieces. Some 10 mins or so. This step is key, the patience is well worth it.
- Add 1 tbsp mustard oil to the hnaari, brush the oil lightly on all sides. Heat the greased empty hnaari over a low flame so as to season it. Allow to cool to room temperature.
- Add the marinated mutton along with the marinade to the hnaari.
- Put the lid on, seal with the dough.
- Cook over a low flame for some 2.5 odd hours. Every 30 mins or so, lift the hnaari carefully from the flame and give it a shake, this shall prevent the curry from sticking to the bottom of the pot.
- Remove from flame, give it a standing time of 15-20 minutes.
- Break the dough seal gently, serve hot with steamed rice.
Hey, I just love your blog and specially your storytelling. I had a query though about this recipe do I think I can do this in a regular kadhai with lid on and sealed or maybe in a oven …? What temperature do I think will be apt as it is slow cooked I guess 180 c for two hours?
Do you think it will work well in the oven instead of dum?
Swati, it should work well. I have not tried though. Go ahead and please do let know!!
Hi there, great dishes especially the Hnaaribondho mutton and the way you really simplified in terms of cooking the matimahor dali. Spent my childhood in Shillong at boarding school.
I do cooking as a hobby and has been a passion for long. Working professional and after a long time in life decided to give shape to my life long hobby in 2018
I intend to write a book but decided to a YouTube Channel and then convert it to a book instead. All for charity. Do visit and would be great to stay in touch.
Its called Bordo’s Kitchen on YouTube.