Copyright

HarperNorth

Windmill Green

24 Mount Street

Manchester M2 3NX

A division of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperNorth in 2025

1 EDITION

Copyright © Shahnaz Ahsan 2025

Cover design by Jack Storey © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2025

Cover Illustration © Jack Storey 2025

Photos © Shahnaz Ahsan

Map illustration © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

Shahnaz Ahsan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Without limiting the author’s and publisher’s exclusive rights, any unauthorised use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is expressly prohibited. HarperCollins also exercise their rights under Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790 and expressly reserve this publication from the text and data mining exception.

Find out about HarperCollins and the environment at www.harpercollins.co.uk/green

Source ISBN: 9780008683795

Ebook Edition © July 2025 ISBN: 9780008683818

Version 2025-05-30

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

Change of font size and line height

Change of background and font colours

Change of font

Change justification

Text to speech

Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008683795

Dedication

For Ammu and Abbu – for everything.

And for AK and ZL – so that you know our story and carry it with pride.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Author’s Note: Lessons in Love and Jackfruit

______

The Story Begins

A Brief History

A Note on Geography

Part One

Home and the World: Ghore Baire

Bagar dal (tempered lentils)

Shak (wilted greens with chilli)

Begun bhaja (fried aubergine)

Maach bhaja (fried fish with crispy onions and chilli with a garlic lemon dressing)

Bhath (steamed white rice)

Part Two

Pioneers: Making It Abroad

Jhal muri (toasted spicy puffed rice)

Cha (tea with Carnation milk)

Cheat’s chitoi pitha (crumpets and curry)

Maach bhorta (crispy chilli tinned fish)

Maach bora (tuna cakes with Colman’s mint yoghurt dip)

Zau (invalid’s rice porridge)

Part Three

Building a Legacy

Mangshor jhol (homestyle staff lamb curry)

Tandoori murghi (birthday chicken with roast potatoes)

Shada pulao (pulao rice)

Pineapple fritters

The perfect chip butty

Tukra tukri (Habib’s eggy bread bits)

Dim bhuna (emergency egg curry)

Part Four

This Land is My Land

Aunty Mahroof’s tuna jacket potatoes

Keema shepherd’s pie (spicy minced lamb with potato)

Cheese and pickle pinwheels

Sandwich fillings

– Classics

– A-grade leftovers

Aloo chop (stuffed potato cutlets)

Aloo aar oori bazi (potato and green bean stir-fry)

Aunty Aneesa’s porothas

Foler chatni (fruit chutney)

Niramish (kitchen garden stir-fry)

Dalchini aar dim noodles (egg and cinnamon noodles)

Beguni (battered aubergine slices)

Daler bora (lentil fritters)

Chana bhaja (spicy fried chickpeas with minted yoghurt)

Ahsan’s ‘English’ brunch

Bhuna kitchuri (rice and lentil ‘kedgeree’)

Birun bhath (sticky rice)

Aloo murghi jhol (Ammu’s chicken and potato curry)

Maacher tarkari (everyday fish curry)

Doi begun (aubergines in yoghurt)

Classic deshi salad

Part Five

Days of Plenty

Aloo dum (Aunty Manju’s quick potato curry)

Biye barir roast (wedding roast chicken)

Mughlai kurma (chicken in aromatic yoghurt)

Fulkopi bhaji (sautéed cauliflower)

Paprika chicken with rice (Mamee’s magazine recipe)

Raan (roast leg of lamb with all the trimmings)

– Tandoori roast potatoes

– Coriander carrots

– Mustard cauliflower cheese

Tandoori maach (marinated roast salmon)

Cake rusk trifle

Gulab jam (spongy sweet balls in lemon and cardamom syrup)

Suji halwa (sweet semolina pudding)

Shemai (cardamom-infused vermicelli pudding)

Mera pitha biran (steamed and fried rice flour dumplings)

Part Six

Back to My Roots

Choto maach bhaja (small fried fish)

Keski maach aar komla tarkari (tiny fish with clementine peel)

Sawler ruti (rice flour flatbreads)

Bindi bhaja (stir-fried okra)

A trio of bhorta

– Begun bhorta (smoky aubergine)

– Tomato bhorta (tomato and garlic)

– Aloo bhorta (potato and coriander)

Dim aar bhath biran (spicy omelette with fried rice)

Shingara (potato and chickpea pastries)

Luf (breakfast deshi toast)

Part Seven

Coming of Age

Tomato tenga (sour tomato broth)

Aloo mangsho (lamb chop and potato curry)

Student prawn curry

One-pan cheesy masala chips

Tuna coriander pasta

Lemon chilli chicken

Lebur shorbat (lime and mint sherbet)

Maach pakora (crunchy fish bites)

Narikel pitha (coconut pastry puffs)

Mishti aam (mango cake)

Part Eight

Brave New World

Ankulal firfir (spicy scrambled eggs)

Spris (mango and avocado smoothie)

Ranir mishti (pistachio and cardamom sponge with raspberry jam)

Aunty B’s coconut fish curry

Kathal kofta (jackfruit kofta curry)

______

A Menu for Every Occasion

Resources

Recipe List

Acknowledgements

Book Credits

About the Publisher

Author’s Note

Lessons in Love and Jackfruit

Ammu and Abbu have come to visit. I have just given birth to my baby daughter, thousands of miles away from the small town in northern England where I was born and raised, and where my parents reside to this day.

They have made the twenty-four-hour journey to Zimbabwe, where I currently live with my husband and our two young children. My parents have become accustomed to visiting us in far-flung places. Since getting married, Avi and I have spent the entirety of our thirties – so far – living in eastern and southern Africa. Our children have lived almost their whole lives on this continent – the third continent that has been called ‘home’ in as many generations of my family.

The tides of migration have taken our bloodline from Asia to Europe, and now, most recently, to Africa. My grandparents were all born in Bengal, my mother and I in Britain, and now the newest addition to our family will call Zimbabwe her birthplace.

Ammu and Abbu have come to spend time with their grandchildren, and to take care of Avi and me as we adjust to life with a small baby again. In the three weeks that they are here, my mother cooks food from my childhood, washes up, and gives advice on how I can cook my rice so that it is fluffier (I am short of a cup of water she says; I try her suggestion of adding one extra – she’s right, and I marvel all over again at how often Ammu really does know best). My father does all the food shopping in farmers’ markets, supermarkets, and even from street vendors.

In a way known only to my parents – who have a talent for doing this wherever they are in the world – they have discovered a food seller in the suburbs of Harare who deals in jackfruit – or kathal as it is known in Bangla (pronounced ‘ka-tal’ – with a hard emphasis on the ‘t’ sound). It is fair to say that they are beside themselves with excitement.

Jackfruit is the national fruit of Bangladesh. Having only gained independence in 1971, Bangladesh has an official national everything – perhaps to help cement its identity as a very new country. The Royal Bengal tiger is, of course, the national animal. The national flower is the shapla or waterlily, which appears on many emblems. There is a national fish (ilish/hilsa), a national tree (aam/mango), a national bird (doel/Oriental magpie-robin), and so on. But of all its national symbols, the jackfruit is the most unique and the most loved.

Getting hold of jackfruit is a full-time hobby of most diaspora Bangladeshis. It is a fruit that grows only in tropical climates and is difficult to transport, so its scarcity adds to its appeal. Ammu and Abbu are delighted by the prospect of buying this fruit that reminds them of home – or one of their homes – or a place they used to think of as home.

They meet the vendor at his permanent spot outside the Lucky Elephant Chinese restaurant and casino (unconfirmed rumours of a bordello in the complex also abound: a detail I keep from my parents). The jackfruit is closely examined, tapped, and sniffed. It passes the inspection. Abbu learns that the jackfruit comes all the way from Zanzibar; a discovery that makes sense as the fruit is common to all coastal regions of the Indian ocean. He takes the vendor’s name and number and passes it on to my husband, ensuring that we now have a direct source to as much jackfruit as we could wish for.

Ammu and Abbu proudly return home with the gigantic fruit. Weighing anywhere between 5 and 30 kilograms, and clad in a spiky, leathery skin, jackfruit is not a low-effort food. Preparing it is a literal labour of love. It is also particularly messy: the milky sap is stubborn and hard to wash off, so plastic sheets are laid down to protect the table on which we will carve this enormous fruit. Only cheap, sturdy knives are used, and the blades are well oiled to protect against the stickiness. Customarily, a person will oil their beard or moustache before eating the fruit to make it easier to wash off the syrupy juice that would inevitably cling to the face.

My parents make it an event, a celebration. My son is called over to watch the proceedings. I am instructed to take photographs from every angle. Containers are prepared – some old ice cream tubs and takeaway containers (nothing precious) – so we can share the bounty with friends and neighbours. Eagerly, we watch as the fleshy yellow segments are peeled away, ready to eat immediately. The fat seeds inside are removed, to be dried and cooked later.

It is the best jackfruit I have ever had. I enjoy it so much that I eat it standing in front of the fridge, right out of the plastic storage boxes. There is something restorative about it – it feels like medicine, nourishing and healing my postpartum body and soul with every mouthful. I make the rookie mistake of telling Ammu that I loved the kathal, although I am not aware of the full consequences of my actions until later that week, when she and Abbu delightedly walk into the house carrying not one, not two, but three entire jackfruit. Instead of gratitude, my poor parents are met with a meltdown. Where am I meant to put these three gigantic fruits? When will we have time to prepare them? Who will eat them?

I am reminded of Ammu’s fury when Abbu would bring home extra canisters of cooking oil that were on sale, or multiple crates of lychees in season, and she would complain about not having anywhere to store it all. Even as a child, I knew that this was not the right response to what was a gesture of love. I see Ammu and Abbu looking crestfallen and I feel ashamed.

Later that evening, while cuddling my baby girl, I think more about how we express our affection. I grew up feeling a little envious of my English friends whose families freely and regularly told each other ‘I love you’. Instead, Bangladeshi families like ours choose to demonstrate it. And the way we know best is through food. I think about the generations who lived before us, who loved one another the same way we do, and who showed it in the same way. Through peeling and cutting fruit for their children, or selecting the choicest fish at the market to welcome a returning relative, or ensuring that a guest’s preferred paan is available when they come to visit.

Across three different continents and multiple generations, food is the love language that we share. It is the thread that binds us to our histories and our futures – a testament to where we come from, and the hope of where we are going.

I dedicate this book to Ammu and Abbu who taught me so much, especially lessons in love and jackfruit.

The Story Begins

A Brief History

My ancestral connection to Britain – like that of all Bengalis – began with colonialism. Long before any of my forebears set foot onto the so-called ‘green and pleasant land’, their fates and futures were tied into the British Empire.

The British first arrived in the Indian subcontinent in the early 1600s and ruled in different forms: firstly through the East India Company until 1858, and later through the Crown until 1947 – the era popularly known as ‘the Raj’. While the Raj remains evocative in the popular British psyche – a reminder of the days when Britain was ‘Great’ – these centuries of imperialism were by no means benign.

As with other parts of the Empire, Bengal and the rest of India suffered greatly under colonialism, with an estimated $45 trillion being plundered from India by the British during colonial rule. India endured wrongs that include, but are not limited to: repressive political control, violent suppression, forced migration, indentured labour, and famine. Bengal, in particular, was subjected to successive famines that were exacerbated by the actions of imperialists, including Winston Churchill who, in response to the 1943 Bengal Famine that claimed the lives of three million people, declared that it was the Indians’ own fault for ‘breeding like rabbits’. My father was born just five years after that famine.

It ought to have been obvious that people from these ransacked colonies would eventually seek opportunity elsewhere – namely, in Britain – the supposed land of plenty. But instead, the imperialists recoiled in horror as their former colonial subjects – my grandfather among them – began arriving on Britain’s shores.

Instead of recognising immigration as being a reasonable, even predictable, response to centuries’ worth of theft and exploitation, the issue continues to be cynically exploited by the media and political parties across the spectrum. As a result, the language, policies, and general attitude towards immigrants and their descendants is often negative – even hateful – in British popular discourse. But it is impossible to have an honest conversation about immigration in the UK today without recognising the stories of families such as mine – how and why we came to live in Britain, and how our right to exist here is as old as the empire itself.

My maternal grandfather, Habib Ullah, was just one of the thousands of economic migrants from the Commonwealth who came to England in the latter half of the twentieth century. Together with his wife, Fatima Begum, they made England their home and went on to have seven children, fourteen grandchildren, and – to date – four great-grandchildren.

The stories in this book are ours, but similar tales exist in many families like ours whose journeys have taken them across oceans and lands, in search of security, safety, and success. In most cases, these early pioneers managed to realise their ambitions but at a great cost. Migrants and their descendants faced loneliness, fear, rejection, abuse, physical harm, and – in extreme cases – even paid with their lives, for daring to come to Britain. A fact that remains as true today as it did when Habib arrived.

Families like mine have been asked to prove and explain our legitimacy over and over again. We’ve endured accusations of not ‘integrating’, we’ve been subjected to ‘cricket tests’ to ascertain our loyalty, we’ve been overlooked in education and employment, been subjected to increased scrutiny in every part of life. There comes a point when it is tiresome to have to explain; to teach others what they should already know, but what the curriculum deliberately obfuscates: the real face of empire, colonisation and migration.

I wanted to chronicle our tale for the sake of my own children. Not to justify our existence to the wider British society but to record and celebrate, recognize and validate, ourselves and those who came before us. There are many lenses through which I could tell our story – but narrating it through what we eat feels the most natural of all. Food is the most visceral aspect to the human experience: the most basic of needs, which carries with it so much meaning in terms of tradition, culture, and experience. It is the most tangible connection to our past: what we cook and how we eat is the thread we hold on to even when all other forms of cultural identity – language, dress, art – may fade with time. And it is often the gentlest, most inviting entry point to connect with our heritage, while also being the most powerful. The one we can experience with every one of our senses.

And so, through food, I will tell you a tale. A tale of family and food. Of migration and memory. Of deepest sorrow and tenderest joy. Of who we were, who we are, and who we will continue to be.

These are The Jackfruit Chronicles.

The Family Tree

There are many characters in this story. All of whom are real. Some appear just once, others recur, and some – those detailed in the tree below – are the people through which this chronicle is narrated.

A Note on Geography

In this book I use the terms Bengali, Bangladeshi, and Sylheti, depending on which best suits the context.

Bengal is a historic, cultural, linguistic, and geographic region that has ancient roots dating as far back as 700 BCE. When the British finally ‘quit India’ in 1947, they bisected historic Bengal. The state of West Bengal went to India. East Bengal was re-branded as ‘East Pakistan’ until 1971, when it became the independent country of Bangladesh following the nine-month Bangladesh War of Independence. Consequently, ‘Bangladeshi’ refers specifically to the country of Bangladesh, whereas ‘Bengali’ can be taken either to mean West Bengal only, or – confusingly – the whole region, including Bangladesh. ‘Sylheti’ refers to the north-eastern district of Bangladesh where the majority of British–Bangladeshis, including my family, come from. Sylhet has a distinct cultural identity, including its own dialect and written script. Today, Sylhet lies within the geographic borders of Bangladesh, but at other points in history has fallen between the shifting boundaries of India and Pakistan.

As my uncle, Aman Ullah, eloquently put it: ‘I was born in this village when it was India. During my childhood, it became East Pakistan. As an adult, I saw it become Bangladesh. I have lived in three different countries, never having moved from this piece of land.’

About Bengali Food

Flavours and Ingredients

Eat with hands

Eat with others

Eat with joy

Food is synonymous with affection and hospitality in Bengali culture. It is rare to visit any Bengali house and be permitted to leave without having sampled at least one form of hot, fried snack with tea or a plate of cut fruit. Most of the time, visitors will be cajoled into staying for a full meal.

This typically consists of rice served with many different dishes that are consumed in a particular order – milder foods such as lightly sautéed vegetables, dal, and fish first, followed by heavier curries such as chicken, lamb or beef and, finally, the hottest and sourest dishes are served as a sort of palate-cleanser. Not all meals are rounded off with something sweet, but often fresh fruit is served to guests, with more sugary, milkier desserts offered on special occasions.

The essentials in Bengali cooking are summarised perfectly by the popular phrase: ‘maach-e bath-e Bangali’, which translates to ‘fish and rice makes a Bengali’. These staples form the heart of any meal, supported by lentils and fresh vegetables. Key flavour notes include mustard oil, which brings a punchy note to dishes, as well as limes for acidity, chilli for heat, and leafy coriander for freshness.

There are some distinctive geographical differences. Chitrita Banerji notes in her book Bengali Cooking that Bangladeshis accuse West Bengalis of being overly fond of adding sugar to savoury dishes, while West Bengalis find the Bangladeshi use of spices to be heavy-handed.

While British readers may believe themselves to be familiar with ‘Bangladeshi’ food – with many of the nation’s curry houses being owned by Bangladeshis – regrettably, these restaurants rarely serve the kind of food that would be eaten at home.

Bangladeshi cooking doesn’t require any specific equipment – an averagely stocked kitchen with a range of pans, a couple of good knives, and perhaps an electric hand blender, is sufficient. However, a modern invention that I can no longer live without is my electric rice cooker, which is essential if, as is the case for most Bangladeshis, rice is consumed daily.

In the old days in rural Bangladesh most housewives would purchase their pots and pans from travelling salesmen who went from village to village selling metal korai (heavy-based frying pans), kolshi (water urns), as well as colanders, plates, bowls and beakers. Earthenware utensils were also popular, particularly as storage jars for water and cooking pots. A sheel bata – a stone slab and grinder – was another kitchen essential, used to pound spices, garlic, ginger and onions into a paste. The heavy grindstone took considerable effort to wield and has now mostly been replaced by electric or mechanical grinders, small counter-top pestles and mortars, and hand blenders.

Instead of hand-held knives, a curved floor-standing knife called a da or boti is used. The blades are of legendary sharpness and require great skill to use. An expert is able to use one blade for a variety of tasks – from peeling potatoes, to gutting and scaling fish, and even slicing vegetables into tiny matchsticks.

This book makes no claims about being the definitive authority on Bengali or Bangladeshi cuisine. It is a collection of recipes that we make in our British–Bangladeshi family that reflects both traditional Sylheti home-style cooking, as well as innovations that come from our lives and experiences in the diaspora – who we have met, where we have been – all of which shapes the food that we cook, eat and love.

Essential ingredients

Bengali cuisine relies on a few key staples which are easily available from most supermarkets or specialist food shops - and well worth adding to your pantry.

Store cupboard staples

Ghee

Golden, soft, buttery ghee is used in sweet and savoury dishes alike. A dollop of ghee always elevates celebration recipes, adding richness and aroma. Most supermarkets in the UK will have it in the ridiculously named ‘world foods’ aisle – and it will definitely be cheaper in an Asian supermarket than in a health food shop, even though it’s all the same stuff (don’t be taken in by ‘wellness’ marketing).

Lentils

Another ingredient with countless varieties. Red lentils, also called moshur or masoor dal, are my preferred choice because they cook quickly without the need for a pressure cooker, and they don’t need pre-soaking before being added to recipes. Other types of dal that are popular in Bengali cuisine include chana dal (yellow chickpea) and moog dal (mung beans).

Mustard oil

Terrifyingly, a lot of mustard oil available in the UK has the warning ‘FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY’ emblazoned across it. The reasons behind this are somewhat murky: a deliciously dangerous combination of vegetable oil lobbies (yes, really) and controversial scientific research based on rats rather than humans. But as other Bengali foodie writers, including Mallika Basu, have pointed out: vast swathes of the world have been consuming mustard oil for generations and seem all the better for it. If you are able to get hold of some good-quality, fit for human consumption mustard oil, then do – it is worth it. It gives a spicy, punchy taste and aroma to certain dishes, especially bhortas (mashed vegetables) and fish dishes, but do use it sparingly as it can be overpowering.

Rice

There are many different varieties of rice – from the popular basmati, to kalojeera – also known as ‘baby basmati’ due to its shorter grain, and binni or birun chal – or sticky rice. But the important thing is to use the right rice for the right job. American long-grain rice is an affront to the genre, especially the par-boiled stuff. White basmati rice of a good quality is the most reliable option, which is what I have used for the recipes in this book, unless otherwise stated. If you want to use brown basmati rice, remember that it uses much more water and takes longer to cook. Rice flour and ground rice sound similar but are very distinct and used in different ways. Where the recipes call for rice flour, such as for making ruti (here), make sure to use the powdery, fine-milled flour that has the same texture as wheat flour. For pitha, make sure to use ground rice, which is coarser in texture a little like fine polenta or semolina.

Salt

Bengali cooking is not the place for flavoured, fancy smoked salts, or salts with large crystals. Fine, free-flowing table salt is best: I find cooking salt is far too strong – sometimes even acrid. And iodised salt belongs in the bin. My preferred brand is good old Saxa table salt in its gloriously chubby red cylinder.

Spices

A Bengali spice box will include, as a minimum: turmeric, coriander (ground and whole seeds), cumin (ground and whole seeds), mustard seeds, chilli powder, green cardamom, bay leaves, cassia bark (whole cinnamon can be used as an alternative but it will lack the distinct spiciness that cassia offers). Some masala (spice) mixes are also used: the most common being garam masala, which is readily available in most supermarkets, although you can also make your own if you really feel the need (I do not). I also use tandoori masala – but only the packet ground mix; don’t be tempted to use the paste found in jars as it can be too strong. The most distinctively Bengali spice blend, though, is panch puron.

A special note on panch puron

Panch puron also known as Bengali five-spice, is an aromatic seed mix of fenugreek, nigella, cumin, black mustard, and fennel – sometimes celery – seeds. This can be found pre-mixed in any Asian supermarket and is the quickest route to achieving the distinctive fragrant, sweet, almost pickle-like flavour unique to Bengali cooking. If you can’t get hold of panch puron in supermarkets or online, then use an equal mix of any of its component spices.

Fresh ingredients

Chillies

Long, green finger chillies are perfect for everyday use, being neither unreasonably hot, nor a waste of time. smooth-skinned fresh jalapeños are better than nothing, but are generally better suited to other cuisines. Fresh Thai bird’s eye chillies are fantastic but use with caution. Small dried red chillies are often used in dals and curry dishes with meat. The iconic Naga chilli is hugely popular in Bangladeshi cooking and is mindblowingly hot. You can buy pre-prepared Naga chilli pickle under the inspired brand-name ‘Mr Naga’ from most Asian grocery shops. It is absolutely wonderful on pretty much anything, but the scent alone will make your eyes water. I like to use a few drops on jacket potatoes or even pizza.

Coriander

Not just for garnish! Coriander adds scent and flavour to dishes. Use the stalks and the leaves. I am always horrified when so many cooks discard the stalks – unlike parsley, coriander stalks are tender and add extra crunch and freshness to dishes.

Fish

This category is subdivided into choto maach (little fish) and boro maach (big fish), which are treated as two distinct food groups and cooked in different ways. Small fish such as mokha, puti and kechki – similar to fresh anchovies, whiting, and sprats – are often cooked either in a sour broth known as tok, tenga or khatta, or can be coated in flour, turmeric, and chilli before being deep-fried until crispy. Larger fish include ilish (hilsa), which is also prized for its delicious roe, and rohu and katla (varieties of carp), which are fleshy white firm fish that can be simmered in a curry with tomatoes and green chilli or fried with crispy onions. Fish are also categorized according to the waters where they breed: freshwater fish, such as koi (climbing perch), are found in the many rivers that criss-cross the land or are reared in family ponds known as pukurs. Saltwater fish found in the Bay of Bengal include rupchanda (pomfret), as well as prawns, lobster, and other sea fish.

Garlic and ginger

This dynamic duo creates the aromatic base for virtually every Bengali recipe. I always favour using the fresh versions of both and crushing, grating, or finely chopping as required. Pre-prepared jars are readily available, but I often find that they can be a bit vinegary due to the preservatives used, which can also alter the taste of the final dish. For some recipes, such as when meat is being marinated, this matters less – in those cases I have stipulated where shop-bought jars of garlic and ginger paste may be used instead.

Greens

Leaves or greens, known as shak, are a subsection of vegetables in their own right and make an appearance at almost every meal. Spinach, kale, and chard are all considered shak – as well as varieties more specific to Bangladesh, including nali shak (jute leaves, which are also popular in Egypt), and lai shak, or peppery mustard leaves. The tops of certain vegetables, including gourd (lau) and potatoes, also fall into the category of shak.

Limes

There are so many types of limes used in Bengali cookery: from thin-skinned ones with lots of juice, to varieties where the skin is thicker and eaten for the citrusy, slightly bitter taste. Lime wedges are often served as an accompaniment to a meal alongside whole green chillies.

Meat

Known as mangsho or gosht, the most popular meats in Bangladesh are lamb, mutton, goat and beef, although the latter is avoided by Hindus. Popular ways to enjoy meat include slow-cooked curries where the meat is cooked on the bone, as well as minced to make kebabs and koftas, or cooked as keema.

Poultry

In rural areas, most families rear chickens and sometimes ducks for both eggs and meat. Home-reared chickens who have lived a long life happily scratching around in the dirt are known as ‘bura murghi’– literally, ‘old chicken’. They taste delicious, although their age means they are tougher and require longer cooking. Poultry is generally cooked without the skin and is preferred on the bone for a deeper flavour. For these recipes, do try and use organic, free-range chicken if you possibly can – it really does taste so much better. And ethically reared chickens are increasingly available for those who observe halal dietary laws. Some recipes given here call for a chicken to be cut into 16 pieces – this is commonly available at Asian butchery counters, but to achieve this at home, simply take a whole jointed chicken and cut into 4 pieces, then each piece into half, and then half again. This makes a chicken go much further and works especially well in a curry.

Vegetables

Shobji is the generic word for vegetables and includes everything from squashes (khodu) and gourds, to different types of beans, aubergines, tomatoes, cabbage, and more. Vegetables are sautéed to make what is called a bazi or bhaja – meaning ‘fried’. These stir-fries are not to be confused with the deep-fried bhajis found in British Indian restaurants. A mixed vegetable dish known as niramish – literally meaning ‘without protein’ – takes slightly different forms depending on where in Bengal you are: in Kolkata it is vegetables cooked without onion or garlic; in Dhaka it is a vegetable curry with a jhol or gravy; and in Sylhet, it is a drier, stir-fried dish. The common concept across all forms, however, is a little like the French ratatouille, where the aim is to use up the best fresh vegetables available.

A note on cooking

There is a fine balance between cooking guidance and cooking instruction. Personally, I prefer the former: I feel trusted as a cook when a recipe allows me a little leeway. It also means that I pay more attention when a recipe is firm on certain details, as I recognize that these are the non-negotiable components. At the same time, I understand that there are those who are comforted by prescriptiveness in the kitchen. As such, I have attempted to appease both camps when creating these recipes: giving the essential instructions, but detailing where substitutions or alternatives can be used.

Of course, this is much easier to transmit in person rather than on the page. But in lieu of a warm kitchen and a watchful eye, I can only offer my readers this note on how to approach the recipes in this book:

Measurements

You must keep in mind the Bengali art of ‘antaz’, which is cooking ‘by eye’ or informed approximation. This means that the recipes in this book came to me in a language of estimation that I have attempted to convert into set measures. My advice would be to follow the recipe as close to the letter as possible the first time you try it, and then on subsequent attempts, feel free to make your own adjustments to advised quantities of salt and spices to suit your own taste.

Cooking temperatures

Those provided for oven temperatures are for a fan oven. Personally, I have never adjusted temperatures for a conventional oven and have never noticed the difference – but you know your own oven best. Where I have given instructions for something to be cooked on the hob on ‘high’, ‘medium’, or ‘low’ temperatures, again, use your own understanding of your hob – keeping in mind that electric hobs are harder to adjust temperatures and take longer to heat up and cool down.

All recipes are scalable – up or down – but exercise some discretion

Using twice the amount of chicken will require twice the amount of onions, for example, but may not require exactly double the amount of chilli – and certainly not twice the cooking time. If in doubt, add seasonings in increments and taste and adjust accordingly.

Serving sizes given here assume that the dish will be the only thing served, alongside an accompaniment of rice, if applicable. But because Bengali meals typically consist of about three or four different dishes, as well as rice, these numbers will invariably stretch to accommodate more diners. It’s sometimes easier – and more interesting – to add another dish to a menu than it is to scale an existing dish up to suit the exact number of diners. See the menu ideas at the end of this book (here) for ideas of dishes to serve together. And never be afraid of leftovers, which are perhaps the greatest thing of all about Bengali cooking – the dishes keep well and are often more delicious the next day once the flavours have had time to deepen.

Part One

Home and the World: Ghore Baire

Wherever I am in the world, cooking these dishes makes me feel as though I am home

My grandfather, Habib Ullah, was born, we think, in 1929 – although record-keeping was unreliable and nobody could ever confirm the date exactly. The village of his birth was Bajkhashara in the district of Nabiganj, which was then part of India under British rule.

Habib was the third of seven children. Despite being the brightest out of his brothers and sisters, family circumstances meant that he was unable to complete even his primary education. Habib had no memories of his father, who died shortly after Habib was born. His mother, Sonaban Bibi, remarried, and moved with her children and new husband to the small village of Satgaon where their descendants still live today. Sonaban went on to have two more children with the man who would come to be immortalised in local and family lore as the love of her life. Sadly, he too passed away when Habib was only ten years old, leaving a broken-hearted Sonaban alone to look after seven young children. So, Habib had to leave school without even having learnt to read or write and begin working to help support the family.

I don’t know much about what Habib did for work in his childhood years, but I know that he never went back to school. He remained unlettered until the day he died but took great pride in the academic achievements of his children and grandchildren, and was extremely proud of the fact that his wife, Fatima, was able to read and write not only in Bangla, but in English too.

What I do know about my grandfather (Nana Bhai, as I called him) was that he loved to feed others. Shopping, cooking, and eating were his chosen expressions of love. I wonder now if that was in part due to his precarious early years when food was sometimes scarce and the family often went without. Habib showed his affection by remembering what foods everyone in the family enjoyed and by making sure that the house was well stocked with these treats whenever we came to visit.

Habib lived through some of the most difficult of human experiences: famine, war, disease, and too much death. The deaths of his father, step-father, and many other close relations, but also of two of his own children. He encountered hostility and loneliness as a young man in Britain and endured ill health in his older years. And yet, my memories are always of him being jolly: laughing, giving his signature two-handed thumbs up, and singing. One of his favourite songs was ‘Walking Back to Happiness’ by Helen Shapiro. I sometimes wonder where, which of his homes, my grandfather may have wanted to walk back to.

The names for home

Ghore Baire is the title of a famous novel by the renowned Bengali writer and poet, Rabindranath Tagore. Literally meaning, ‘the home and the world’, the phrase is now shorthand for the juxtaposition between the familiar and the unknown.

The Bengali preoccupation with the home is evident in the multiple terms used to describe different versions of it. As well as ghor – which can be used to mean ‘house’ in both the literal sense, and as a descriptor of a family or clan, there are other terms which carry different nuances.

The word bari is used to describe one’s ancestral home, usually in the rural village. It is viewed as the base of the family: no matter where, or how far, a family member travels, or even lives more permanently, the bari is the place where they will always be welcomed back with open arms, food, and a bed. The bari is more than a simple address. Identifying a person’s bari can contextualise them within a local history that usually spans several generations, and that carries information about their potential character, educational attainment, economic status, religiosity, political persuasion, and even more intimate details, such as probable levels of marital fidelity and trustworthiness.

Knowing someone’s bari is such a trusted way of placing them, and of understanding the essence of who they might be, that this information is still exchanged between diaspora Bangladeshis today, particularly when arranging marriages, even if the family has not lived in the bari for several generations.

Both my maternal and paternal ancestral homes are in Sylhet. This north-eastern district is known for its hills and tea gardens. Their respective baris are only 35 miles apart and share many common features, such as a kitchen garden where various types of gourd, squash and beans are grown alongside other vegetables such as tomatoes, cucumbers, and aubergines. Most family compounds also have fruit trees as old as the bari itself: mango, guava, tamarind, jackfruit, as well as a large pond (or pukur) where fish are reared, and which was also traditionally used for washing and bathing.

Many households also have paddy fields that are farmed for the family’s subsistence, even if the family has supplemental income from other work such as business or teaching, although this practice is gradually dying out in some areas. Similarly, livestock is often kept in the bari. Chickens, ducks, and even turkeys nowadays are kept for eggs and meat, as well as goats and cows for milk – although as more young Bangladeshis seek formal employment in the towns and cities, this is also becoming less common.

The rhythm of the bari is built around the daily chores that keep the household running: water is drawn from the pukur or a well, cows taken out to pasture, gardens watered, vegetables picked, and ingredients prepared for cooking. Simple homegrown food, with staples of rice, lentils, vegetables, and fish, are at the heart of any meal. This combination has remained unchanged for generations – and while the homes and houses may have changed, the dishes cooked for the family remain a constant, passed from generation to generation without much variation.

In my mind, the quintessential deshi meal consists of four simple dishes: red lentils tempered with garlic; wilted greens; spiced fried fish; and fried aubergine, served alongside steaming hot white rice. This is the meal I most look forward to when visiting my parents. And wherever I am in the world, cooking these dishes makes me feel as though I am home.

Bagar dal

tempered lentils

Serves 4 as a side

‘Bagar’ is the Bangla word for ‘tempering’ – also known as ‘tarka’ in other parts of the Indian subcontinent. This is the cooking technique where ghee or oil is heated and then garlic and spices are fried before being added to the cooked lentils. This recipe is so easy and quick to make, thanks to the use of red lentils that soften without needing pre-soaking or a pressure cooker. Serve this with plain basmati rice for the simplest and tastiest of comfort foods.

Ingredients

200g red lentils

1 small onion (110g), finely diced

2 large or 4 small tomatoes (320g), roughly chopped

1 tsp fine salt

1 tbsp sunflower oil

½ small bunch (50g) coriander, finely chopped

for the bagar

1 heaped tbsp ghee

3 fat garlic cloves, crushed

1 tsp panch puron

1 tsp ground turmeric

1–2 long green chillies, sliced lengthways into 2 or 3 pieces each

Wash the lentils several times in plenty of cold water, rinsing and draining until the water runs clear. Put the drained lentils in a small saucepan and pour over boiling water until it covers the lentils by about 2cm.

Add the onions and tomatoes and a glug of sunflower oil – this will stop the lentils from bubbling over – and cook over a medium–high heat until the lentils are soft. This should take about 20 minutes. Whisk occasionally to help break down the lentils: it should look like a thick soup.

For the bagar (tempering)

Heat the ghee in a small frying pan until very hot. Add the crushed garlic, turmeric, panch puron, and green chilli and fry for about 10 seconds until the garlic starts to turn golden brown. Pour the spiced ghee mixture into the saucepan – it should sizzle on contact with the lentils. Stir well and garnish with the chopped coriander.

______

Shak

wilted greens with chilli

Serves 2–4 as a side

‘Shak’ is the Bangla word for leafy greens (also known as ‘saag’ in other parts of the subcontinent). Different varieties are cooked in a multitude of ways, from stir-fry dishes to being made into a soup. This recipe is best suited for robust greens such as mustard leaves, spinach, chard, or cavolo nero. The shak goes perfectly when served with a dal and some pan-fried or grilled spiced fish over a bed of white rice.

Ingredients

500g greens (such as spinach, mustard leaves, chard, kale)

1–2 tbsp sunflower oil

3 garlic cloves, crushed

1–2 red chillies, sliced lengthways

½ tsp fine salt

1 tsp panch puron

1 medium tomato (160g), roughly chopped

juice of ¼ lime

Thoroughly wash the greens and squeeze out any excess water. Shred into pieces about 1cm wide. Leave in a colander to drain.

Heat the sunflower oil in a wide pan. Add the garlic, cooking over a medium heat for 1–2 minutes until soft. Add the chilli, salt, and panch puron and cook for a further 30 seconds. Stir in the tomato, cover, and cook on a medium heat for 5 minutes until the tomatoes are soft and pulpy.

Add in the greens and cook uncovered for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally as the greens wilt. If there is a lot of excess liquid you can increase the temperature to evaporate it off, taking care not to burn the greens. The greens should be tender but still be bright in colour when cooked. Squeeze over the lime and serve.

Begun bhaja

fried aubergine

Serves 4 as a side

Aubergines come in a wealth of varieties, from the baby royal purple types, to the slender, long, lilac ones commonly found in Asian greengrocers, and the popular fat, shiny globe eggplants. This recipe is best with either long Japanese or globe varieties. The frying can be a little messy and time-consuming until you get the hang of it, but it is so worth learning to perfect the art.

Ingredients

2 large globe aubergines or 2 long aubergines (about 450g)

1 tsp ground turmeric

½ tsp chilli powder

1 tsp tandoori masala (optional)

½ tsp salt

enough sunflower oil for frying (be generous)

Firstly, prepare your aubergine. How you cut it will depend on the variety you are using:

For globe aubergines: cut into horizontal round steaks about 1.5cm wide. Using the tip of the knife, score the flesh lightly in a diamond or cross-hatched pattern, taking care not to pierce right through the flesh.

For long aubergines: cut each aubergine in half widthways so you have two pieces about 8cm long. Then cut each of these pieces in half lengthways so you are left with four half pieces. Using a sharp knife, score the skin lightly making several straight lines a few millimetres deep and spaced apart – as though you are preparing hasselback potatoes (but not as deep).

In a shallow dish, combine the dry spices and the salt to make a rub. Using your hands, rub the spice mixture into the aubergine flesh and skin, trying to ensure that each part is coated. Leave to marinate for about 10 minutes or until needed.

Heat a generous amount of oil - enough to shallow fry - in a wide, non-stick frying pan. Test that the oil is hot enough by placing the edge of a piece of aubergine in the pan – if it sizzles then it is ready. Arrange the aubergines in a single layer in the pan, taking care not to overcrowd it. Fry the aubergines for 2 minutes on either side until they are golden brown all over.

Cover the pan with a lid and reduce the heat to low. Cook for another three to five to ensure the aubergine is fully tender and not spongy: there is nothing more miserable than undercooked aubergine. When done, remove from the pan using a fish slice or fork and drain on absorbent kitchen paper. Repeat until all the aubergine is fried. Serve hot with rice and fried fish.

Maach bhaja

fried fish with crispy onions and chilli with a garlic lemon dressing

Serves 4 as part of a meal with sides

There are as many ways to fry fish as there are different types of fish in the rivers and seas. This recipe uses trout fillets, which are much tastier than the ubiquitous tilapia that seems to have taken over the world by stealth. You could also use fillets of seabass or any other firm-textured fish that is robust enough to handle being fried. The fish is fried until the skin is crispy and delicious (throwing it away is a sacrilege) and served with a light, lemony-garlic dressing. This dressing was the first component of a meal that I was ever entrusted to make at the tender age of around five or six. My mother showed me how to add just enough water to not overly dilute the lemon, but to make enough dressing so that it could be poured liberally onto our plates. I remember taking so much that the rice would be soaked in lemon and garlic.

Ingredients

4 fillets of trout, skin on and thoroughly scaled

enough sunflower oil for frying (be generous)

for the ‘dry rub’ marinade

½ tsp salt

1 tsp ground turmeric

2 tsp tandoori masala

for the fried garnish

1 small onion (110g), thinly sliced

2-3 green chillies, slit lengthways into 2 or 3 pieces each

for the dressing

2 fat garlic cloves, grated

2 tbsp lemon juice (fresh or concentrated)

2 tbsp good olive oil

30ml cold water

Wash and pat the fish dry. Place in a shallow dish or lidded container. Combine the spices and salt in a small bowl and then rub all over the fish, ensuring both sides are evenly coated in the spice mixture. Cover and leave to marinate in the fridge for at least an hour.

When you are ready to fry, heat enough sunflower oil to cover the base of a non-stick frying pan. Test that the oil is hot enough by adding a slice of onion to the pan. If it sizzles immediately then the oil is ready. Place the fillets skin side down into the frying pan, taking care not to overcrowd it – usually two will fit at a time. Fry for about 3 minutes before carefully turning and cooking for 2 minutes on the other side. The skin should be crunchy and crispy. Remove from the pan and drain on absorbent kitchen paper. Repeat until all the fillets are cooked.

Make the fried onions in the same pan, using the leftover oil. Add the onions and green chillies and sauté over a medium heat until the onions turn a dark golden brown and start to caramelize. Remove from the oil and drain on kitchen paper.

Make the dressing by whisking together the garlic, lemon juice, and olive oil in a small bowl. Add in the cold water and keep whisking until well combined.

To serve, arrange the fish fillets on a platter and scatter over the fried onions and chillies. Drizzle the dressing over the fish just before eating.

Bhath

steamed white rice

Serves 4

The landscape of Bengal is centred around rice with paddy fields dominating the scenery: green in spring, flooded during the monsoons, and golden at the approach of harvest. The word for rice – ‘bhath’ – is even used as a synonym for ‘meal’, which conveys its centrality to how Bengalis approach eating. Different types of rice require different methods and amounts of water. Some work best if you boil the rice and drain away the excess water, but with white basmati it is best to steam-cook the rice in the pan.

Ingredients

3 parts white basmati rice

5½ parts freshly boiled water

In a very large bowl, measure out the rice and cover with water. Swish the water with your hand, mixing the rice, and then drain off the water. Add in more fresh water, rinse and repeat. Do this until the milky cloudy water runs clear. It is vital to wash the excess starch off the rice properly to avoid overly sticky rice. Don’t be tempted to rinse the rice in a colander or sieve as it just doesn’t work as well. On the final rinse, however, you can use a sieve to drain off as much water as possible.

Put the washed rice in a large metal saucepan or pot. Add the correct volume of water (double the amount of rice minus half a cup). Bring to a rolling boil, then cover and reduce to a low heat. Cook for 15 minutes. Do not uncover or stir your rice as it will come out sticky. After 15 minutes, remove the lid and check the grains – they should be separate, not sticky, and cooked through, and all the water should have evaporated off. Fluff with a fork and serve immediately.

For this method I avoid giving measurements by weight. The rice/water proportions can needlessly confuse even the best of cooks, but my mum’s magic ratio has never failed me: simply double the number of cups of rice and minus a half, to get the correct volume of water. So, 2 cups of rice would need 3½ cups of water, 3 cups of rice needs 5½ cups of water and so on. Just make sure you use the same cup measure for the rice and the water.

______

It may be hard to imagine why anyone would leave this bucolic way of living behind. But this picture of an idyllic rural utopia is more than rose-tinted. There were significant challenges for most ordinary people: disease routinely swept through the population, with regular outbreaks of cholera and typhoid, and the bite of famine lived in the recent collective memory.

Until the end of his days, Habib was terrified of cholera. If any of his children ever had a high temperature, he would fret, waiting anxiously until the fever broke. His fears were deeply rooted and far from irrational. As a young boy, the disease had stolen many members of his family through repeated outbreaks that devastated his village. A significant loss for young Habib was the death of his older cousin Alim Ullah.

Cholera had returned. Once again, its shadow loomed large over the whole village. People prayed for Allah’s mercy, hoping that they and their children would be spared from death.

Young Habib was afraid that this time the disease would come for him. It had stalked and killed too many of his family members for him to think that he was safe. The only person who could protect him, he believed, was his big cousin Alim. If he slept beside Alim, reasoned Habib, the disease would not be able to claim him. So, Habib moved out of the bed he shared with his siblings and went to stay in the next room with his cousin. But in the middle of the night, Habib was woken roughly by Alim.

Get out, Alim ordered hoarsely. You can’t sleep here. Go!

Young Habib was hurt at his cousin’s harsh rejection. Shaken and upset, he left the room and returned to sleep beside his mother and siblings instead.

The next morning Alim was found dead in his bed. He must have known that he had been infected. Perhaps he had seen the approach of Death, and his last act of compassion was to ensure that his devoted young cousin did not have to witness it.

The trauma Habib felt burrowed deep into his being. Village life could be peaceful, but it could also be cruel and unrelenting. So when opportunity knocked, Habib answered. Leaving his loved ones and his land behind, he did what nobody else in his family before him had ever done. He left his ancestral home for the world.

Building a basha

Another Bangla word for home is basha. This term is used to describe a house or apartment where a person lives on a more regular basis, usually in the town or city due to the proximity to work and other amenities. A basha carries none of the emotional weight of the ‘bari’. However, it can provide useful context regarding a family’s fortunes.

Bashas are dwellings built by the families themselves – often using remittances from family overseas – and are status symbols in their own right. The number of storeys of a house is code for financial success: a ‘teen thala basha’ – a three-storey house – is the ultimate achievement, and indicative of a family having ‘made it’.

Habib and his wife Fatima built a basha. Theirs is in Srimangal, a town famous for its surrounding tea gardens. It stands there today, a three-storey testimony of their sacrifices, with a roof garden and a courtyard. The ground-floor flat is occupied by a caretaker and his family who maintain the building. The rest of the house stands empty for most of the year until a family member returns from the UK for a visit.

A basha is not intended to replace one’s bari – the criteria is very different. While one’s bari will be surrounded by land and agriculture, and may be more rustic, one’s basha is expected to be built to more modern standards. The essentials include a commode-style toilet, a shower, a fitted kitchen with gas stove, a sink piped with running water, and electrical appliances. These amenities are more than just ‘mod-cons’: they represent a significant, noteworthy shift in a family’s fortunes.

While one’s bari is an accident of birth, one’s basha is an indication of what they did, what they achieved, and how they succeeded. It is a testament to a family’s hard work and sacrifice: the bricks and mortar result of decades of living in usually inhospitable conditions abroad to be able to afford building something lasting back home.

How Habib and Fatima came to build this basha – and at what cost – first necessitated that they become pioneers …

Part Two

Pioneers: Making It Abroad

These items were not just ingredients – they represented home, the love of a family separated by distance, and a connection to family land

Habib arrived in Manchester in the winter of 1956 with only a suitcase of clothes and the promise of a job. Post-war Britain was in economic and industrial decline with a dwindling workforce. The government ran recruitment schemes and issued ‘vouchers’ (a form of work permit) to encourage people from across the newly created Commonwealth to come and prop up the country. The plea was answered by thousands of pioneering individuals, like Habib, who left behind their homes and families to board ships and aeroplanes that would carry them across the world to the ‘motherland’ – Britain – the land of opportunity. A land where they would work, pay taxes, and help to revive floundering industries such as textiles and manufacturing. And, as many discovered all too bitterly, a land that did not seem to want them.

Almost as soon as migrant workers began to arrive, so too began the efforts to stop them. Instead of recognising immigration as a positive contribution to Britain’s economic and social prosperity, not to mention a natural consequence of hundreds of years of imperial rule, the ‘scourge’ of immigration was condemned by politicians across the spectrum. Most famously, Enoch Powell warned of ‘rivers of blood’ in his inflammatory address to Conservative Party members in 1968.

But none of that was Habib’s concern. He set up home at 26 Berwick Street, Chorlton-on-Medlock, Manchester, in a shared house with several other deshi migrants. Sleeping around three to a room, these men – for they were all single young men – nicely lined the pockets of unscrupulous landlords who packed the desperate newcomers into homes with poor heating and limited plumbing. The toilet was housed in the draughty, rickety outdoor shed, and bathing took place weekly at the Victoria public baths in Chorlton-on-Medlock.

The men mostly worked shift patterns in factories on assembly lines, which offered some limited privacy for those who could sleep and rest peacefully at home when their roommates were at work, before switching over. Habib’s first job was in a clothes printing factory. Despite the cramped and cold conditions, there was a strong sense of community and camaraderie that defined these early years of migrant bachelorhood. These men socialised together, taught each other English, helped one another get jobs by filling in paperwork, and, above all, they cooked together.

Food was a challenge in this alien land. Not only did the new arrivals have to learn how to cook – something few, if any, of them did back home where culinary arts were the preserve of the womenfolk – but they had to make do with strange ingredients and entirely different utensils and stoves. Shops did not stock the essential ingredients for deshi cooking and sourcing spices beyond the limited range of English favourites (salt, and occasionally, pepper) was impossible. Instead, migrants like Habib learnt that necessity is indeed the mother of invention. Their innovation in sourcing and substituting ingredients gave way to a wholly unique genre of ‘making do’ cookery – some of the results were so delicious that they have remained part of the British–Bangladeshi diaspora repertoire to this day.

Ghee was replaced by butter, with Adams being the preferred brand of choice. Yellow English mustard became a substitute for the mustard oil and seeds so beloved in Bengali cuisine; and for special occasions baby formula milk powder was used to make soft and sugary sweets like gulab jam and rosogolla. These pioneers even developed new uses for English ingredients: crumpets were acceptable replacements for chitoi pitha, a spongy savoury griddlecake, and the popular breakfast cereal Rice Krispies – when toasted and combined with finely sliced chillies, coriander (if available), red onion and sprinkled with lemon juice – experienced a rebirth as the beloved snack, jhal muri. These snacks were washed down with copious amounts of milky sweet tea.

Jhal muri

toasted spicy puffed rice

Makes enough for 2–4 people to snack on

Jhal muri is served at street stalls across Bengal in cones fashioned out of newspapers, a little like the old way of wrapping fish and chips in Britain. As well as the base of puffed rice, some versions of jhal muri include diced tomatoes, cooled boiled potato, and peanuts. This recipe is a simpler version that relies on the mustard, fresh chilli, and red chilli powder to layer in the heat – or ‘jhal’. If you can’t find mustard oil, you could skim off some oil from the top of a spicy pickle (achar) jar and use that – or use good-quality, peppery extra virgin olive oil with a pinch of mustard powder whisked into it.

Ingredients

60g puffed rice breakfast cereal

1 red onion (about 110g), very finely diced

½ small bunch of coriander (about 30g), finely chopped

1–2 green chillies, thinly sliced into rings

juice of 1 lime

¼ tsp salt

¼ tsp red chilli powder

1 tbsp mustard oil

In a dry frying pan, toast the puffed rice – shaking the pan to ensure they are evenly coloured – until they start smelling a little smoky but aren’t too dark. Place in a large dry bowl and set aside.

In a separate bowl, mix together all the other ingredients until well combined. Pour in the puffed rice and mix well. Divide into small bowls and serve with a teaspoon, or – to be very authentic – serve in a newspaper cone.

Cha

tea with Carnation milk

Makes 4–6 cups

In traditional Bengali cooking, the milk is thickened by boiling and simmering it repeatedly so that a thick skin – known as dhood-er shor forms. A little like the skin on custard, the shor divides opinion – it is often saved for the children of the household who view it as a treat, but as a child I hated the texture, and my poor father would despair that his daughters rejected the delicacies of his childhood. The pioneers discovered condensed milk as a quicker, easier way of making shor.

In this recipe I have omitted any added sugar as the condensed milk is already sweet enough, but you can add more if you like. You will need robust English breakfast tea – this is not the recipe for delicate or flavoured varieties – and use teabags to avoid the hassle of straining loose-leaf tea.

Ingredients

1–1.5 litres just-boiled water

4 strong or extra-strong English breakfast teabags (my favourite is PG Tips while my parents swear by Yorkshire Tea. You do you.)

2 cardamom pods, crushed

1 bay leaf

4cm piece of cassia bark or whole cinnamon

2-4 tbsps Carnation condensed milk (tins weigh 397g but you won’t need the whole thing!)

Put the teabags in a medium-sized saucepan and cover with just-boiled water from the kettle. Add the whole spices and let the tea brew over a low heat until it is dark and strong in colour. Pour in the condensed milk and stir through – the tea should turn a rich brown colour, with no hint of grey (if it seems washed out, the tea isn’t strong enough and you will need to brew it a little longer; if it’s too dark, then you need more milk). The colour should be a warm-toned, golden brown. Heat through until gently simmering and then pour into teacups.

If you’re feeling extremely ‘deshi’ add extra sugar and serve piping hot.

______

Cheat’s chitoi pitha

crumpets and curry

Chitoi pitha is made from ground rice, water, and a little salt, and cooked in a flat frying pan. A little like their Sri Lankan cousins, hoppers, chitoi pitha are thinner than a regular crumpet but share the same spongy, holey texture. Like crumpets, they can be enjoyed savoury or sweetened with a little sugar or gur (date molasses). In our family, chitoi pitha have been replaced by crumpets: I like mine best with leftover curry, preferably eaten at midnight. Leftover mangshor jhol (here) is especially good for this, or a thick dal, but any curry works – especially those leftover takeaway curry dregs that seem too delicious to throw out.

Ingredients

1 packet of crumpets (Warburton’s is the best)

lots of good-quality butter

some delicious leftover curry

The old-school way

Heat a heavy cast-iron griddle or frying pan on the stove until it’s very hot. Butter your crumpets on both sides. Toast the crumpets for about 2 minutes on each side until they are brown and the butter has melted. You want the crumpets crispy on the outside and soft right through the middle.

The modern (but a little messier) way

Heat your crumpets in the toaster. Butter one side and pop back in the toaster for half a toasting cycle so they are crunchy on the outside but not burnt.

Heat up your leftover curry in a small pan on the stove, or in the microwave. Transfer to a bowl. Tear pieces of the crumpet off and dip into the curry. Eat and enjoy.

______

An additional, unexpected challenge was mastering the use of once-familiar ingredients in an entirely new form. Fish, the key staple back home abundant in all its glorious varieties, was unrecognisable in Britain, where it was for the most part either battered, smoked, or tinned. The limited types of fresh fish available in fishmongers were unfamiliar, although deshis still took it upon themselves to experiment with these curious new varieties: white fish such as haddock and cod that hailed from the Atlantic replaced the beloved freshwater rohu and katla, while the bony, oily herring was a good imitation of the ilish, the ‘king of fish’.

It would take until the mid-1970s before Bangladeshi fish would become more widely available in Britain, thanks to the entrepreneurial Iqbal Brothers who were the first to establish an importing and processing business for fish. But in the years preceding this trade, the pioneers had to get creative.

Maach bhorta

crispy chilli tinned fish

Serves 2–3 as a side

If there is a single, quintessential British–Bangladeshi recipe, this is it. Every family has their slight variation – some favour tinned mackerel over sardines. Some use fish in tomato sauce, while others use the varieties in oil. The other big divide is whether to fry off the onions or leave them raw. I opt for the in-between: adding them in right before the end, so that the onions lose some of the acrid raw taste, but are still crunchy and fresh-tasting. I’ve tried – and love – all of these variations, but this is the version I come back to the most. I cooked this on a weekly basis when I lived in London as a young graduate and had it with white rice, dal and shak whenever I wanted a taste of home. The flatmate who I lived with at the time now makes it for her own young family.

Ingredients

2 tbsp sunflower oil (or oil from the tinned fish)

2 × 125g tin sardines or mackerel (boneless and skinless is easier)

½ tsp salt

2 green chillies, sliced into thin rings

½ tsp ground turmeric (optional)

1 small white onion (about 110g), very finely diced

1 small bunch of coriander, finely chopped

juice of 1 lime

Heat the oil in a frying pan and add the fish. It will sizzle and spit – expect a lot of spattering oil when preparing this recipe! Stir with a wooden spoon to break up the pieces of fish and fry until they turn a dark, golden brown, which should take about 5 minutes. Add the salt, chillies, turmeric (if using), and onions, and stir-fry for a further couple of minutes. Finally stir through the coriander and lime juice. You can mash the mixture with the back of a wooden spoon to break it up a little more. Serve with hot white rice or enjoy on toast.

______

Maach bora

tuna cakes with colman’s mint yoghurt dip

Makes about 8–10 cakes

These crunchy cakes can be served as appetisers or snacks, or as part of a main meal with rice when paired with dal (here) and a vegetable dish. I also love squashing leftover tuna cakes into a pitta and drizzling over the yoghurt dip. The key to this recipe is to ensure that the tuna is very well drained, as any excess liquid will result in a sloppy mixture that won’t hold together when frying. It’s also important that the onions and coriander are very finely chopped so the mixture is almost like a thick paste. This recipe is easy to scale up for parties – the most I’ve made in one go was 200!

Ingredients

for the tuna cakes

2 × 145g tins of tuna in oil, very well drained

1 tsp salt

1 tsp ground turmeric

½ tsp chilli powder (optional)

1 small white onion (about 110g) very finely chopped

1 small bunch of coriander, very finely chopped

2 green or red chillies, finely chopped

1 tbsp chickpea (gram) flour

1 large egg, beaten

sunflower oil, for frying

for the dip

250g full-fat Greek yoghurt

1 heaped tbsp of Colman’s garden mint concentrate

1 green chilli, finely chopped

2 tbsp finely chopped coriander

1 garlic clove, grated (optional)

Place the tuna in a sieve and squeeze out any excess liquid with your hands. Add the drained tuna to a large mixing bowl and add the salt, turmeric, and chilli powder (if using), and mix by hand until the tuna breaks down into very small pieces. It should almost resemble the texture of coarse breadcrumbs. Add the onions, coriander and fresh chilli and continue mixing, ensuring the ingredients are well combined – the mixture should become softer and finer as you work it. Finally, add the chickpea flour and beaten egg and continue to knead until the mixture is almost like a paste and forms a single large ball that is moist but not wet. If it seems as if the mixture isn’t holding together quite well enough, you can add in a little more beaten egg.

(If you are making this ahead, you can place the mixture into a lidded container and store in the fridge at this point. Take the mixture out of the fridge half an hour before cooking and let it come to room temperature.)

Divide the mixture into small, golf ball-sized pieces and press down on each one until it is formed into a flat cutlet, or patty shape, around 1cm thick. Make sure that the edges of each flattened piece are smooth. Heat a few tablespoons of sunflower oil – don’t be shy with the amount – in a non-stick frying pan over a medium heat. Test the heat of the pan by dropping in a tiny piece of the mixture – if it sizzles and starts to turn golden it is hot enough. Place the shaped cutlets carefully into the pan and fry for 2–3 minutes on each side until golden brown and crunchy.

(If you want to avoid frying, you can also make these in the oven: line a baking tray with baking paper, lay out the cakes, brush the tops with oil, and bake at 200°C for about 15 minutes, turning once. This is good if you’re making a large batch of bora but, beware, they do lose the delicious crispy coating and some of the flavour you get from frying them.)

To make the dip: empty the yoghurt into a mixing bowl and add all the ingredients. Beat well until evenly combined. Serve on the side with the tuna cakes and a wedge of lime.

______

An illicit shadow industry emerged, whereby goods were smuggled in enormous suitcases by families travelling between Britain and Bangladesh. Contraband food items were wrapped carefully in several layers of paper and plastic, hidden between the folds of saris and cardigans. It was always a ceremonious occasion when these suitcases would be unpacked for all the family to witness, each item being revealed with aplomb. Packets of dried fish and shrimp, known as shutki (pungent and delicious). Seasonal exotic fruits like shatkora (a citrus fruit beloved by Sylhetis). Blush-coloured lychees and mangoes from family groves. Red-skinned, tiny potatoes used for making bhorta (English potatoes were considered too watery and tasteless). And, of course, an array of other vegetables, including green beans (known as sheem); dried jackfruit seeds, which would be cooked with the dried shutki; homegrown gourds that had been gifted to the visitor by tearful relatives bidding farewell.

These items were not just ingredients – they represented home, the love of a family separated by distance, and a connection to family land.

Paan

Other often-smuggled items included betel leaf (paan) and all its accoutrements, including betel nut (shupari); black tobacco; and slaked lime (chun). Chewing paan was – and remains – an integral part of Bengali life, transcending class, economic status, gender, and religion. Consumed by many on a daily basis, it is integral to many traditional wedding rituals. One such ritual is called the ‘paan chini’ or ‘sini fan’ in the Sylheti dialect, when a prospective groom goes with his family to meet his bride-to-be’s family laden with all manner of gifts: platters of mishti (sweets), clothes, jewellery, flowers, fruit, and – of course – paan.

Presentation is everything in Bengali culture: trays are elaborately decorated with flowers and great care is taken with arranging the paan. The leaves may be fanned out artistically, and some may be pre-stuffed with sugar-coated fennel seeds and wrapped in neat bundles, or folded into cones.

The proper way to arrange paan extends even to its everyday consumption. My grandmother taught her children and grandchildren the correct way to prepare a paan daan – a special tray kept in every household and brought out when guests came to visit, or even just as a mid-morning or after-dinner indulgence. These trays are either flat or have a pedestal and are usually fashioned out of brass or other kinds of metal.

It is a training I still remember: firstly wash the paan in cold water and then shake dry. Pat dry with kitchen paper and then fold lengthways and press along the crease. Finally, twist off the stalk at the top of each leaf, carefully shake each leaf out, and then arrange neatly on the tray. The paraphernalia on the tray also needed to be smartly arranged: a betel nut slicer – these are also often jewelled or carved, along with a few betel nuts, a small pot of tobacco, and a plastic tub of lime (chun) – the favoured brand was ‘Raja Chuna’ and came in a bright green tub with an illustration of a Mughal-style emperor on the side. The tobacco tins were my favourite. The most popular was the Aziz Chemical Works brand that were manufactured in Sylhet, which had a picture of the company founder, or possibly a relative, on the side of the tin looking very serious and smartly dressed.

Part of the enjoyment of paan is in the assembly – a bit like those who enjoy rolling their own cigarettes. I remember carrying the paan daan out for guests at my grandparents’ house and watching as these older relatives would deftly prepare these bundles – sweeping a dab of white lime over a piece of leaf, packing in some shredded nut and then sprinkling tobacco over the top before wrapping it all together and tucking the bundle neatly into their cheeks – without a single break in the conversation. The red-stained mouth and teeth of a regular paan chewer always betrayed their habit, as did the slight smoky, grassy smell that hung around them and their clothes that I found, as a child, simultaneously comforting and off-putting.

Newlyweds in a new land

After almost a decade of living and working in England, Habib decided that he wanted someone to share it with. He had managed to save a little money despite sending the bulk of his pay back home. His main criteria for a wife was that she must be educated: someone literate, someone who could speak English, someone who would be able to cope with the life they would lead as strangers in a strange land.

Fatima was much younger than Habib. At just seventeen years old, she had little say in the marriage that was arranged for her. All she knew was that her soon-to-be husband lived in England. When she learnt that she would be expected to join him there, she started teaching herself English from books and magazines, and practised her reading and writing diligently.

Fatima arrived in Manchester in the spring of 1965. At first, she moved into the home that Habib shared with several other Bengali men. As the only woman in the house, she was afforded a great amount of respect and Habib and Fatima were given their own bedroom, even though it meant that some of the other lads had to bunk in a bit more tightly with one another. With Habib and most of their housemates at work for most of the day, Fatima was often lonely at home. The youngest of the housemates was a young boy of about thirteen years old. He was there with only his father and missed his mother terribly. Fatima and the young lad formed a sibling-like bond as the two outsiders in a house dominated by adult males. As the presence of women was so rare in these early pioneer circles, Fatima became somewhat of a celebrity among the community and lone fathers would often bring their children along to communal gatherings so that they could meet and find some sort of maternal comfort in her presence.

* * *

To this day, Fatima can’t abide tulips. She says they remind her of the terrible morning sickness she endured during her first pregnancy. Her bedroom window curtains had a tulip pattern on them, and the sight of the flower still takes Fatima back to that period of her life when she felt most alone and afraid.

Fatima discovered that she was pregnant when she stopped being able to keep any food down. The smell of any kind of cooking – frying onions and garlic, spices, even the smell of rice boiling was enough to make her vomit. Fatima went to the doctor who glanced at her medical record. I don’t care what it says on this piece of paper, he frowned. How old are you really? Fatima admitted that she was a decade younger than the age shown on her passport – a tender eighteen years old, rather than the twenty-eight years her official documentation claimed.

It is only now, in my mid-thirties and having had two children far from home, that I can even begin to understand how terrifying it must have been for my grandmother: only a teenager and newly pregnant, with no extended family around. Back home she would have been cared for by her mother, her grandmother, her aunts and cousins and sisters; who would have fed her special foods, prescribed home remedies, and issued warnings and admonishments about what to eat and what to avoid. But in England, she only had her husband and even then he was at work for most of the day. Fatima must have felt so alone, navigating such profound physical and emotional changes without the reassurance of female relatives who could offer practical support and care.

Fatima lost weight rapidly much to the doctor’s concern. Habib kept urging her to try and eat. But it was impossible. In the end, it was a traditional Bengali invalid’s recipe that saved Fatima. Known as zau it is a bland rice porridge flavoured only with ginger, lemon, bay leaf, and salt. The ginger and lemon help with nausea, the salt helps replace electrolytes lost through vomiting, and the soupy rice is filling without being too heavy. Many years later, Fatima would also make zau for Habib when he was in and out of hospital with heart problems, and on a restricted diet. But in their early years, Habib was the one anxiously preparing this dish for his wife.

Zau

invalid’s rice porridge

Makes 2–4 servings depending on your appetite

This dish is perfect for those who are suffering from any range of maladies – it is light on spices and oil so is easy to digest, and plain enough to appeal to those suffering from nausea. But the ginger and lemon – as well as being trusted home remedies – subtly flavour the rice and assist with the invalid regaining their sense of taste. The fried onions added at the end are entirely optional (Fatima would not have been able to tolerate them during her morning sickness) but can be helpful to add a little more flavour to those who are not deterred by the smell of caramelized alliums.

Ingredients

½ cup (80g) basmati rice

½ tsp salt

1 bay leaf

1 tbsp finely grated ginger

1 tbsp ghee

½ medium white onion (90g), thinly sliced (optional)

juice of ½ lemon

Wash the rice in several changes of water until the water runs clear. Soak the rice in a bowl of hot water for 15 minutes.

In a saucepan, add the drained rice and cover with 1 litre of boiling water heated in the kettle. Add the salt and bay leaf and cook on a rolling simmer for about half an hour, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon. The consistency should be like a smooth porridge rather than paste-like – add more water if needed. Keep mashing the grains of rice with the spoon or a potato masher if needed. (Do not use a hand blender as this will make the grains too fine.)

In a small pan, heat the ghee until melted and fry the grated ginger for 30 seconds or so. Add this into the rice mixture and stir. (If using the onion, fry the sliced onions in the ghee until dark golden brown and then add the contents of the pan – ghee, ginger, and onions – to the rice.)

Squeeze the lemon juice all over, stir through and serve.

From factory floor to shop floor

Although the occasional suitcase booty provided sought-after goods and a good dose of nostalgia, a more sustainable way of getting essential items became increasingly necessary, especially as the single migrants who came from the subcontinent began to bring over their wives and start families in the UK. The range of backroom businesses that had mushroomed in the early years, such as secret butchers that provided halal-slaughtered meat, gave way to more mainstream grocery shops and certified halal butchery counters that appeared in areas with a recognisable South Asian population. Unsurprisingly, new migrants tended to gravitate towards areas that already had facilities that catered to their specific needs: mosques for prayer, halal butchers for sustenance, and from the late 1970s onwards, community centres for socialising.

One such grocery shop was owned by a good friend of Habib. Mr Mohamed Esoof, who had arrived in Manchester just a few years before Habib, and hailed from Chittagong, the part of Bengal that borders Burma. Because of this, he was given the name ‘Chittagong Chacha’ – literally meaning ‘Uncle from Chittagong’ – by Habib and Fatima’s children, and many years later I knew him as ‘Chittagong Nana’, meaning ‘Grandfather from Chittagong’.

Mr Esoof had been running a successful enterprise for a few years until he received word from back home that his wife was gravely ill. Desperate to tie up his affairs in Manchester quickly, he offered to sell the business to Habib at well below the market value. Habib proclaimed that he had no money to buy the shop. His friend waved away Habib’s concerns. Pay me when I come back, he said. With barely any idea of how to run a business, Habib and his new bride Fatima took over the shop and began their first foray into business.

Mr Esoof’s sudden trip made the local news at the time. Ammu found a newspaper article in her Chittagong Chacha’s family album when she was visiting them a few years ago. She sent me a blurry phone photograph of a cutting that sat pasted in the scrapbook-style album. There is no exact date but it must have been at some point in 1965. The article describes Mr Esoof as being ‘a 39-year-old Pakistani working in Wilmslow’ who is ‘this week planning a 7,000 mile dash from England after hearing that his young wife has been taken seriously ill in Pakistan.’

The fact that this was considered newsworthy, even for a small publication like the Country Express, says a lot about the interest that migrant workers commanded in the British imagination – and how they were recognized as being a part of the local community, however reluctant this may have been at times. In fact, the article gives a lot of biographical information – Mohamed Esoof is named as ‘the founder of the Jumna Indian restaurant in Wilmslow’ and details that he opened the restaurant in July 1963 ‘eight years after coming to live in this country’ – and that ‘before opening his own restaurant he worked as a waiter at others in Manchester and Blackpool’. It even goes on to describe his family situation – that Mr Esoof went back to Pakistan to marry his wife and that they have a child there. The article details the anguish he felt at being separated and his intentions for their future: ‘I couldn’t bring my family over then […] But when my wife gets better I’m going to bring them back with me this time.’

The clipping took me by surprise. It felt like a rare, sympathetic acknowledgment in the British press of the sacrifices and hard work of families living between two places. Families who often had to weigh up what felt most important in terms of security, opportunity and a sense of belonging.

When Habib bought the shop, he and Fatima finally bade their housemates goodbye and moved into the small flat above it, ready to start life as a family. Fatima found herself working behind the till practising her English with the customers while her newborn daughter, Selina – my mother – sat in her bouncer on the counter. Fatima has always spoken tenderly about her early years as a young mother in Manchester. People were willing to help, she recalls. She talks about Mrs Dickins and Mrs Barrow, her neighbours, who helped look after her two young children when she went into hospital to deliver her third. When Fatima first arrived in the neighbourhood, she was an object of interest rather than disdain. They were curious about us, she says. But not unkind. Her white working-class customers in the shop gave her the nickname ‘Queen Victoria’ because she spoke English with such a ‘posh’ accent. They giggled when she said things like ‘eye shell’ instead of ‘I will’.

The shop was a happy time for Habib and Fatima. Friendly Mancunian grandmothers would issue unsolicited child-rearing advice to Fatima over the till, while longtime Pakistani customers of the shop would instruct the novice Habib how to cut the joints of lamb and beef on the industrial machinery over at the butchery counter. The new shop owners muddled through with the help of their community in all its diversity, and in time their business flourished as the Asian corner-shop slowly became a staple in British society. These early pioneers were on track for success.

Turning tides

Habib’s plan had initially been to work in England for a few years and then return to Sylhet to live a quiet, comfortable life with the savings he had built up. Like many migrants, he saw his time overseas as a temporary arrangement. But by the time he married Fatima, he had already been in the UK for almost a decade and the financial pressures were showing no sign of abating. The demands from back home kept Habib – and many like him – stuck in the role of providing remittances for his extended family.

Meanwhile, the atmosphere in Britain was becoming increasingly hostile. Emboldened by anti-immigrant rhetoric espoused by politicians such as Enoch Powell, more and more of the British public felt as though they could openly discriminate against and harass non-whites. After an attempted break in while Fatima was home alone with the children, and an occasion when live fireworks were posted through their letterbox, Fatima started sleeping with the light on – a habit she has been unable to shake off to this day. On days when Habib was working late, Fatima would not sleep at all until he made it home safely.

Everything changed after 1969, she told me. The year that Enoch Powell warned of rivers foaming with much blood. The racists felt brave. They could do or say as they wanted, knowing that plenty of other people agreed with them.

The effects were felt close to home. By the late 1960s, the aforementioned Mohamed Esoof, owned the Mecca Indian Restaurant in Greenwood Street, Altrincham. A newspaper article, again from the Country Express, reports an incident of vandalism at the restaurant by a group of ‘hooligans’:

‘For the second time in less than four months, hooligans have shattered the plate glass window,’ the article reads. The incident is reported to have taken place ‘just after midnight on Sunday’ when the restaurant would have been closing. The fact that these attacks were repeated must have made it even harder for small business owners to feel confident in their futures.

Mr Esoof is quoted in the article: ‘I don’t know why the people do this. I used to be in Manchester but moved from there to Altrincham after this kind of thing happened a few times.’ This suggests that racial harassment and violence were not limited to the inner cities but were also prevalent in the wealthier, leafy suburbs.

Into the eye of the storm

By the late 1960s, Fatima decided that she did not want to raise her children in a land where they were not wanted. In April 1969, Fatima boarded a flight to Dhaka with her three young children – all under the age of five – on one-way tickets. Once he had sold the shop, Habib joined them the following year. While Habib and Fatima’s intentions were hopeful, they were doomed by their timing. They arrived in East Pakistan in its last days of peace. Just a few months later war broke out.

In March 1971, East Pakistan declared its independence, giving itself the new name: Bangladesh. What followed was nine months of bloody, brutal warfare between Bangladeshi freedom fighters, known as the Mukti Bahini, who were armed and trained by India, and the Pakistani occupying forces who were backed by the USA. The human toll was horrific. The number of people killed is estimated as anywhere between 300,000–3 million. Secondary deaths from starvation and disease as a consequence of war were even higher. The events of 1971 have since been declared a genocide, particularly against Bengali Hindus. The perpetuating of sexual violence as a weapon of war by the Pakistani army resulted in the rape of as many as 400,000 women. Every single Bangladeshi family was affected by the war. Including ours.

Soon after arriving back home, Habib and Fatima’s fourth child – a baby boy – was born on 21 November 1970. But little Shobuj died just eight months later on 18 July 1971 – his short life another casualty of war.

My mother tells me that she pieced together parts of what happened to Shobuj much later when she came across a documentary in the 1990s about the Nestlé infant formula milk scandal. The incident first came to light in 1974 after the UK-based NGO ‘War on Want’ published a report titled ‘Baby Killer’. The report drew attention to Nestlé’s aggressive marketing campaigns in developing countries, which resulted in babies dying from inadequately prepared and unsafe formula.

As a child, Selina remembers her father going to every length possible to get hold of Nestlé baby formula even as the country was gripped by war. Habib and Fatima were led to believe – as the marketing had so convincingly told them – that this formula was the best possible way to nourish their ailing baby. The great tragedy was that Nestlé formula, in actual fact, was responsible for thousands of avoidable deaths of babies in the global south, of which Shobuj was one. Although an international boycott against Nestlé came about as a result of this, it was not enough to bring Shobuj back.

Shobuj means ‘green’ in Bangla. The flag of Bangladesh depicts a red sunset on a green background: the red denotes the blood of those who died for the land; the green is the fields, the land itself. The land where Shobuj was laid to rest. Fatima and Habib buried their son in Nabiganj and named their house after him: Shobuj Kuti – green cottage.

By December 1971 the war was over. Although Bangladeshis were excited by the promise of this new country, they were also grappling with the pain and traumatic aftermath of war. And through the instability and grief, Fatima and Habib decided they could not stay: home, for all its new promise, was no longer home. The following year, Fatima, Habib and their three surviving children came back to England to try again.

Seats of resistance

While Fatima, Habib and the children were experiencing the war first hand in Bangladesh, back in the UK the Bengali diaspora was in the thick of organising and raising funds to support the struggle for independence. Communities in the north-west of England, including Manchester, played a key role in the war effort.

A collection of oral testimonies collated by academics Tasleem Shakur and Shabnam Ahsan and published as Stories of ’71: Reflections on the Bangladesh Liberation Movement in the North West of England – offers depth and colour to this formative period of British–Bangladeshi history. The accounts are from key figures in the British–Bangladeshi community at the time, and something that comes up in many of these testimonies is the role that restaurants played in the movement.

Following the declaration of independence, there was a sudden lack of dedicated space for the Bangladeshi community as, previously, they had shared Pakistani communal spaces and organisations. Now, Bangladeshis had to make use of what spaces were available to them: restaurants. Certain establishments were famous as organising hubs for the British–Bangladeshi war effort: the Shalimar restaurant in central Manchester, which was owned by Shamsuddin Ahmed, and the Manzil restaurant on Stockport Road that was owned by Nazir Ahmed.

Bangladeshis from across the north-west came to meetings held at these restaurants to discuss how they could increase visibility of the war in the UK and garner public and political support. These activists reflected the diversity of the Bangladeshi community, as they were beginning to call themselves, no longer identifying as being East Pakistani. They were factory workers, restaurant business owners, students, and academics. Together, they devised ways to lobby MPs, persuading their allies to speak in Parliament on the subject. They came up with creative ideas to raise money to support the freedom fighters – the ‘Bangladesh Tie’ was designed, manufactured and sold, with the proceeds going toward the frontline in Bangladesh. In Liverpool, the Kismet Restaurant was another centre for activism. One project hosted there involved a music group producing a record that was sold to raise relief funds. Members of the community also donated from their own earnings, with many accounts of factory workers handing over their entire pay packets without even checking the amount.

As well as political activism, these gatherings also operated as a support group. All had families in Bangladesh, and in these spaces the anxiety was shared with those who understood. Every week, coach loads of people arrived for the meetings – and it was inconceivable that these dedicated souls would be met without food. Shamsuddin Ahmed, owner of the Shalimar restaurant, spoke to Dr Shakur and Dr Ahsan about the role his establishment played in forming a solid community: ‘Our meetings were day and night; it affected our business. The restaurant provided the food, anyone could come … whether it was fifty people or a hundred people, they used to come and have a meal there, students or office workers.’

Food also played another – very different, but highly effective – role in raising awareness of the war. Dr Salam, a graduate of Dhaka University, arrived in the city of Bradford in September 1970 to pursue his doctorate. After war broke out the following year, the West Pakistani cricket team toured the UK in June 1971. When the team came to play a test match against the Yorkshire team at Bradford’s Park Avenue cricket ground, Dr Salam decided to go on a hunger strike to draw attention to the war in Bangladesh.

His efforts gained significant publicity both at home and abroad. Concerned about the negative press Pakistan was receiving, the Pakistan Embassy contacted the University of Bradford, asking that he be repatriated because they had decided to offer him a senior scientific position. Dr Salam’s supervisor, Dr Sheldon, refused to turn his student over to the authorities, and even arranged for a stipend so that Dr Salam could continue his studies after the Pakistani government punished him for his activism by cutting off his funding.

There is a concept in Bangla that I have not seen the exact equivalent of in any other language: probashi. It is the idea of being away from one’s home in a foreign land – but where ‘immigrant’ is a title assigned by others, probashi is more a self-claimed title. The closest word in English might be ‘expat’ – but where expat carries the connotations of adventure and privilege, there is a sense of mourning or loss in probashi. The assumption is that probashi must always want to return to their true home. Their tragedy is that they are not fully of one, nor of the other.

And yet, in the birth of Bangladesh, probashi were instrumental. It could even be said that without them and their efforts, centred around restaurants and food, an independent Bangladesh may not exist today.

Part Three

Building a Legacy

The tightrope that ethnic minority communities across the UK are expected to walk, even today, is impossible

On returning to England, Habib and Fatima had to decide how they would support their growing family. They came back to Manchester, the city they were most familiar with. But there were challenges: the children had to start school without knowing how to speak English. Habib had sold the grocery business before the family’s ill-fated move and had to return to low-paid factory work for a while. Fortuitously, he was made redundant and took the opportunity to try his hand at the restaurant business that was proving to be a great success for many of his fellow countrymen.

By now, ‘Indian’ food had been around for at least a decade and was becoming firmly established in both the British imagination and palate. As a natural host and someone who loved to eat and share with others, it seemed that the hospitality industry was a natural fit for Habib – although it might be said that these traits proved to be both his biggest asset and his biggest failing when trying to run a commercial enterprise based around food. Habib and Fatima established two popular and long-running restaurants in Greater Manchester. Both were named after their firstborn child: The Selina Indian Restaurant was founded on the former premises of the Canadian Steak House on Church Street in Eccles, and The New Selina Indian Restaurant opened in Oldham a few years later.

Bangladeshi-owned restaurants differed to their Pakistani counterparts primarily because of their respective clientele. Where Pakistani eateries tended to draw their customer base from the local Pakistani community, Bangladeshi restaurants aimed to cater for English diners. As such, what passed for ‘Bangladeshi’ food then – and to this day – in Indian restaurants is very rarely recognisable as truly Bangladeshi. The menus of the Selina restaurants reflected the tastes and preferences of the predominantly white English clientele, with an array of dishes that are now considered to be curry house classics: spicy madras; incendiary vindaloo; tomato-laden rogan josh; sweet pathia; creamy korma; exotic dhansak; and, of course, the ubiquitous tikka masala. There were also options for the more cautious diners, with a section of the menu dedicated to ‘English dishes’ such as omelette with all its variations (mushroom, cheese, tomato or plain); scampi and chips; roast chicken and chips; and steak in an array of cuts – T-bone being the most popular. In the way of desserts, there was ice cream served by itself, or on the side of the house dessert: banana and pineapple fritters.

In the early years of the business, Habib had to learn how to do everything from scratch: from sorting out insurance, choosing the decor, having menus printed, ordering stock, and even making the food. Along with his brother and cousin who had also arrived in Manchester in the intervening years, they took it in turns to cook, figuring out how to prepare food in large quantities and cooking to order.

Because of the extensive range offered on curry house menus, chefs need to be able to tailor individual orders quickly, and developed a style of cooking that is unique to restaurant kitchens. First, a basic gravy base is made: onions, garlic, ginger, tomatoes, and various spices go into this reddish-brown sauce that is cooked in huge vats. Next, the meat (lamb, mutton, chicken) is marinated and then pre-cooked in a spiced broth. This means that when an order comes through to the kitchen, the chef can quickly tailor each dish as per the customer’s request, adjusting the heat from ‘mild’ to ‘extra hot’ with an extra handful of chillies, or adding in lentils and spinach to swiftly turn a curry into a dhansak, or extra tomatoes and peppers to make a rogan josh.

The matter of restaurant curries as its own genre has fascinated foodies for decades and has won some passionate advocates. One of the earliest and most successful British champions of curry was the food writer Pat Chapman. An Englishman with ancestral connection to the East India Company and the British Raj, Chapman gently marshalled the nation towards a love of Indian food. He founded The Curry Club in 1982 and produced magazines, books, and DVDs devoted to the art of cooking curries. In the same year, the iconic Indian actress-turned-television chef, Madhur Jaffrey, made her first foray into British television with her programme Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cookery. Jaffrey, in contrast to Chapman, detested the word ‘curry’ believing it to homogenise the varied cuisine found across the Indian subcontinent. However, in recent years Madhur Jaffrey has seemingly relented: ‘curry is the way a lot of people think about Indian food, so if you can’t beat them, you join them,’ she declared on the radio programme Kitchen Cafe in 2018.

It seems that while both Chapman and Jaffrey shared a passion for popularising food from the subcontinent, they approached it in different ways. While Madhur Jaffrey published books and fronted several television series, encouraging home cookery in the distinctive styles of different regions of India, Pat Chapman leaned heavily into the British restaurant scene, producing the Good Curry Guide – the definitive handbook on where to enjoy the best restaurant curries – from 1991 until 2013, and established the Curry Awards for Indian restaurants in the UK. Even Nanu and Nana Bhai had copies of Chapman’s Good Curry Guide on their bookshelf at home.

There is something about the richness and texture of restaurant curries that explains their perennial appeal. In search of that nostalgic taste, my youngest uncle, Nahid, tracked down a book that he swears by: the no-frills titled Indian Restaurant Curry at Home by Richard Sayce. The method lauded by Sayce involves about four different stages of cooking though, which feels like far too much work to me – when you could achieve the same thing by picking up the phone and dialling your local takeaway.

But there is a little-known secret dish served at ‘Indian’ restaurants that you won’t find on the menu: the staff curry. The staff curry is what the chefs would make for themselves and the waiters to eat after a long and busy shift. It was much more similar to the types of dishes they would eat at home – all cooked in one pot, with the meat and onions and spices cooking at roughly the same time, as opposed to the restaurant method of cooking meat and sauce separately. Here is a recipe for a quintessential homestyle lamb curry, similar to what would have been enjoyed by the staff at Habib’s restaurants.

______

Mangshor jhol

homestyle staff lamb curry

Serves 4–6

This rich, warming, curry is made all the more appealing because it is prepared in almost a single stage, and then left to simmer away until done. You can also use mutton for this dish but the cooking time will need extending - and be sure to use meat on the bone for added flavour.

Ingredients

5 tbsp sunflower oil or ghee

1kg lamb shoulder or leg, ideally on the bone, cut into large chunks

2 large white onions (540g), sliced thinly

4cm piece ginger, peeled and crushed to a paste (or 2 tsp shop-bought ginger paste)

1 whole bulb of garlic, peeled and crushed to a paste (or 3 tsp shop-bought garlic paste)

2 green finger chillies, slit lengthways down the middle into 2 or 3 pieces

2 large tomatoes (480g), each cut into 6 wedges

1½–2 tsp salt (to taste)

whole spices

1 whole stick of cinnamon or cassia bark

1 black cardamom

4 green cardamom pods

2 bay leaves

1 tsp fennel seeds

ground spices

1 tsp ground turmeric

1½ tsp ground cumin

1½ tsp ground coriander

1–2 tsp Kashmiri chilli powder (to taste)

1 tsp hot paprika (not smoked)

In a wide, heavy-based pan or lidded casserole dish, heat the oil or ghee and add the whole spices and stir for 1 minute until the aroma is released. Add the lamb and lightly brown on all sides. Add the onions, garlic, ginger, chillies, and the ground spices. Stir well and cook for a further 2 or 3 minutes.

Add tomatoes and enough hot water (about 250ml) to just cover the lamb, stir again and lower the heat to medium–low. Cover with a lid and cook for 45–60 minutes, checking every 20 minutes that the curry is not drying out: the lamb should always be cooking in enough liquid to just about cover it. If it seems a little dry, add more water and stir well. The curry is ready when the lamb is tender and the oil has risen to the top of the curry.

______

Tandoori murghi

birthday chicken with roast potatoes

Serves 4

Tandoori chicken soon captured the imagination of the British public with its bright, brick-red hue and distinctive smoky flavour. The Selina Restaurant had the dish as one of its house specialities. This recipe is adapted for the home kitchen: it is our family’s version of a celebration cake – everyone requests it for their birthday dinners, hence the name – but it’s also brilliant just to cheer up a regular weeknight mealtime.

Ingredients

4 large joints of chicken on the bone or 1 large chicken (1.8–2kg) jointed into 4 pieces, skin removed

500g new potatoes

for the marinade

6–7 fat garlic cloves, crushed to a paste (or 2 tsp shop-bought garlic paste)

5cm piece ginger, crushed to a paste (or 2 tsp shop-bought ginger paste)

1 tsp salt

2 heaped tsp tandoori masala powder

1 heaped tsp ground turmeric

1 tsp Kashmiri chilli powder

250g full-fat Greek yoghurt

juice 1 lemon

a glug of sunflower oil

Thoroughly clean the chicken and remove any skin. Rinse well (yes, I – along with the whole Bengali population – am firmly in the camp of washing chicken … ) and score the deepest parts of the chicken with a sharp knife two or three times. These slashes allow the marinade to penetrate the meat. Place the chicken in a large mixing bowl or plastic container with a lid.

In a separate bowl, combine all the marinade ingredients and mix well. Pour the marinade all over the chicken and rub in well, ensuring the mixture covers each piece. Cover with a lid or clingfilm and refrigerate overnight or for up to two days – the longer the marinating, the deeper the flavour will be.

Preheat the oven to 200°C. Line a roasting tin with foil and then place a sheet of baking paper on top of the foil. (This isn’t an essential step, but the double layer protects against a possible tear, making for a much easier clean up.) Arrange the chicken in the roasting tin in a single layer with the thickest parts facing upwards. Pour over any remaining marinade from the bowl. Cover with foil and roast in the oven for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile prepare the potatoes: slice the baby new potatoes in half lengthways and boil for 10 minutes. Drain in a colander.

After the chicken has cooked for 30 minutes, remove the roasting dish from the oven and pour any roasting juices into a small jug. Add the par-boiled potatoes alongside the chicken, coating them in the marinade, and drizzle all over with oil. Return to the oven uncovered to roast for a further 30–40 minutes until the chicken is cooked through and golden brown, and the potatoes are crisp and golden. Leave the chicken to rest for 10 minutes before transferring to a large platter. Arrange the potatoes around the chicken.

Serve with some pulao (below) and a simple deshi salad.

______

Shada pulao

pulao rice

Serves 4

This method is a subtle way of flavouring rice, opting more for aromatics than the heavy use of spices in dishes such as biryani. The result is a delicate rice side dish that enhances, rather than overpowers, the rest of the items it is served with – and it goes equally well with vegetarian or meat dishes. This recipe is easily scalable for parties but I usually draw the line at cooking more than eight cups of rice in one (very large) pan as the bigger the volume, the harder it is to cook the rice just right. See note on cooking proportions for bhath (here).

Ingredients

3 cups basmati rice

2 heaped tbsp ghee or 3 tbsp sunflower oil

1 medium white onion (180g), finely sliced

1 tsp salt

3 garlic cloves, crushed

4cm piece fresh ginger, grated finely

4cm piece of cassia bark or whole cinnamon

1 bay leaf

3–4 green cardamom pods

Wash the rice well in several changes of water until the starchiness is mostly rinsed off. Soak in cold water until required.

In a large saucepan or pot with a lid, heat the ghee or sunflower oil over a medium heat. Add the onions and salt and fry for 7–10 minutes until soft and a mid-golden brown colour – this gives the rice a lovely golden hue. Stir occasionally to ensure the onions do not stick. Add in the garlic and ginger and cook for a further minute until they start to colour. Add the whole spices in and stir to release the aromas.

Drain the rice in a sieve and then add to the pan. Stir to coat the rice in the onion mixture. Pour in 5½ cups of hot water and bring to the boil. Once the rice is bubbling reduce the heat to low. Cover and cook for about 15 minutes. (Do not stir again as this will make the rice sticky.)

After 15 minutes, remove the lid and check that the rice is tender by pressing the grains. If they feel a little hard, and there is still liquid in the pan, return the lid and cook for a few more minutes. If the grains are hard but the liquid has evaporated off, add a little more water, cover again, and cook for a few minutes longer. The rice is done when the grains feel soft enough to eat and the liquid is fully evaporated – fluff the rice with a fork to allow steam to escape. Remove from the heat and keep covered until serving.

Variations

For coconut pulao: stir in a couple of tablespoons of grated creamed coconut just before adding the rice (don’t use tinned coconut cream as this will make the rice claggy).

For chickpea pulao: add a tin of drained and rinsed chickpeas at the same time as the rice.

______

Pineapple fritters

Makes 10 (with plenty of batter leftover, which will keep in the fridge for up to three days)

While Bangladeshi-run Indian restaurants in the mid-century often had extensive menu options for starters and mains, when it came to desserts the choices were often limited: ice cream served on its own, or on the side of a ‘fritter’. These fritters were usually made from tinned pineapple rings or fresh bananas dipped in pancake batter, fried, and served with vanilla ice cream: this creation was somehow exotic enough, and safe enough, to appeal to the frequenters of Indian restaurants in the 1970s. Traditionally, the fritters were drenched in a sticky syrup, but I like the alternative of a spicy sugar dusting as a lighter alternative.

Ingredients

1 × 425g tin of pineapple rings

1 litre sunflower oil, for deep frying

for the batter

90g plain flour

30g rice flour

1 tsp baking powder

1 tbsp granulated sugar

1 large egg, beaten

130ml whole milk

for the sugar dusting

2 tbsp soft brown sugar

1 tsp ground cinnamon

1 tbsp desiccated coconut

vanilla or coconut ice cream, to serve

In a bowl, mix together the brown sugar, desiccated coconut, and cinnamon to make the sugar dusting. Set aside.

Make a batter by combining the dry ingredients in a large bowl. Make a well in the centre, crack in the eggs and pour in the milk little by little. Whisk together to form a batter the texture of thick double cream, or yoghurt – you may need more or less milk to achieve this. The batter should be thick enough to cling to the pineapple evenly.

Drain the pineapple (reserving the juice for some other use) and pat dry on kitchen paper. Heat the oil in a large wok or pan to around 180°C. Test the heat by dropping a little of the batter into the oil. If it sizzles and floats to the surface within a few seconds then the oil is ready. Dip the rings of pineapple into the batter and ensure they are fully coated. Shake off any excess batter and gently place the rings into the hot oil and let them sizzle and fry for a couple of minutes before turning and frying on the other side. When golden and the batter is firm, remove the pineapple rings with a slotted spoon and drain on kitchen paper. Repeat until all the pineapple has been fried.

While the pineapple rings are still hot, sprinkle the sugar dusting all over, and serve with a scoop of vanilla or coconut ice cream. (Any extra batter will keep in the fridge for a couple of days and can be used as pancake mix or to make fritters with other fruit: bananas work well.)

______

Although Habib was at the restaurant almost every evening, Selina and her siblings rarely got a chance to visit. Eccles was far from their home in inner city Chorlton-on-Medlock, and without a car it was difficult for the family to get there. On the rare occasions that Habib took the children along, it was considered a special treat. The restaurant had flocked wallpaper and red velvet cushioned seats, and a bar constructed from varnished wood. The children had to promise to behave well. Usually they were served the roast chicken and chips, but the real prize dish they craved was the T-bone steak smothered with fried onions. When Habib changed his meat distributor to one that supplied halal steaks, the children’s dreams finally came true and they were – as a treat – allowed the most expensive item on the menu.

They rounded off their feast with After Eights that they swiped from the stores behind the till, cramming fistfuls of the dark minty thins in their cheeks and pockets. One of my uncles recalls his father ranting about the staff helping themselves to the chocolates, that were supposed to be presented to diners along with their bill, never once suspecting his wide-eyed children as the real culprits.

For the children, visiting the restaurant wasn’t just a treat because it was where their father disappeared to every day – it was also an insight into a world they would not have ordinarily been exposed to. Restaurants were special places, glamorous even. The cast of the popular Manchester-based soap Coronation Street were known to frequent Habib’s restaurants, with regulars including Violet Carson who played Ena Sharples, and Liz Dawn who portrayed Vera Duckworth.

The business also brought with it new considerations such as the tricky issue of alcohol. As Muslims, many Bangladeshi restaurant owners had to grapple with how to navigate their relationship with selling, serving, and profiting from alcohol. As a relatively new industry, many determined that it was an integral part of their business, and opted to sell it even if they did not partake in it themselves (although more may have indulged than they cared to admit). Once restaurants were more established, some skirted around the issue by not selling it themselves, but allowing diners to bring their own – a mutually workable situation as it meant that diners could buy cheap alcohol from the off-licence and avoid the inflated restaurant pricing, and the restaurateurs could find some religious solace that they weren’t engaged in trading alcohol. Habib and his business partners squabbled over their position, but eventually it was agreed that they would allow the sale of alcohol in their restaurants as an undesirable necessity.

Waiters and bar staff had to learn how to concoct drinks from the various mysterious and exotically labelled bottles, which glasses to serve the different liqueurs in, and new skills such as how to pour Baileys into an Irish coffee to make the distinctive creamy swirl. The technique, I was told by my mum (who presumably heard it from her father), is to stir the coffee rapidly to create a whirlpool like motion and then trickle the Baileys over the back of a teaspoon into the coffee so that it makes a swirly pattern. As a child, I remember trying to follow these directions with single cream trickled into a cup of instant coffee with limited success.

Working in the restaurant trade meant keeping unsociable hours. Often Habib and the children were like ships passing in the night: he would be getting up to head to work just as they were coming home from school. Fatima took on the majority of the domestic load, including looking after the children and cooking. But on rare occasions, Habib had the day off work. On those days, the kids would come home to find their favourite after-school treat prepared for them: homemade chips served between two thick slices of buttered white bread.

______

The perfect chip butty

Serves 1, indulgently

Ingredients

2 slices of thick-cut, soft white bread (the supermarket stuff is fine – no need to be fancy) or 1 white bap

good-quality butter

freshly cooked chips (the fatter, the better)

salt

malt vinegar

good-quality tomato ketchup

Take the slices of bread or split a white bap (also known as a teacake, bread cake, barm, cob, etc. depending on where in the UK you are) in half. Generously spread with room-temperature butter. Arrange a layer of thick, chip-shop cut chips on one slice of bread. Sprinkle liberally with salt and malt vinegar (Sarson’s is the best). Squeeze over tomato ketchup if you like (Heinz only). Squash the other slice of bread on top. Press down so the hot chips mash slightly into the buttery soft bread. Eat with your hands.

______

Tukra tukri

Habib’s eggy bread bits

Serves 4 as a snack

‘Tukra tukri’ literally translates to ‘bits and pieces’. Habib used to make this on his days off for the children’s breakfast and it was a firm favourite. White bread, lashings of butter, and eggs – what’s not to love?

Ingredients

6 eggs

2 green chillies, finely sliced

¼ tsp salt

¼ tsp red chilli powder

½ tsp ground turmeric

8 slices of slightly stale white bread (the supermarket stuff is fine – no need to be fancy)

lots and lots of good-quality butter

1 small shallot (about 100g), finely sliced

Crack the eggs into a large bowl and beat with the green chillies, salt, red chilli powder, and turmeric. Tear up the bread into bite-sized pieces, crusts and all. Add the bread into the egg mixture and stir.

Meanwhile, heat a few tablespoons of butter in a wide frying pan. When hot, add a piece of the egg-soaked bread – if it sizzles then the pan is ready. Add the rest of the eggy bread bits in a single layer and pour the rest of the egg mixture over the top and scatter over the shallots. Using a fish slice or wooden spoon, carefully turn the pieces of bread and egg so that they brown all over in the butter and the onions start to soften and crisp up in parts. The broken bits of eggs and bread should look almost like large, scrambled bits – golden and buttery and spicy. Eat hot, right away.

______

Dim bhuna

emergency egg curry

Serves 4-6

When Habib hadn’t managed to get to the shops and Fatima was short on time, this recipe was their reliable go-to option. A basic onion-tomato moshla base with boiled eggs thrown in, it was cheap, quick, and nutritious. Not that the kids always appreciated this ingenuity: Selina told me that she used to hate days when dim bhuna was on the menu, and I have to admit that as a child, I felt the same. Now, as an adult, I can recognize the care that went into creating meals like this: our parents still went to the effort of cooking dinner out of practically nothing and made sure it tasted delicious too. If cooking for fewer people, you can halve the number of eggs used in the recipe, but it’s worth still making the full amount of sauce as you can freeze half to use on another busy day.

Ingredients

10 large eggs

2 onions (about 350g), finely diced

2–3 garlic cloves, crushed

2cm ginger, grated

1 tsp salt

1 tsp red chilli powder

1 tsp ground turmeric

1 tsp ground cumin

1 tsp ground coriander

2 green chillies, each cut into 3 pieces

4 medium tomatoes (about 340g), roughly chopped

200ml water

small handful of fresh mint leaves, roughly chopped

small handful of coriander leaves and stalks (15g), finely chopped

sunflower oil for frying

Boil the eggs for about 10–12 minutes until the yolks and whites are hard. Allow to cool and then remove the shells. Score around the edge of each egg with a sharp knife from narrow end to big end (about eight shallow cuts, each 3mm deep, around the whole perimeter).

In a deep heavy-based frying pan or wok with a lid, heat about 4 tablespoons of sunflower oil and sauté the onions, garlic, ginger, and salt for about 10 minutes until soft and golden. Add the ground spices and chillies and fry for a minute or so before adding the tomatoes and the water. Cover and allow to simmer for a further 15-20 minutes, until the tomatoes have thoroughly broken down and the sauce is thick and glossy.

Meanwhile, heat a couple of tablespoons of sunflower oil in another frying pan and brown the hard-boiled eggs over a medium–high heat on all sides until they turn golden brown and blister a little – you want the whites of the eggs to be slightly crispy. Add the crispy-edged eggs to the sauce and stir to coat them evenly. Scatter over the coriander and mint and gently warm through until the herbs wilt a little into the sauce. Serve with boiled rice (here) or ruti (here).

______

Although the restaurant trade was now firmly woven into the fabric of British society, these symbols of immigrant successes were not always met with positivity. As Bangladeshi and other migrant communities started to establish businesses – not just restaurants, but shops, market stalls, and other trades – the increased visibility of these communities also came with heightened hostility.

The tightrope that ethnic minority communities across the UK are expected to walk, even today, is impossible: we are to succeed without appearing successful, work without taking anyone else’s jobs, pay taxes but not claim any benefits, we are to be part of society but not be visible. To draw attention to ourselves is to court risk – risks that could end up with fatal consequences.

This was a lived experience in the British–Bangladeshi community. One of the most high-profile cases that devastated the community was the murder of Altab Ali in 1978. The 24-year-old textile worker was stabbed in a park in Whitechapel, London, by three teenagers in a racially motivated attack. The outrage and grief from the Bangladeshi community across the nation was huge. A protest march to Downing Street was organised with community leaders and political figures in the East End calling for greater protection of immigrant communities in Britain. Every Bangladeshi in the country knew of Altab Ali – and the feeling of insecurity grew in the aftermath of his murder.

Less than a decade later, the unthinkable happened to Habib and Fatima and their family, when they suffered a tragic loss in similar circumstances.

Murder in the playground

In September 1986, Habib and Fatima’s middle son, Ahmed, was stabbed by another pupil in a racially aggravated attack in the school playground. Ahmed had stepped in to defend a younger Asian boy from being bullied by a white student. Both Ahmed and his killer were aged just 13.

There was an outpouring of grief and anger, not just from the local community, but nationwide. Ahmed’s death attracted significant media attention, and people from across the country, of all ethnic and religious backgrounds, turned up at Habib and Fatima’s doorstep to offer their condolences. After protests led by the family and their supporters, an inquiry was set up, headed by Ian Macdonald QC, to look into racism and racial violence in Manchester schools and how it was – or was not – addressed. The report was published in 1989 under the title ‘Murder in the Playground’ and makes for horrifying reading. The investigation found that racism was pervasive in schools across the district and that teachers and schools were ill-equipped to handle it. Even when it manifested in violent ways, the issue was mostly ignored – and in our family’s case, with tragic consequences.

My mother, Selina, was only twenty at the time of Ahmed’s death, and was married to my father, Ahsan. They had a three-year-old daughter, Shabnam. As the eldest sibling, Selina had been the public face of the family during the investigation, doing interviews and meeting the press to keep up the pressure on the inquiry. She spearheaded the campaign, with support from family and friends as well as allies from across the country, while Habib and Fatima grieved in private. Losing Ahmed changed the course of the entire family, with every member carrying their pain in their own ways. Fatima, Habib and their surviving children had to find their sense of purpose and meaning, and not let Ahmed’s death be in vain.

Ahmed is talked about all the time in our family; his legacy is something that we are all committed to making as positive as possible. Several years after his death, Fatima decided that she wanted to establish a school in Ahmed’s name.

In her home village of Banugach, Kamalganj, in Sylhet, Fatima established the Ahmed Iqbal Ullah Memorial High School. The first lessons took place under a mango tree on a piece of land donated by her father, with only a handful of students. Thirty years later, the school is a two-storey building with purpose-built classrooms, science labs, and landscaped gardens for a body of around 700 students who are consistently among the district’s top-performing students in the national exams.

Fatima has been the visionary and powerhouse behind the school. She has been the one to raise funds, oversee the building project, recruit teachers, and establish a clear ethos of the school. It is co-educational – girls’ education being of great importance to Fatima – and is the only high school in the local area, meaning that over the years it has enabled thousands of students, who would not have otherwise had access to learning, to gain qualifications. Fatima’s care and attention to the school, the staff, and the students is apparent in every last detail: from determining building extension plans to choosing the colours for the school uniform. And at the forefront is her desire for each and every student to feel that the school is a welcoming, supportive environment: she ensures that flowerbeds and gardens are planted and well maintained, firmly believing that enjoyment of natural beauty is as important as what the children learn in the classroom.

A portrait of Ahmed hangs in the school. All the students know his name, know what happened to him, and what the family did to ensure his positive, lasting legacy. I wonder sometimes, how many prayers and blessings must have been uttered in his name.

Back in Manchester, Fatima and Selina worked alongside Professor Lou Kushnik, an American Jewish academic at the University of Manchester, to establish the Ahmed Iqbal Ullah Centre and Educational Trust. Set up in 1996, this specialist open-access library and archive, provides researchers and academics with resources on the study of race and migration, and is a leading institution in anti-racist activism and the fight for social justice. In Fatima’s own words: ‘Ahmed gave his life for pride, honour, and dignity and I would like people to remember him.’

While Fatima, in time, found purpose and satisfaction in building a lasting and positive legacy for her son, Habib – who shared that vision – suffered a sharp and steady decline in his health. Soon after learning of his middle son’s death, Habib suffered a massive heart attack. After a lifetime of losing those closest to him to disease and war, as well as the stress of life as an immigrant, and the pressures of raising a family in a hostile environment, this was the blow that almost killed Habib.

For weeks, it seemed as though he might not make it. But Habib pulled through, although his health was never quite the same. He was forced to sell the restaurant and settled quietly into retirement after a lifetime of hard graft. His doctor suggested that he take up some relaxing, peaceful hobbies to stay active, so Habib started keeping pigeons. I have many early memories of Nana Bhai feeding and tending to his birds and still find the cooing of pigeons a comforting sound. I used to accompany Nana Bhai on his walks around the neighbourhood – we would stroll hand in hand to Longsight Market and the cash and carry, Habib smiling, nodding and giving a thumbs up to the friends he met along the way.

Where many Bangladeshi families continued running restaurants for several generations, Habib’s retirement signified the end of the family business. But Habib, along with thousands of other Bangladeshi pioneers, had made an indelible mark on the British food landscape. Much is written about chicken tikka masala being the nation’s favourite meal and, while such commentary can sometimes ring trite, there is something profound about the reality that most Britons today have at least one local curry house in close proximity to where they live. Indeed, these restaurants are as much part of the fabric of British society as a local pub or post office.

Habib’s five surviving children went on to study and embark on professional careers in the health service, finance, engineering, and local government. They married and had children. Some stayed local to Manchester. Others moved away.

Selina, the firstborn and the namesake of the restaurant, was one who moved away. A new job took Ahsan to West Yorkshire, and in November 1986, Selina and little Shabnam joined him there. Exactly one year later, in the market town of Keighley, Selina and Ahsan welcomed their second child – another daughter who they named Shahnaz.

Part Four

This Land is My Land

Our education in English cuisine was largely facilitated through the school canteen

Selina was a teenager when she married Ahsan – a bespectacled university lecturer from Bangladesh with romantic dark curls and a long moustache. The marriage had been arranged by their respective families and took place in Bangladesh in October 1982. There are only a few photographs from their wedding day; all black-and-white prints taken by the only one of Ahsan’s friends who owned a camera. One of my favourite images shows my two grandfathers, Habib Ullah and Ahmad Ullah, embracing at the wedding feast.

There is a photograph of Ahsan dressed in his wedding finery, a folded handkerchief held over his mouth in a show of modesty. Another photo shows Selina, her heavily embroidered bridal scarf draped over her head, which is bowed so that you can only make out the bottom half of her face. There is a single portrait of the newlyweds seated beside each other, garlands around their necks, looking steadily ahead at the camera – solemn, serious – and, in my eyes now, so very young.

A few months after the wedding, Selina returned to England while Ahsan stayed in Bangladesh continuing his university teaching until his immigration paperwork was ready. In the year it took to finalise, Selina gave birth to their first daughter in November 1983. Ahsan did not meet baby Shabnam until she was nine months old; a recounted fact of family history that I took at face value as a child. But, now as a parent, it fills me with deep sadness at the sacrifice that my father, and so many other migrants have to endure: the milestones missed, the time lost.

When Ahsan first arrived in England in the winter of 1984, he moved into his in-laws’ three-bedroom house in Longsight, Manchester, joining his wife and baby daughter, along with Habib, Fatima and their five other children. I now reflect on the things he must have had to learn to navigate as an adult: getting used to speaking English on a daily basis, the dense bureaucracy of civic life, the public transport system, and searching for meaningful employment.

On my last visit home, Ammu was clearing out some cards and letters she had kept for years. Among the handmade birthday cards and Mother’s Day crafts, she handed me two sheets of folded white paper. You might want these, she said.

I opened them to reveal two identically worded handwritten letters that Selina had penned on behalf of Ahsan. They are addressed to the ‘Head of Faculty’ and concern the possibility of Ahsan pursuing doctoral research, and written with an eagerness and naivety that is both endearing and heartbreaking.

As you will probably understand, it is not possible for me to come down to London and study. However, I was thinking perhaps if I did the research by myself with the possibility of some guidance from a professor from the university, would you be willing to mark the thesis if I submitted it to you. I would be very grateful if you could guide me.

It could have all been so very different, had Abbu put himself and his own passions first. There was little opportunity for him to pursue his academic career in the UK: the only university offering doctorate level teaching and research in Bengali Literature was the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), and to pursue that, Ahsan would have had to uproot his wife and child and move them to London – or to continue a long-distance family set-up.

I can envision this alternate life fairly clearly: they would probably have settled in the East End of London somewhere, perhaps Whitechapel, Stepney, or the Isle of Dogs (Ahsan would have hated that name). Home would have been a flat in one of the many crowded high-rise blocks with little green space but a warm and solid Bangladeshi community around us.

But Ahsan put his academic ambitions to the back of his mind. Aside from the enquiry about distance research at SOAS, which led nowhere, Ahsan turned his attention to employment opportunities that would allow him to remain relatively close to his family, and made use of his primary unique asset: his language skills. Shortly after arriving in Manchester, Ahsan was invited for an interview at a Bangladeshi community centre that needed a bilingual community organiser.

He was nervous. Not only was this his first job interview in England; it was his very first interview. Selina, accompanying him to offer moral support, inadvertently impressed the hiring committee so much that they ended up offering her the position instead. She was hesitant about accepting the job, worrying that it might upset her husband, but Ahsan’s insistence that she take the role set a precedent for the supportive, encouraging dynamic of their partnership that continues to this day. Even now, Selina credits that early gesture in their marriage as being key to her career success.

Red rose, white rose

Ahsan’s quiet persistence eventually paid off. Casting a wider net beyond Manchester, he was able to secure a position in a Bangladeshi community centre in the West Yorkshire city of Bradford, about an hour and a half away by public transport, on the other side of the Pennines. Bradford felt more like a town than a city, to Ahsan’s relief. He had never been an urbanite, having avoided the crowded, bustling capital city of Dhaka during his time in Bangladesh. Manchester was too concrete, too built-up, and he missed the sight of hills and greenery. For several long months, Ahsan commuted between Manchester and Bradford but the journey was tiring and expensive. Much to Habib and Fatima’s sorrow, Ahsan, Selina, and little Shabnam moved to the inner city postcode of BD3.

Selina found the transition from diverse, metropolitan Manchester to sleepier, more folksy Bradford difficult at first. Where she had been used to a truly multicultural city, with long-established South Asian, African, Caribbean, Chinese, Arab, Vietnamese, and many other communities, Bradford was much more binary. People were either white or Asian. The latter of which was divided into a Pakistani majority, followed by a small Indian community, and an even smaller Bangladeshi population.

‘The fact that unless you left the area, you could go days without seeing a white person was just, well, I couldn’t comprehend it really,’ Selina reflects on some of her early experiences in the collection of Bradford women’s accounts, Our Stories, Our Lives, edited by Wahida Shaffi. It felt claustrophobic at times:

‘You had neighbours that were very interested in your lives […] The women had no barriers in terms of what they asked you – from how much you earned to what contraceptive you were using.’

But there was a sense of community too, that felt secure despite the potential for intrusiveness. Especially, Selina reflects, during the month of Ramadan when she felt ‘a sense of belonging because at a certain time in the evening when everyone was preparing to open their fast, you could smell the cooking, frying of food and everyone you knew was geared towards the same purpose, and they were all doing the same thing at the same time.’

Despite the adjustment it took, Selina and Ahsan could never have predicted how attached they would become to the Bradford district – two of their children, and three of their grandchildren would end up being born in the area. Selina has spent the majority of her career in the NHS and local government in Bradford, her accent even shifting from Mancunian to Brat’ferd, much to the amusement of her siblings.

Shortly before I was born, Abbu finally landed a teaching job in Keighley and the family moved again to the small market town that sits within the Bradford district. Ahsan liked Keighley, which sits nestled in the Aire Valley – it reminded him of home, with the rolling hills and the gruff, yet warm, townspeople – a contrast to the built-up environment of inner city Manchester.

For both Ahsan and Selina, this was the first time they had lived in such a Pakistani-centred community. Their neighbours were all Pakistani, their landlord – who also owned the butcher and grocery shop across the street – was Pakistani and charged a reasonable rent for their small terraced house, although the place lacked both central heating and a washing machine. Ammu washed my baby clothes by hand, hanging them on racks inside the living room to dry.

Ahsan taught Bangla at two of the local secondary schools, catering to the small population of students of Bangladeshi heritage and helping them to gain GCSE and A level qualifications in the language. He wrote and directed plays in Bangla and English for his students, and staged them at local theatres including a Bangla version of The Tempest. Ahsan became known universally as ‘Sir’, even by those he did not teach.

Working in a school provided Ahsan with an education that he had not fully anticipated. Perhaps the most painful realisation was that the status of teaching differed wildly between Bangladesh and Britain. The respect that Bangladeshi students had for their teachers was something Ahsan took for granted, and he was ill-prepared for the reality of teaching at an underfunded state school in post-Thatcher Britain. I witnessed the effects myself – I remember on one occasion, my father coming home with the back of his shirt covered in a weeping stain of blue-black ink, where a student had thrown a fountain pen cartridge at him. The humiliation and fury of having to deal with such behaviour from students, within a culture that was so different to his own, was exhausting and took up significant amounts of his time, and meant that Ahsan was unable to enjoy the thing that he enjoyed the most, which was to actually teach.

Alongside classroom management, Ahsan had to quickly grasp the politics of the staff room – in particular, the stinginess, as he put it, surrounding the highly contentious subject of milk ownership. Even now, he occasionally brings up the fact that his former colleagues would write labels warning ‘HANDS OFF’ and stick them to their cartons of milk in the communal fridge – a testament to how shocking he found this level of individualism. His suggestion that the staff club together for a communal shared kitty was laughed off. The pettiness of tea and coffee supplies, however, paled into insignificance compared to the instances of racism he witnessed and experienced.

One Christmas, a new teacher of Barbadian heritage suggested that the staff exchange Secret Santa gifts. The colleagues all joined in, and it seemed as though a pleasant, new tradition had been established. The following year, the exchange was repeated, with all the teachers eagerly opening their gifts in front of one another in the staff room. The Barbadian teacher who had introduced Secret Santa to the school unwrapped her beautifully presented gift. Abbu’s voice shook when he later recounted to us what happened. The ‘gift’, amidst layers of coloured wrapping paper, was a brick.

Not a single member of staff said a word, my father recalls. Not even the senior leadership. ‘Had I other means’, he told us, ‘I would have resigned on the spot.’

Selina and Ahsan were curiously observed as newcomers to a tight-knit town: people commented on the fact that Selina wore saris around town, her long black hair woven into a thick braid that hung down the length of her back – unusual for a community where most women covered their hair with a dupatta and wore shalwar kameez. But they were soon embedded into the local community, Ahsan through his teaching and Selina through her job as manager and later Chair of the Keighley Asian Women and Children’s Centre. As well as running a nursery (which all three of Selina and Ahsan’s daughters attended), the centre offered English lessons, exercise classes, Urdu classes, Qur’an classes, a girls’ group, summer school, and various fairs and events for local women, including a charity fashion show that Selina and her colleagues walked the catwalk for, modelling the latest Asian trends.

A driving mission of the centre was a celebration of both being Asian and being women. And food was an integral part of expressing this: there were many potluck parties where cumin and pea-studded pilau was served alongside a yoghurty raita of tomatoes and cucumber, spicy flat chapli kebabs, and saag gosht – lamb cooked with spinach in a thick saalan. It was my early education in Pakistani cuisine and how the same ingredients that we used at home could be deployed slightly differently – heavier on the cumin, lighter on the citrus – to create a whole new range of flavours.

The ‘aunties’

Living within this close-knit community, it was natural that some of my earliest caregivers were my Pakistani ‘aunties’ – and that I would absorb their culture and language with enjoyment. I could speak basic Punjabi as a toddler and learnt Urdu nursery rhymes – my penchant for samosas, roti, and dal reflected my Pakistani-infused upbringing.

Aunty Azizun was a childminder who fostered children from Pakistani and mixed-heritage backgrounds, and we spent school holidays with her. The living room of her terraced house always smelled of comfort: fresh laundry and the aroma of eggs frying in butter. I have memories of being dropped off by Ammu, in the winter early mornings when it was still dark outside, and being given our breakfast – hot Weetabix with milk, or flaky flatbread and eggs. When Aunty Azizun looked after us during the summer holidays, she would give each of us 5p to buy an ice-pop from the ice cream van that came cruising down the back terraces every afternoon.

Aunty Baqia worked with Ammu at the Centre and was known to be an excellent cook among her peers. She often shared her lunch with me, even though I had my own. I distinctly remember an occasion when I was about four, when she was looking after me while Ammu was in a meeting. I asked if she had any dal and chapati. She didn’t, but obligingly took me around to several different friend’s houses where we feasted on dal and chapati at each one. The child is hungry, she’d say, pointing at me while I dutifully played my part looking mournful. We both tucked into steaming hot plates of spicy chana dal seasoned heavily with coriander and cumin – earthier and thicker than the Bangladeshi style dal I was used to at home – and chapatis rolled and cooked fresh off the tawa by our obliging hosts. When we finished our plates, we bade a cheerful goodbye and went on to the next house.

One of the most beautiful Pakistani–Yorkshire mash-ups that changed all our lives for the better was the spicy jacket potato. Both Aunty Baqia and Aunty Mahroof, Ammu’s best friend, lay claim to inventing this, and it is an argument that I am firmly staying out of. What I will say is that both versions are delicious. From what I recall, Aunty Baqia made hers with a keema filling, while Aunty Mahroof favoured tuna spiced with green chillies and onion – both versions used liberal quantities of sharp Cheddar cheese.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, one of my few insatiable cravings was for Aunty Mahroof’s hot tuna and cheese stuffed potatoes. With the love that only an aunty can give, she came over when I was visiting Ammu and Abbu with a whole Tupperware box full of these wonderful creations. I can’t remember if I shared them with anyone at the time, but with her permission, I am sharing her recipe for them here.

Aunty Mahroof’s tuna jacket potatoes

Makes 4 (or enough for one pregnant woman)

When I asked Aunty Mahroof to share her recipe for this book, she laughed and laughed, seemingly amused that I would require instruction as to how to make something so simple. But I’m glad I persevered as one always gets vital details from recipes that are narrated – tips that would usually go unwritten but are useful in recreating a dish. I present here the recipe, plus notes, as close to the original as I can muster.

Ingredients

2 large baking potatoes (about 340g each)

sunflower oil

2 tbsp butter

1 small white onion (about 110g), finely chopped

2 × 145g tins of tuna chunks, drained

pinch of ground coriander (not too much – just enough for the scent)

2 green chillies, finely chopped

100g of tinned sweetcorn, drained

40g white Cheddar cheese, grated

Preheat your oven to 200°C.

Scrub, dry, and prick the potatoes all over and rub the skins with a little sunflower oil and some salt. Bake them for around 2 hours, until soft inside and the skins are crunchy and brown.

Meanwhile, heat the butter in a frying pan and sauté the onions until soft and golden. Add the tuna and fry off for a couple of minutes to get rid of the ‘raw’ scent. Add the ground coriander, chillies, and sweetcorn and cook for a further couple of minutes.

Remove the potatoes from the oven and while they are still hot, cut in half lengthways before scooping out the flesh, leaving the skins intact. Put the potato in a bowl and arrange the skins on a lined baking tray. Add the tuna-onion mix to the potato and mash well. Add the cheese and stir through. Refill the potato skins with the mashed tuna-potato mixture and sprinkle with a little extra cheese. Cook under a hot grill for about 4–5 minutes or until the tops are golden and bubbling.

School dinners

Because our family only ate halal meat and didn’t frequent pubs and suchlike, we did not have much opportunity to eat ‘authentic’ English fare, which meant our education in English cuisine was largely facilitated through the school canteen. We marvelled at dishes such as cheese whirl, mashed potato, sponge pudding and custard. We would then recreate these dishes at home, with a little deshi spin of course.

______

Keema shepherd’s pie

spicy minced lamb with potato

Serves 4–6

Keema is the ultimate South Asian comfort dish: warming spices, tender minced lamb, and little pops of sweet green peas – best enjoyed with a wholewheat roti or fresh basmati rice. This recipe pairs a traditional keema recipe with creamy, cheesy mashed potato for the most glorious of Anglo-Asian fusion foods. I associate this dish with autumn weekend afternoons at my parents’ house – best followed by a family snooze in front of the fire with the television peacefully chattering away in the background.

Ingredients

for the mince

2 tbsp sunflower oil

500g minced lamb (with a good amount of fat on it)

1 large white onion (about 260g), finely diced

2–3 garlic cloves, crushed (or 1 tsp shop-bought paste)

3cm ginger, grated (or 1 tsp shop-bought paste)

1 green chilli (optional), finely sliced

2 carrots, diced into 1cm pieces

2 large tomatoes (about 450g) chopped roughly

1 tbsp tomato purée

160g frozen peas

1 tsp salt

whole spices

4cm piece of cassia bark or whole cinnamon

1 black cardamom

3 green cardamom pods

2 bay leaves

ground spices

1 tsp ground turmeric

1 tsp hot paprika

1 tsp Kashmiri chilli

1 tsp ground cumin

1 tsp ground coriander

for the topping

1.2kg floury potatoes (Maris Pipers or King Edwards work well)

50g butter

30ml milk

75g mature cheddar cheese, grated

15g coriander, finely chopped

black pepper

Heat the sunflower oil over a medium heat in an ovenproof casserole dish. Add the whole spices and fry for 30 seconds or so until the aroma is released. Add the mince and brown all over. Add the onion, garlic, ginger, green chilli, and ground spices, and stir-fry for a couple of minutes. Stir in the carrots, tomatoes and tomato purée, reduce the heat to medium-low, cover the pan with a lid and cook for 20 minutes. Stir through the frozen peas – at this point, try and take out as much of the whole spices (cardamom, bay, cinnamon) as you can but don’t worry too much if you can’t retrieve them all. Remove the casserole dish from the heat.

While the mince is simmering, peel the potatoes and cut each into about 6 even-sized pieces. Boil in a large plan of salted water until soft. Once cooked, drain the potatoes and return them to the pan. Add the butter, milk and stir through two-thirds of the grated cheese. Mash until smooth, adding a little more milk and butter if needed.

To assemble the pie, evenly spread the mince across the bottom of the casserole dish. Then arrange the mashed potatoes in an even layer over the top, covering all the mince. Score lightly with a fork to create a crosshatch pattern – this will also crisp up in the oven and create a nice crunch. Sprinkle over the remaining cheese, coriander, and some freshly ground black pepper. Finish with a drizzle of olive oil to help the topping crisp up.

Bake uncovered at 200ºC for 30 minutes until the potato is golden brown and the mince is bubbling. Serve with a leafy green salad.

______

Cheese and pickle pinwheels

Makes 12 pinwheels

Inspired by the school dinner classic, cheese whirl, these pinwheels make an easy savoury snack and are a firm favourite for ‘Anglo-Asian afternoon tea’ in our house. You can mix up the fillings too – try using red onion and leftover keema with the cheese, or shredded leftover tandoori chicken.

Ingredients

1× 320g sheet shop-bought puff pastry

1 egg, beaten

1½ tbsp Patak’s mixed pickle (other achar-type pickles can be substituted if necessary)

75g mature cheddar cheese, grated

3 spring onions, finely chopped

Lay the puff pastry on a sheet of baking paper with the widest part facing towards you – the paper it comes in will do. Brush the entire surface with a thin wash of beaten egg, leaving a 1cm border on all sides.

Bash the pickle in a pestle and mortar, so that it is still chunky but more uniformly sized. Spread the pickle all over the pastry. Sprinkle the cheese on top, followed by the spring onions. Starting from the bottom of the pasty facing you, carefully and evenly roll the pastry upwards until it resembles a Swiss roll. Tuck in the edges of the roll pat down to seal the pastry. Using a sharp knife, cut the roll into 12 even-sized rounds.

Take each cut piece and flatten them slightly between your hands. Arrange each pinwheel on a lined baking tray and brush all over with the remaining egg. Bake at 200ºC for 12–15 minutes until golden brown and bubbling. Remove from the oven and leave to cool on the tray before transferring to a serving plate.

______

Although a hot school dinner of oily, floppy pizza slices or burgers wrapped in greaseproof paper was always preferred, for the most part my sisters and I were given packed lunches to take to school. Ammu made them for all of us every morning, including Abbu, who also got the addition of a flask of hot, homemade tea (thereby avoiding the staff room milk wars). Our lunches were always the same: a brown wholemeal bap with a rotating cast of sandwich fillings; a clementine or an apple; some sort of lunchbox mini chocolate bar like a Club (orange flavour only), Rocky (I liked the caramel ones), Penguin, or a Trio (the one with the iconic and very annoying jingle); and sometimes a packet of Walkers crisps (red or green for me). Although the different components did get repetitive, the fillings were at least varied and, in retrospect, I am impressed that Selina found the energy to put the effort into making them, instead of resorting to a Kraft cheese slice, or a smear of Dairylea.

Sandwich fillings

Classics

Tuna sweetcorn mayo

Very finely dice ¼ green pepper and ½ red onion. Place the diced pepper in a bowl, along with a tin of drained tuna and a tablespoon or two of drained tinned sweetcorn. Add 2 tablespoons of good-quality mayonnaise (Hellmann’s, always – but the Aldi one is also great). Season with freshly ground black pepper, a squeeze of lemon, and some finely chopped coriander. Stir very well until almost mashed together. Spread on a wholemeal roll slathered with butter.

Cheese pepper mayo

Very finely dice ¼ red or orange pepper and ½ red onion. Place in a bowl, along with a couple of handfuls of grated mature cheddar cheese. Add 2 tablespoons of good-quality mayonnaise. Season with freshly ground black pepper and stir very well until almost mashed together. Spread on a wholemeal roll slathered with butter.

The Selina special

We loved days where we were given the ‘Selina special’ sandwich. This was usually after special occasions when we had lots of leftover tandoori chicken: the perfect minimal effort, maximum reward sandwich filling.

Take two slices of wholemeal or white sliced bread. Thickly spread the butter – I loved finding little pats of butter that weren’t quite spread out. Arrange chunks of leftover tandoori chicken (here) on one slice of bread. On the other slice, spread a teaspoon of Patak’s mixed pickle. If you like, you can add a squeeze of good-quality mayonnaise over the chicken. Press the pickle-spread slice of bread over the other one. Cut in half and enjoy with some ready salted crisps on the side.

______

A-grade leftovers

When Selina didn’t have the time or energy to make them from scratch, she often fell back on using leftover vegetable bazi as a sandwich filling. Much to our mortification, the turmeric-stained oil would occasionally leak through the cling film into our lunchboxes. But they were delicious and now, as a mother, I recognize what a saving grace these options must have been on busy mornings. I have listed where to find those A-grade leftovers in the pages of The Jackfruit Chronicles below for you.

Aloo aar oori bazi

potato and green bean stir-fry

Maach bora

tuna cakes (here) – especially good in a pitta

Dim biran

spicy omelette (here)

______

Despite my mother’s best efforts, like all children, I did get bored of having the same lunches. I lusted after my classmates’ Dairylea Lunchables, Peperami, and even the boiled eggs some of them used to bring in. But nothing piqued my envy quite as much as one particular lunchbox that has gone down in family legend …

Allahditta’s lunchbox

The first primary school I attended until the age of six was in a predominantly Asian part of the town, where the majority of children went home at lunchtime and then returned in the afternoon. My sister and I were among the few children who stayed at school and had either a hot dinner from the canteen or took our own packed lunches in. I loved the hot dinners: the savoury (halal) beef mince with carrots and peas, or fish fingers and chips, and the sweet coconut jam sponge and custard for afters. Shabnam preferred having sandwiches, so we often alternated between the two options. Each week the children had to tell the teacher which of the options we were taking: going home, having a school dinner, or bringing in a packed lunch – and she would make a note of it on the chart in her classroom for the week. The children with packed lunches would stack their lunchboxes in a crate in the corner of the classroom that would be carried to the dining hall just before noon by a couple of the older kids.

One day, one of the boys who regularly went home for lunch proudly announced that he was staying at school for lunch that day. When the teacher asked where his lunchbox was, he said that his mum would bring it at lunchtime for him. His name was Allahditta, which literally translates to ‘God gave him (to us)’, and his mother’s adoration of him became all the more apparent when his lunch was delivered to the dining hall that day.

I remember opening my green teddy bear lunchbox and unwrapping my sandwich, while watching Allahditta across the table with his fire-engine red lunchbox with a white handle. He opened it with the flair of a magician opening his box of tricks – and it truly was a sight to behold. He unwrapped a foil packet to reveal four fish fingers, still hot from the pan, and another packet with yellow, golden chips. A small Tupperware box contained steaming-hot baked beans. In another compartment was a huge keema-stuffed samosa, a flat chapli kebab, and two warm, soft chapatis – with coriander and yoghurt chutney in another small Tupperware. For dessert he had two full-sized chocolate bars – and to drink, a 500ml bottle of name-brand Coke. The rest of the kids, including me, stared open-mouthed with every hot, lovingly prepared treat he pulled out of the magic lunchbox.

When I got home that afternoon, I regaled my mum with what Allahditta had brought in for lunch. Her amusement was more at my response to this lunchbox of legends, than to the fact that Allahditta’s mum had flouted every convention as to what a packed lunch is supposed to be. Every kid around that table felt the same potent cocktail of emotions when they witnessed Allahditta’s spectacular unboxing: envy at the wide array of delicious foods, a mild embarrassment on his behalf that his mum had brought in his lunchbox – especially so that the food would remain hot – and, on some level, we all felt the devotion that was packed into that box alongside the food.

I still think of Allahditta and his mum occasionally. Years later, Ammu revealed that Allahditta’s mother had tried for a long time before conceiving her son, so he truly was God’s blessing to her. And she certainly made him feel it, every day. Even to my six-year-old eyes, that much was palpable.

Moving house

Just before I turned seven, we moved house. My parents had bought their dream home in a different part of town to where we previously lived: a four-bedroomed semi with a large garden. Even though we moved less than two miles away, it felt like an entirely different world. We went from back-to-back terraces with tiny yards, where kids played football in the streets and you could smell what delicious things the neighbours were cooking for dinner, to a more affluent area where children played in their gardens or the huge field across the road from our house. I felt as though I was in an Enid Blyton novel, with squirrels visiting our garden, which had a frog pond, apple trees, a plum tree, a blackcurrant bush, and three large vegetable plots, as well as a long, lush lawn.

Even more significant was the shift in demographics. In our old house, all our neighbours were either Pakistani or Bangladeshi, and the primary school we attended had a pupil population that was 99 per cent Asian. In our new house, the neighbours on both sides – and beyond – were all white and middle class: teachers, computer programmers, business owners, writers, and so on. And the new school that I had to attend was more different still: a Roman Catholic primary school where I was one of only four Asian Muslim students in the year. St Anne’s was just a five-minute walk from our new house and was supposedly a higher rated OFSTED school than our previous one: in part because the Catholic school drew from a catchment where the families were slightly better off. It seemed to my parents that moving schools was the best decision: both in terms of convenience, and for our education.

But Ammu and Abbu had no way of knowing how much of a culture shock the change of schools would be. It opened my eyes – not always gently – to an entirely different way of teaching, rooted in an emphasis on discipline, obedience, and a focus on religion that dealt in the currency of sin and shame, even for children. I remember being horrified when our headmistress informed us that we were all born with ‘original sin’: a belief which is antithetical to the Islamic position that we enter this world in a state of purity and innocence. My sisters and I went along to mass and politely observed the prayers, joining in with the bits that did not contradict our Muslim faith. We recited the Lord’s Prayer but not the Hail Mary, and we didn’t make the sign of the cross, but we did join in with saying grace before and after meals.

Our parents were incredibly open-minded: Ammu, having attended Church of England schools in her own childhood, had a soft spot for hymns, and Abbu had grown up with Hindu schoolmates and neighbours, some of whom were his lifelong friends. We were told by our parents that we all worshipped the same God and so we could pray alongside our peers, although the concept of the Trinity did cause some consternation: despite my incessant questioning, none of my teachers were able to satisfactorily explain to me how one god could be made up of three different parts.

The school Shabnam and I previously attended, Eastwood Primary, was in a more deprived area, with many pupils being eligible for free school meals. It seemed to attract teachers who were compassionate, who cared deeply for the children they looked after, and who understood the social and economic context and the cultural backgrounds that the children hailed from. There was no uniform, although in an interesting nod to the Muslim culture (that may have been entirely coincidental) there was a policy of having indoor and outdoor shoes – we all removed our outdoor shoes after playtime, slipping into our comfortable indoor pumps for the classroom. But the children were met and welcomed as they were.

By comparison, St Anne’s, was – if I had to use a single word – cold. Although I wore the maroon and grey uniform and learnt how to tie a proper tie at the age of six, I always felt as though I was on the back foot, that there was some cultural chasm I wasn’t quite able to bridge. Some teachers were more welcoming than others, but several of the staff were outright hostile, and – I say this now with the hindsight of being an adult – borderline abusive. One teacher denied any child access to the toilets outside of break time, which led to six-year-old children wetting themselves in the classroom: a crime for which she would then publicly humiliate them. There was a heavy emphasis on good and evil, which perhaps ought not to have been a huge surprise, but a school repeatedly flagging the errors of children as being sinful – while teachers acted with toxic impunity – is something that I have only grown increasingly contemptuous towards.

Stealth pig

A different example of the cultural chasm manifested itself, once again, at the lunch table. It is a truth (that ought to be) universally acknowledged that a child in possession of a packed lunch will inevitably at some point swap items of that lunch with another child. My most memorable swap was with Sarah Jones. If there was a ‘Little Girl in the 1990s aesthetic’ bingo, blue-eyed, sandy-haired Sarah, owner of a pink and purple My Little Pony heart-shaped lunchbox, would have bagged a full house in no time.

Sarah always had egg mayonnaise sandwiches on white bread with the crusts cut off (an indulgence that I knew Ammu would have scoffed at had I requested the same: It’s a waste of perfectly good bread). I liked egg sandwiches as much as the next person, but it was a different type of egg that caused my ultimate downfall. In the corner of Sarah’s lunchbox was a tantalising, golden-crumbed sphere. Sarah caught me looking. Do you want it? she offered. I asked what it was. A Scotch egg, she replied. But I don’t like them. I asked if there was meat in it. I don’t think so, she concluded. It’s egg. To make things fair, I offered Sarah some of my sandwich – one of my favourites, the Selina special. Sarah turned it down, wrinkling her cute button nose. It smells spicy.

I bit into that Scotch egg and it was the most delicious thing. How can egg taste this good? I asked myself. I resolved to tell Abbu about this remarkable food, knowing he would then forever buy it from the supermarket (a predictable consequence of ever disclosing to Abbu a foodstuff that we liked, and the reason we all ended up tiring of madeira cake, cherry loaf, and apple turnovers, to name but a few … ). Excitedly, that night I told Abbu about this amazing, breadcrumbed egg I had tasted at school. I saw his face fall. She offered it to me! I quickly reassured him. I didn’t ask.

Abbu was always minding us to be polite, and not, as Ammu used to say in her Mancunian slang, ‘scavs’, like the kids in the playground who’d merrily scoff their own packets of crisps before going around begging scraps off everyone else.

Abbu shook his head sadly. Oh Baba, he said. I could read the pain in his eyes, but couldn’t understand why he seemed so upset. It happened to you too.

It was then that I learnt that Abbu and I had both fallen foul of the same fateful scourge: stealth pig hiding in items that we had no idea contained this forbidden meat. Abbu’s fall had taken place in the school canteen many years before. Cleverly disguised where we naive beings never expected it to be, we unwittingly consumed the forbidden meat – lurking in cheese (and ham) sandwiches in the canteen fridge, or minced and wrapped around an egg – an innocent egg – growing lonely in the corner of Sarah Jones’ lunchbox.

I brushed my teeth so hard that night, trying to rid my mouth of any trace of the treacherous egg, like a mother admonishing a child for swearing with a bar of soap. The memory of the taste that I had enjoyed so much turned rotten on my tongue.

It took a while to get over the embarrassment. Ammu found it highly amusing that both Abbu and I had fallen prey to stealth pig. In time, I was eventually able to move on, finding solace in the familiar (and entirely halal) aloo chop; a comforting meat and potato cutlet that we especially enjoy at Eid.

Aloo chop

stuffed potato cutlets (not a ‘Scotch egg’…)

Makes 8–10 chops

‘Chop’ or ‘chaap’ are a distinctly Bengali take on cutlets. They are usually fashioned from mashed potato and stuffed with fish, egg, lamb, or beef, before being breadcrumbed and fried. Although time consuming to make, they are absolutely delicious and the effort that goes into them is always appreciated. On the night before Eid, I often stay up with Ammu and my sisters, and we make huge trays of chops between chatting and wrapping gifts that we have left until the last minute. These keep well in the fridge and stand up to being reheated, although my favourite way to enjoy them is cold, standing in the kitchen once all the guests have gone home.

Ingredients

1.2kg floury white potatoes (King

Edward, Maris Piper)

2–3 shallots (about 300g), very finely diced

½ tsp salt

2 green chillies, finely chopped

15g coriander, finely chopped

1 quantity of your chosen filling (see note below)

2 tbsp rice flour or cornflour

2 large eggs, beaten

200g breadcrumbs, bought or homemade (I like the golden shop-bought ones)

sunflower oil, for frying

Peel and chop the potatoes into large chunks and boil until tender – about 15 minutes. Drain the potatoes and steam well in a colander over the hot pan so that as much water as possible evaporates. Put the potatoes in a large bowl with the shallots, green chillies, and coriander, and mash until very well combined.

Take a golf ball-sized amount of potato mixture and flatten into a disc about 2cm thick and 5cm wide. Take a teaspoon of your choice of filling and place in the centre of the disc. Make another circle of potato and layer this piece over the top. Seal the edges with your hands and form into a rounded cutlet shape. Repeat until all the potato and filling mixture is used up. Place each cutlet on a tray lined with baking paper and chill in the fridge for 30 minutes before frying.

When ready to fry, take each chop and dust with rice or cornflour, then coat it in the beaten egg, and finally the breadcrumbs. Heat the oil in a wide, shallow frying pan until sizzling. Fry the chops for 3–4 minutes on each side until the outside is golden and crunchy.

To make the lamb mince filling

Sauté one finely diced medium white onion (190g) with one teaspoon garlic-ginger paste. Add 250g lamb mince and half a teaspoon of salt and cook for about 5 minutes. Add one teaspoon each of turmeric, ground cumin, ground coriander, and chilli powder. Cover and cook over a medium heat for 30 minutes, then allow to cool.

To make the egg filling

Boil six eggs until hard. Allow to cool, then peel and grate or chop the eggs. Mix with two tablespoons of finely chopped coriander, two tablespoons finely chopped spring onion, two minced green chillies, a pinch of salt. Mix with your hands, squeezing until combined.

To make the tuna filling

Combine two 145g tins of well-drained tuna with two tablespoons of finely chopped coriander, two tablespoons of finely chopped spring onion, two minced green chillies, and a pinch of salt. Mix with your hands, squeezing until combined.

Matir maya

‘Matir maya’ means ‘love for the earth’ and is a quintessentially Bengali expression. The reality of this sentiment is evident in every corner of the globe where Bengalis reside: from the balconies of high-rise apartment blocks in Jackson Heights, New York, to suburban allotments in sleepy British towns. It doesn’t matter how much or how little land they have, deshis will grow something – flowers, fruit, vegetables – in whatever space is available to them.

When we moved house, the biggest difference was suddenly having a garden. It was a long, Edwardian-style plot with a narrow lawn, established fruit trees, bedding plants, and shrubs in the flowerbeds. The most exciting part for me was the swing set that came with the house, but for my father it was the three vegetable beds that had been built out of railway sleepers by the previous owner.

In these plots, Abbu planted potatoes, onions, spinach, radishes, beans and tomatoes, and Ammu cooked them for us: peppery red radishes sliced in salads or cooked in a mixed stir-fry known as niramish; mustard leaves sautéed with crispy fried tuna; broad onion stalks, chopped and lightly fried with finely sliced potato, garlic and lemon juice. One year, Abbu spelled out Ammu’s name in coriander seeds that he planted in one of the vegetable plots, a secret only revealed when the tiny green shoots emerged, demonstrating his characteristically Bengali sentimentality.

I helped Abbu weed and water, although I disliked catching sight of the occasional pink, wriggling worm when digging. But what I enjoyed the most was helping Ammu cook what we had grown – like the kitchen garden in our bari in Bangladesh, the produce from our English garden was best cooked simply and wholesomely.

Aloo aar oori bazi

potato and green bean stir-fry

Serves 4 as a side

I associate this dish with memories of school holidays spent at Nanu and Nana Bhai’s house. My aunties would make this dish for our breakfast – we would scoop up the soft, golden potatoes with fluffy porothas. It also makes a tasty light lunch with rice or an accompaniment to any main meal. It can also be made with finely sliced leeks instead of the beans, or with just plain potatoes. The waxier varieties of potatoes produce a firmer textured dish while floury ones are mushier – both are delicious, so it is entirely the chef’s prerogative to choose.

Ingredients

500g white potatoes (any variety or size - I prefer the smaller ones) skins left on

200g green beans (such as runner beans, mangetout, or sugarsnaps)

sunflower oil

½ tsp salt

½ tsp ground turmeric

½ tsp red chilli powder

2 green chillies, slit lengthways into 2 or 3 pieces

2–3 garlic cloves

Scrub and wash the potatoes in cold water. Slice the potatoes into long pieces about 3cm long and 4mm thick. Top and tail the beans, removing any tough stringy bits, and shred finely.

Add enough oil to cover the bottom of a large, wide sauté pan and heat the oil over a gentle heat. Once warm, fry off the garlic for a couple of minutes before adding the salt and spices. Stir in the potatoes and green beans, cover with a lid and cook on low for about 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. The dish is ready when the vegetables are tender and there are some crispy parts on the potatoes. Serve with rice or porothas hot from the pan (see below).

______

Aunty Aneesa’s porothas

Makes about 6–8

Bengali porothas are made with white wheat flour (maida) unlike their Pakistani and Indian counterparts, which are made with wholemeal atta. I associate these porotha with school holidays at Nanu and Nana Bhai’s house, when we would feast on them for breakfast: either with aloo bazi (see previous page), leftover lamb curry (here) or simply sprinkled with sugar and rolled up. When I asked Aunty Aneesa for her signature recipe (at 10 p.m. over WhatsApp) she promptly whipped up a batch there and then, weighing everything out and even taking videos of the process so I could see the correctly formed dough. She added a very important note: ‘First one is always a test – so put that in your recipe – and usually inedible and ugly.’ Such wisdom can be applied to many other facets of life. Thank you to Aneesa and all the other aunties who pass on their wisdom both in and out of the kitchen.

Ingredients

210g self-raising flour

½ tsp salt (or a little less)

2 tbsp sunflower oil

100ml boiling water

50ml cold water (not ice water)

sunflower oil or ghee, for frying

Place the flour in a mixing bowl and drizzle over the oil. With your hands, work the oil into the flour to achieve a grainy, sand-like texture. In a measuring jug, combine both the boiling water and cold water and stir – the water should be quite hot (not lukewarm) but comfortable enough to handle. Little by little, add the water to the dough and mix with your hand to form a soft, sticky dough. When it comes together in a loose ball, turn it onto a floured surface and knead for another couple of minutes – it should be soft, stretchy, and pliable, and will leave an indentation of your fingertip when pressed. Cover with a tea towel and leave to rest for 30 minutes.

Divide the dough into 6–8 pieces, each weighing about 50g, and roll with your hands to make a long sausage shape about 10cm long. Coil the dough tightly into a circle shape, a bit like a cinnamon roll, tucking the end piece back into the middle. Flip over and press down with your hands to seal the coil. Now use a rolling pin to flatten the dough into a round shape, about 12cm in diameter and 3mm thick. Make sure the edges are not thicker than the middle of each disc, as the dough tends to shrink a little after rolling. If this happens, just flatten the edges of the porotha and stretch it out a little with your hands, as you would with a pizza.

When you are ready to fry, heat a tablespoon of oil in a frying pan until very hot. (Too much oil can make the bread greasy.) Carefully place a porotha into the pan and cook for a minute or so on each side – the porotha should blister and swell a little. Flip and fry on the other side until golden brown in parts. The flatbread should be flaky when torn, and soft inside. Repeat the rolling and frying of the porotha. It works better if you fry right after rolling before the dough can shrink or, better yet, work in a team with one person rolling and the other frying – a great chance to have a natter while creating something delicious.

Foler chatni

fruit chutney

Makes several jars, depending on the size of your jars

This is such an easy way of preserving a glut of fruit from the garden. The plum tree in Abbu’s garden always yields an abundance of fruit from which Ammu makes this chutney. It can be stored in the fridge for several months, just make sure the jars are properly cleaned and sterilised.

Ingredients

2kg plums or other fruit

25ml sunflower oil

10 garlic cloves, crushed

6 green chillies, sliced

3 tsp panch puron

1½ tsp salt

2 tsp sugar

juice of 2 lemons

Prepare the plums by removing the stones and roughly chopping them into chunks. In a medium saucepan, heat the oil over a medium heat and add the garlic and chillies and fry until slightly golden. Add the panch puron and stir for a few seconds. Stir in the plums, salt, sugar, and lemon juice. Lower heat and cover with lid. Simmer for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.

The chutney should be thick, almost jam like in consistency – you can add a little water if necessary. Transfer to clean, sterilised jars and store in the fridge for up to three months – or better still, distribute to friends, family and neighbours.

Serve as an accompaniment to biryani, fried snacks or bora.

For other variations, simply swap the plums out for 2kg of a different fruit. If you have other soft stone fruits, like peaches or nectarines, available follow the same method outlined above before adding them to the pan. For apples: peel, core, and chop them. Gooseberries can be used whole.

______

Niramish

kitchen garden stir-fry

Serves 4–6 as a side

Niramish is sort of like the Bengali ratatouille and is the easiest, one-dish way of making use of whatever vegetables you have to hand: potatoes, cauliflower, carrots, peas and so on. The key is to make sure you add the vegetables in the estimated order of how long they take to cook so that everything ends up ready at the same time. When calculating weights of vegetables, be mindful that denser vegetables such as potatoes and carrots will be heavier than peppers, so for this dish especially, I tend to go by eye rather than the scales.

Ingredients

2 tbsp sunflower oil

5–6 spring onions, white and green parts, sliced and separated

2 garlic cloves, crushed

1 tsp salt

1 tsp ground turmeric

ó tsp chilli powder

1 tsp panch puron

2 green chillies (optional), sliced

2 tbsp coriander, finely chopped

assorted vegetables such as:

1 medium potato (about 260g), peeled and cut into 2cm chunks

2 carrots, peeled and cut into even-sized batons

1 small cauliflower, broken into even-sized florets

handful of green beans, top and tailed and each cut into 3 pieces

1 red pepper, deseeded and cut into thin strips

In a large pan or wok with a lid, heat the sunflower oil over a medium heat and add the white part of the spring onions and the garlic. Sauté for a couple of minutes and then add the salt, turmeric, chilli powder, panch puron, and green chilli (if using). Fry for another 30 seconds. Add the potatoes and a splash of water, stir, cover, and cook on a low heat for about 8 minutes. Add the cauliflower and carrots, stirring well to ensure the vegetables are well coated in the spices. Cover and cook for another 8 or so minutes. Stir in the green beans and red pepper, cover and cook for further 7–8 minutes until the vegetables are tender.

Finally, stir through the green spring onions and coriander, remove from the heat and serve.

Time for tea

Moving to a new area meant making new friends and getting to know our neighbours. For the first time ever, we were being invited to ‘tea’ at our white English friends’ houses. I soon learnt that their ‘tea’ and our ‘tea’ were very different things.

My understanding of tea-as-a-meal came from the weekend afternoons when my mum would whip up a batch of something crunchy and delicious, like deep-fried fritters made from crushed lentils or fish pakoras, alongside some spicy chickpeas or egg vermicelli noodles. We would eat it in the living room, my parents with their cups of strong milky tea.

But for our English friends, ‘tea’ meant the daily evening meal, eaten around six o’clock and consisting of foods that Abbu would have considered snacks rather than being a proper meal: beans or spaghetti hoops on toast; oven chips with fish fingers and peas; frozen mini pizzas. Tinned spaghetti was hugely exotic for me and my sisters – we never had it at home – and I remember marvelling at the different novelty shapes available, from the alphabet to Postman Pat.

I loved being invited to other people’s houses for tea because it meant having something other than the curry and rice that we had daily at home. Although Abbu was appalled that we were often served two types of carbohydrate in a sweetened tomato sauce for our evening meal – he always asked if we wanted to eat again when we came home from our English friends’ houses – I found it exciting. What I didn’t like, was when I was cheated out of my dose of what I thought was ‘proper’ English food – I still remember the disappointment when a friend’s mum tried to make a vegetable curry in my honour and served it with overcooked, mushy rice and I almost cried trying to force it down so as not to be rude. Or another time when a different friend’s mum served a rice salad which consisted of Uncle Ben’s American long-grain rice mixed with tinned tuna, chopped olives, kidney beans, and red peppers that was served, to my horror, cold. I had never had cold rice before – in Bangladeshi culture it is always served piping hot, and always cooked fresh in honour of guests.

When we had friends over, Ammu and Abbu would often treat it as an opportunity to introduce our friends to our way of eating – something they occasionally got a taste of when we shared the contents of our lunchboxes at school: one of Shabnam’s best friends, Jodie, had a particular fondness for Ammu’s aloo bazi sandwiches. For ‘tea’ Ammu would make something recognisable like pasta or noodles with deshi flavours, and we always served mangoes and cream for dessert. Our friends loved it.

Dalchini aar dim noodles

egg and cinnamon noodles

Serves 4 as a snack

Whenever I ask my family members for a recipe, there is an understanding that we will use ‘antaz’ – the South Asian art of estimation in cookery. Instead of providing each other with accurate weights and measures, we deal in approximations. This isn’t because we are protective over our recipes or want to withhold precious information: it’s because most of us cook by eye, and assume that the person we are sharing the information with can interpret it the same way. When I asked Ammu for her recipe for this dish, her response included the encouraging caveat: It’s dead easy. She gave no quantities, typically, assuming I would have the wherewithal to guesstimate with a degree of success. For the reader unfamiliar with the Ahsan-family art of antaz, I have taken Ammu’s basic instructions and provided a more detailed recipe below.

Ingredients

4 nests (about 300g) vermicelli (use the Italian wheat variety, rather than the extra-fine Chinese rice vermicelli) or fine egg noodles

2–3 tbsp sunflower oil

1 shallot or small onion (110g), finely chopped

2 green chillies, sliced lengthways into 4 pieces

2 fat garlic cloves, finely chopped

2 × 4cm pieces of cassia bark or whole cinnamon

½ tsp ground turmeric

½ tsp salt

6 large eggs

2 tbsp coriander, finely chopped

Boil the noodles in plenty of water according to packet instructions. Once cooked, drain and run under cold water. Drizzle a little oil over the noodles to prevent them from sticking together, toss, and set aside in a bowl.

In a wok, heat the oil to a medium temperature and fry the shallots, garlic, cassia bark, green chillies, salt, and turmeric for a few minutes until the onions start to crisp up. Add in the noodles and stir to coat them in the onion mixture. Pour over the beaten egg and cover the pan with a lid to let the eggs set – about 2–3 minutes. Stir the noodles, breaking up the set egg to evenly distribute it. Scatter the chopped coriander over the top and serve immediately in small bowls with a dollop of minted yoghurt (here) if you like. Mix it all up and enjoy.

Cha nastha

The phrase ‘cha nastha’ means ‘tea and snacks’ but is about so much more than refreshment. It is a chance to commune and unwind with friends. It is comforting, restorative, and a way to take pause from the demands of everyday life – similar to the Swedish fika, or the ritual of Kaffee und Kuchen enjoyed in Germany.

Being such a core part of the regional culture, it is easy to forget that tea itself is not native to Bengali soil. Brought by the British from China in the nineteenth century, tea became a cash crop for the imperialists who staffed the plantations with indentured labourers. Sylhet and the neighbouring region of Assam, which lends its name to the variety of tea, became famous for their tea gardens, giving rise to the moniker ‘land of two leaves and a bud’ in reference to the tenderest part of a tea plant.

The preferred tea of the region is black tea, which is strongly brewed with hot milk, sugar, and whole spices added to taste (here). The perfect tea must be strong but creamy, aromatic but mellow, flavoursome but not over-brewed. In Bangladesh, tea is always served in delicate china cups and saucers – it took my parents years before they accepted the mugs so commonly used in the UK. The beverage is served so hot that sometimes the tea is tipped out onto the saucer and blown on to cool it down faster. But the most important factor in serving tea for cha nastha is to ensure that it is enjoyed alongside a variety of crunchy, deep-fried snacks.

Beguni

battered aubergine slices

Makes enough for 4–6 people to snack on

Crispy battered aubergine is a staple during the month of Ramadan when the streets of Bangladesh throng with sellers frying batches for people to take home to break the fast. Pair with chana bhaja and top with some minted yoghurt (here) for an authentic iftar experience. If using rice flour, make sure it’s the powdered type and not the ground rice version, which is too coarse and will absorb too much oil.

Ingredients

2 medium-sized globe or Italian aubergines (about 420g)

500ml sunflower or corn oil, for deep frying

for the batter

150g chickpea (gram) flour

75g rice flour or cornflour

¼ tsp bicarbonate of soda (optional)

1 tsp ground turmeric

1 tsp Kashmiri chilli powder

1 tsp salt

250ml cold water

Cut each aubergine widthwise around the middle into two halves. Take one half and stand it on the chopping board, cut-side down. Using a very sharp knife, slice it into pieces about 4mm thick (this ensures you have pieces with maximum flesh-surface area, rather than skin). Repeat with the remaining aubergines and set the slices aside.

In a large bowl, whisk the batter ingredients together and pour the cold water in little by little to form a smooth, thick batter the texture of pouring custard. Allow the mixture to stand for 10 minutes. Heat the oil in a wok or deep pan until it is hot, but not smoking. Test that it is hot enough by dropping in some batter – it is ready when the droplet sizzles and rises to the surface.

When you are ready to fry, whisk the batter again and dip the pieces of aubergine into it, fully coating them in the mixture. Shake off the excess by tapping the slices on the side of the bowl. Add the battered aubergine to the hot oil in batches, and fry until golden brown, turning once. Take care not to overcrowd the pan. Repeat until the batter is all used up.

______

Daler bora

lentil fritters

Makes about 20 fritters

Daler bora – also known as ‘piazu’ – are so quintessentially Bengali. When I sat down to write this recipe, I was surprised that I couldn’t find a version somewhere already on my laptop as it is the recipe that people most often ask me for, and I am always delighted to oblige. Some people like theirs fairly plain, with just turmeric, salt, red chilli powder, and onions to add flavour. I love to make them really herby, with fistfuls of coriander and plenty of fresh green chilli, which all needs to be chopped as small as possible so that the fritter batter holds together when frying – I use a Magimix chopper to make swift work of it. But a chopper won’t work for blending the lentils -a hand blender or liquidiser, like a Nutribullet, is the only way to achieve the paste-like texture needed.

Ingredients

290g red lentils, washed several times and then soaked in cold water for at least 2 hours

1 medium white onion (190g), very finely diced

small bunch of coriander, very finely chopped

2–3 green chillies, finely chopped

3–4 spring onions, very finely sliced (white and lower green parts)

1–1½ tsp salt

1 tsp ground turmeric

1 tsp red chilli powder

500ml sunflower oil, for frying

Drain the soaked lentils and use your hands to squeeze out any excess water. Place the drained lentils into a large bowl and use a hand blender to break them down into a coarse, thick paste leaving about a quarter of the lentils whole for added texture. Add the rest of the ingredients to the bowl and mix well.

In a deep wok or frying pan, heat the oil to a medium-high temperature – the oil is ready when a drop of the batter rapidly rises to the top. Take tablespoons of the mixture and shape them into loose balls about 3cm wide. They don’t have to be perfectly round (and are better when they have uneven edges as they get crispier) but they should hold well together and should form a coherent ‘blob’ shape.

Deep fry the bora in batches, for about 6–8 minutes, turning occasionally until dark golden on the outside, and cooked through in the middle. If the bora colour too quickly, turn down the heat. Serve with minted yoghurt (see next page), chana bhaja (see next page), and any other fried crunchy bits for a cha nastha party.

Chana bhaja

spicy fried chickpeas with minted yoghurt

Serves 4 as a snack

Ramadan – the month of fasting – is always heralded by the buying in of key staples: dates (which are eaten to break the fast), cooking oil (for the copious amounts of frying that would take place for iftar parties), and chickpeas. Abbu would bring home cases of twenty-five tins of chickpeas at a time and Ammu would cook two tins every evening for our iftar meal. After a tiring day of fasting, this recipe is mercifully simple to prepare. Serve warm in small bowls with a dollop of the minted yoghurt on top and something fried and crunchy on the side.

Ingredients

for the chana

2 tbsp sunflower oil

2 shallots (about 220g), finely sliced

½ tsp salt

½ tsp chilli powder

1 green chilli (optional), slit down the middle, deseeded if liked

½ tsp ground turmeric

1 large tomato, roughly chopped

2 × 400g tins of chickpeas, drained

25g coriander, finely chopped

1 lime, cut into wedges

for the yoghurt

50g coriander

50g mint

juice of 1 lime

½ green chilli (optional), finely diced

150g Greek yoghurt

Heat the oil in a medium-sized pan and add the shallots. Fry over a medium heat for 5-7 minutes until the shallots are golden at the edges. Add the salt, chilli powder, green chilli (if using), and turmeric. Fry for a minute more, then add the tomato. Stir well and cover. Turn the heat to low and cook for 3–4 minutes until the tomato starts to break down. Add the chickpeas and stir well. Cover and cook for a further 6–8 minutes until they soften.

To make the yoghurt: in a blender, whizz the herbs, lime juice, and chilli (if using) until they form a purée. In a bowl, add the yoghurt and beat together with one heaped teaspoon of the purée and season with salt. You can add more purée to taste – any unused purée will keep refrigerated in an airtight container for up to five days; try it drizzled over roasted vegetables or fish. (This is a homemade alternative to the Colman’s mint yoghurt recipe here and either version can be used interchangeably.)

Gently stir the coriander through the chickpeas and serve in bowls with a dollop of the mint yoghurt and lime wedges to squeeze over the chana bhaja.

______

The ritual of afternoon tea was one of the things that defined the weekend for us; the other feature of a weekend in our household was brunch. We were blessed with the options of having traditional Bangladeshi brunches of spicy omelette and fried rice (here) or bhuna kitchuri – a dish of rice and lentils, on which the English kedgeree is based – as well as what we thought to be an ‘English’ brunch.

The proper full English breakfast was something we considered with curiosity and mild revulsion. We saw it advertised on cafe menus and portrayed on television adverts for HP sauce, but on the rare occasions we actually were in the vicinity of a fry-up – either at friends’ houses or walking through Keighley’s covered market, the whiff of frying bacon and pork sausage turned our stomachs – they were such unfamiliar smells that it was hard to know what to make of them.

The other components got the double thumbs-up from us though: baked beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, fried bread, eggs, and hash browns all made it onto our brunch plates, but it took years before halal versions of ‘sausage’ and ‘bacon’ were readily available. It’s funny to think now that my sisters and I came of age before the advent of turkey bacon, or beef bacon, and halal lamb sausages given how common they are today. Even when these alternatives started becoming more popular, Abbu always refused to eat them. Why pretend to eat something that we’re not supposed to eat? he would argue. But I strongly suspect it was also due to the residual trauma from his encounters with stealth pig.

Instead, Abbu came up with his own highly original and wholly distinctive take on a fried English breakfast. As a child, I thought that this assortment of items was very normal and it was only later that I realized this was a brunch that was unique to our family. Until now, that is.

Ahsan’s ‘English’ brunch

Serves a hungry family of 5

Ingredients

1–2 300g tins of Batchelors marrowfat bigga peas

5 eggs

good-quality butter

5 slices of sliced white bread (Hovis or Kingsmill were our favourites, but any will do)

tomato ketchup (Heinz is best)

salt and black pepper

Empty the peas (liquid and all) into a small saucepan and heat on the hob until piping hot. Fry the eggs in butter to order (family favourite is over-easy – fried on both sides – until slightly set but still runny enough to dip in). Toast the bread until golden brown and spread liberally with butter. Put everything in the middle of the table and let everyone help themselves.

______

Bhuna kitchuri

rice and lentil ‘kedgeree’

Serves 4

The Anglo-Indian kedgeree – the breakfast dish of rice and smoked fish – is derived from this classic dish of rice and lentils. Variations of this dish can be found in all parts of the Indian subcontinent and transliterated in all manner of ways: ‘kitchdi’, ‘kitchri’, ‘khichari’, and so on. However it is spelt, this is the ultimate winter comfort food: hearty and healthy, especially if you’re recovering from an illness or just in need of something extra warming. This one-pot dish can be enjoyed by the whole family and takes less than half an hour to make, beginning to end. It’s a perfect, easy vegetarian weeknight dinner and is best served as soon as it is made.

Ingredients

155g basmati rice

145g red lentils

2 heaped tbsp ghee

1 medium onion (about 190g), finely sliced

1 piece of cassia bark or whole cinnamon, about 3–4cm long

3 green cardamom pods, lightly crushed

2 bay leaves

3cm ginger, peeled and grated

3 garlic cloves, crushed

1 tsp ground turmeric

1 tsp salt

½ tsp chilli powder

1–2 green chillies, slit lengthways

1 medium potato (about 260g), scrubbed and cut into 2cm cubes

boiling water

⅓ medium-sized cauliflower, broken into florets and keeping the young green leaves

100g green beans, top and tailed and cut into 3cm long pieces

Wash the rice and lentils well and soak them in a bowl of cold water while preparing the rest of the ingredients.

Heat the ghee in a large saucepan or pot with a lid. Add the onion and whole spices and fry over a medium heat for about 8–10 minutes until the onions turn a dark golden brown. Add the ginger, garlic, turmeric, salt, chilli powder, and chillies, and fry for another minute or so. Add the potatoes to the spicy onion mixture with half a cup of hot water and stir well. Cover with a lid and cook for 8–10 minutes.

Drain the lentils and rice and add to the pan along with 3½ cups of freshly boiled water and stir well. Add the cauliflower and green beans, stir, and cover the pan with a lid. Reduce the heat to the lowest setting and cook for 15 minutes. After 15 minutes, remove the lid and check that the vegetables are tender with a little bite, and the rice and lentils are cooked through. If further cooking is needed, replace the lid and give it another 5 minutes on a low heat.

The texture of the dish will be a little softer than pulao or biryani – the lentils and rice tend to stick together somewhat to create a warming, comforting stodge. Serve with spicy omelette (here) or simply with a dollop of yoghurt and some sliced red onion.

Birun bhath

sticky rice

Serves 4–6

‘Birun’ or ‘binni bhath’ is a deshi delicacy. Sticky, glutinous white rice that can be enjoyed savoury with fried fish and fried aubergine (here and here) or sweet with hot milk, fresh sweet mangoes, or ripe jackfruit. As a child, I have to admit, I did not enjoy birun bhath – this was partly because of how it was prepared. Abbu used to drown the rice in hot milk and mash the mangoes in with his hand until it made a squelching, sloppy sound that I found very unappealing: the sound is so distinctive that it is actually immortalised in a famous Bengali children’s rhyme, with the onomatopoeic description ‘hapush hupush’. Happily, I discovered the appeal of sticky rice on my own terms as a teenager, preferring it savoury with crispy fried fish and lots of green chilli and fried onions.

Ingredients

400g white glutinous rice

boiling water from the kettle

Rinse the rice in plenty of cold water until the water runs clear and then leave it to soak in cold water for at least an hour. Drain the rice and place it into a steamer. Fill the pot below the steamer with boiling water and cook for 20–30 minutes until the rice is cooked through. Fluff the rice with a fork halfway through cooking so that the steam reaches the grains of rice on top, and to ensure that all the grains are cooked through. Serve savoury or sweet, as you wish.

Daily dinners

Growing up in a household where both parents worked full-time meant that my sisters and I were often in various forms of after-school care. Sometimes we went home with our neighbours, the Martins family, who lived up the road. They had three daughters, and we would – serendipitously – watch Neighbours and eat hot buttered toast together until Ammu came to collect us. I still think about Mrs Martins’ toast. She always used extra-thick, squishy white bread and toasted it until it was a lovely golden colour, and slathered it with proper butter that she kept on the counter in a glass-lidded dish. We were always offered homemade jam too, which she made from blackcurrants, blackberries, plums, and damsons that grew in her garden.

Later on, when Shabnam went off to high school, Sabreen and I started going to the after-school club that operated out of the school canteen. Kiddicare was a lifeline for many parents, especially those who were working full-time and raising children without a partner. It was another form of education for me, having spent my early years heavily embedded within the Asian community where divorce and single-parent families were far less common. Attending Kiddicare meant that for the first time I was socialising with children who had all kinds of different family structures that seemed totally alien to me: some were raised by their grandparents, others had a step-parent, along with step- and half-siblings, and a few were looked after by foster carers.

Kiddicare was run by a team of committed, hardworking, perhaps somewhat weary, staff who the children called by their first names. The facilities were well loved and well used: a craft table with paints, felt-tips, glue; scuffed plastic cricket bats and wickets; various footballs that were always getting punctured; a pool table; and the pièce de résistance was a Nintendo 64, which was hooked up to a tiny television screen that only seemed to run one game: Super Mario Bros. The staff organised themed craft and cooking events for festive occasions: Witches’ Brew at Halloween time, with acid-green jelly in a cup that we decorated with gummy worms and liquorice spiders, and the classic Easter egg nests of chocolate-covered off-brand Shredded Wheat in cupcake cases.

All the children were given tea at Kiddicare at exactly four o’clock. The only cooking apparatus available were a microwave, which was kept locked away in a cupboard, and a fridge, meaning that the Kiddicare staff would bring in large containers of food every day that they had prepared in advance at their main centre up the road, which would then be heated up just before serving. The older kids would clamour over who would ‘serve’ – I often volunteered, partly out of boredom but mostly because I loved the status associated with it.

Teatime at Kiddicare went something like this: two kids would set the tables with cutlery and plastic beakers, while another kid made the squash. Making the drink involved pouring just the right amount of supermarket own brand squash concentrate into the bottom of a five-litre plastic bottle before filling the rest of the bottle up with water from the tiny sink in the caretaker’s broom cupboard. The bottle was then lugged back to the tables and the diluted squash (so acidic it made your jaw ache) would be splashed into the beakers.

The food itself varied, and is a testament to the creativity of the Kiddicare team. I still remember the rotating menu: sausage rolls (or cheese and onion rolls for the vegetarians, which Sabreen and I identified as being – easier than throwing ‘halal’ into the mix), served on squares of rough blue paper towel (the stuff that also doubled as a ‘cold compress’ when wetted and applied to any bodily injury); pasta with Bolognese or Quorn mince and grated cheddar cheese; chip butties made with buttered white burger buns and served with salt, vinegar, and ketchup; fish finger butties; and on Fridays, the dreaded ‘cold tea’. Cold tea was the worst day: when the staff gave up and simply loaded a table with sliced white bread, cream crackers, a huge tub of margarine, jam, plastic Kraft cheese slices, and peanut butter, and let the kids – some as young as four – have at it. Predictably, the result was complete carnage with the level of cross-contamination between the jam jars and margarine tubs (Sabreen once found a fuzzy Lego piece in the margerine) enough to turn the sturdiest of stomachs and, probably, in retrospect, a potential allergy risk.

When I became a parent, it occurred to me that the majority of children I went to school with were picked up at exactly 3.15 p.m. by someone, usually their mother, and that this must have meant that either the mothers did not work or worked part-time hours. This was not a possibility for my parents. Abbu taught at the secondary school just up the road from our primary school, but Ammu worked in Bradford and had a forty-five-minute commute during rush hour. This meant that not only were we in after-school club, but we were also often among the last kids to be collected at five o’clock when the club closed its doors.

Despite this, to my recollection, we never had ready meals for dinner and takeaways, in the form of McDonald’s or doner kebabs (these were the years before chicken shops dominated the scene) were a very rare occurrence, reserved only for special occasions.

As an adult, I look back on what Selina managed to whip up daily after a round commute of around two hours as well as a full day at the office and am astonished. Both my parents prioritised making home-cooked, wholesome food that centred around hot, fresh rice with one or two curries – either a chicken or fish, with a vegetable side, or a dal – and a salad. The recipes below are family classics that I was fortunate enough to regularly eat growing up, and which I now make for my own children.

Aloo murghi jhol

Ammu’s chicken and potato curry

Serves 4–6

Where other cultures have Grandma’s chicken soup, or Nonna’s lasagne, Bengalis have Ammu’s chicken and potato curry. Every child believes that their mother’s is the best – and they are correct. This dish is the epitome of home comfort cooking and is always requested by children in need of comfort, irrespective of their age. It is also addictive: every Bengali child, including my own, goes through a phase of subsisting solely on this chicken curry with rice or porotha. And, honestly, when it tastes this good who can blame them?

Ingredients

4 tbsp sunflower oil

1 medium onion (about 190g), thinly sliced

4 cm piece of ginger, crushed to a paste

5–6 garlic cloves, crushed to a paste

1 tsp salt

2 medium-sized tomatoes (about 320g), roughly chopped

1 tsp ground turmeric

1 tsp chilli powder (omit or reduce if cooking for children)

1 tsp hot paprika (not smoked)

1½ tsp ground cumin

1½ tsp ground coriander

3–4 green cardamom pods, lightly crushed

4cm piece of cassia bark or whole cinnamon

2 bay leaves

1kg skinless chicken pieces on the bone (this works especially well with drumsticks, but a whole chicken cut into 16 pieces is more traditional)

2 medium floury white potatoes (about 520g), peeled and cut into 4 pieces each

15g chopped coriander

In a wide, lidded saucepan or casserole dish, heat the oil over a medium heat and add the onions, ginger, garlic, and salt. Sauté for about 10 minutes until the onions are soft, golden and starting to melt. Add the chopped tomatoes, cover with a lid and simmer for 5 minutes until the tomatoes are starting to turn soft and pulpy.

Stir in the ground spices (turmeric, chilli, paprika, cumin, coriander) and sauté for a further minute. Remove from the heat and allow the mixture to cool slightly. Using an electric hand blender, purée the onion-spice mixture until smooth. (Don’t be tempted to omit this stage as it really helps produce the right texture for the sauce. Alternatively, you can transfer the cooled mixture to a food processor and blend until smooth, and then return the mixture to the pan.)

Add the cardamom, cassia bark or cinnamon, and bay leaves, followed by the chicken pieces, and stir well to ensure each piece of chicken is well coated in the onion mixture. Cover with a lid and simmer for 10 minutes on a medium heat.

Add the potatoes, and a cup of hot water (about 200ml). The water should just about cover all the chicken and potatoes but add more water if needed. Stir, cover and simmer for 30–40 minutes on a medium heat until the chicken is cooked through. The oil should rise to the surface of the curry when it is done. Scatter over the coriander and serve with basmati rice or porotha.

Maacher tarkari

everyday fish curry

Serves 4

This is the simplest of all fish curries – flavoured with salt, chilli, and turmeric. It is deceptively easy to make, especially if using filleted fish. I also like making this with oilier fish such as salmon or trout. If you’re feeling very adventurous, or authentically deshi, use fish steaks with bones rather than fillets. Deboning fish while eating with the hands is a skill that every Bengali child acquires from a young age and is well worth the effort, but this curry is just as tasty using fillets.

Ingredients

4 tbsp sunflower oil (or 2 tbsp of mustard oil and 2 tbsp of sunflower oil, which gives the flavour of mustard without it being overpowering)

1 medium white onion (about 190g), sliced thinly

2 large garlic cloves, crushed

1 tsp salt

1 tsp ground turmeric

½ tsp chilli powder

2 extra-large tomatoes (about 480g), each cut into 6 wedges

2 green chillies, each sliced into 3 thin strips

500g white fish fillets (such as cod, hake, haddock) cut into 4cm pieces

½ small bunch coriander

1 lime, cut into wedges

Heat the oil in a medium-sized saucepan and sauté the onion over a medium heat for about 10 minutes until they are soft and just starting to turn golden. Stir in the crushed garlic, salt, turmeric, and chilli powder. Fry for a minute, taking care that the mixture doesn’t stick to the pan. Add the tomatoes and green chillies and stir again. Pour in a cup of boiling water. Cover with a lid and simmer on medium heat for 5 minutes until the tomatoes have started to soften. The sauce (jhol) should be fairly thin and runny – add a little more water if needed.

Add the fish pieces and ensure each piece is covered in the sauce. Cover and simmer over a medium heat for 10–12 minutes. The oil should rise to the surface of the curry when it is ready. Scatter over the coriander. Serve with a wedge of lime, extra green chillies, and white basmati rice.

______

Doi begun

aubergines in yoghurt

Serves 4 as a side

Aubergines are a firm favourite in Bengali cuisine and prepared in all sorts of ways: pan-fried, battered, curried, and pickled. This dish is great for preparing ahead – you can cook the aubergines and store until needed, and then temper the yoghurt at the very end before combining the two. This works best with natural rather than Greek yoghurt as the latter can be too thick. But make sure to use full-fat yoghurt as the lower fat varieties will split.

Ingredients

2 medium aubergines (about 430g)

1 tsp salt

2 tsp tandoori masala

60ml sunflower oil

for the sauce

200ml natural yoghurt

1 tsp cumin seeds

1 tsp coriander seeds

3 tbsp sunflower oil

Preheat the oven to 200°C.

Line a large baking tray with baking paper. Cut the aubergines into cubes about 2cm wide. Place into a large bowl and add the salt, tandoori masala, and sunflower oil. Toss well until the pieces of aubergine are evenly coated.

Spread the aubergine chunks onto the baking tray, along with any extra oil and spices from the bowl, and bake for 30 minutes until soft and browned. Turn halfway through cooking, adding a drizzle more oil if needed. When cooked, leave to cool on the tray.

Meanwhile, make the tempered yoghurt. Place the yoghurt in a large heatproof bowl. In a small pan lightly toast the coriander seeds and cumin seeds for about a minute until the aromas are released. Transfer to a pestle and mortar and lightly crush.

Heat the oil in the same pan, and then add the crushed cumin and coriander seed mixture. Fry until it sizzles for about 30 seconds or so. Pour the spiced oil and seed mixture over the yoghurt. Beat well until the yoghurt slackens and thins out. Add the aubergine chunks to the yoghurt and stir gently to ensure they are well coated. Transfer to a serving bowl and eat immediately, or leave to cool and refrigerate until serving.

Classic deshi salad

Serves 3–4 as a side

The art of deshi salad-making is in the slicing: this is not the place for chunky rustic chopping. Everything must be as thin and delicate as possible so that each mouthful will contain a combination of vegetables. The dressing is a simple oil, lemon or lime juice, and salt combination – with fiery green chillies for those who dare – a hint of garlic, and fragrant coriander.

Ingredients

½ large cucumber

2 medium-sized, firm tomatoes

1 small red onion

1 green chilli (optional)

1 fat garlic clove, grated

2 tbsp very finely chopped coriander

2 tbsp good olive oil

¼ tsp salt

juice of ½ lemon or 1 small lime

Using a vegetable peeler, peel the green skin off the cucumber in long vertical strips, leaving a small gap in between each strip to create an alternating pattern of green and white. Cut in half lengthways, scoop out the seeds and discard them. Place the cucumber on the long cut side and slice the cucumber into thin half-moon pieces about 3mm wide. Halve the tomatoes, scoop out the seeds and discard. Slice into thin wedges about 3mm wide. Peel and halve the onion, and slice into thin wedges also 3mm wide. Combine the vegetables in a bowl with the chilli, garlic and coriander. Dress with the olive oil, salt, and lemon or lime, and serve.

______

I don’t think it’s rose-tinted to look back on those years when my parents were raising a young family, and say, from a child’s perspective at least, that it felt as though they were somehow able to balance their day-to-day commitments of work and parenting with a generally peaceful, contented quality of life. I have no doubt that it was difficult with two parents working long hours, and three children, and obligations to the wider family at home and abroad. But, along with the daily hustle, there were also days of plenty – and many opportunities for celebration.

Part Five

Days of Plenty

We – like so many other immigrant families – have developed a unique cuisine by fusing the different elements from multiple food traditions

Bengalis see any occasion as a potential excuse for a party: from life milestones such as births, weddings, and anniversaries, to religious festivities like Eid and Durga Puja, as well as national holidays like Bengali New Year – every event is a chance for people to gather in joy. Even a casual dinner at a friend’s house can easily slip into a spontaneous late evening full of chat, music, and political debate. On many occasions, my sisters and I would end up falling asleep in a pile of coats in one of the bedrooms at a family friend’s house, while the laughter and conversation from the grown-ups in the kitchen floated up the stairs.

Growing up, the major celebrations always took place at my grandparents’ home in Manchester. The maternal home in Bengali culture is known as Nanar bari or Mamar bari – meaning maternal grandfather or maternal uncle’s home – and holds a mythical status in the popular psyche as an idyllic place where rules and discipline do not exist. This is immortalised in the well-loved and widely known poem by Jasim Uddin, who describes the joy of visiting one’s mamar bari, where delicious fruits and flowers await young visitors.

My experience of visiting Manchester wasn’t far off from this utopian vision – and getting to our Mamar bari was an adventure in itself. When we were very young, neither of our parents drove. Sometimes we would get the train, changing at Leeds or Bradford, but most of the time, my oldest uncle, Shahed, our Boro Mama, would drive up from Manchester to Keighley, pick us up, and take us all back down again.

Shahed loved driving and cars, taking care in washing, polishing, and valeting the family vehicles, inside and out. His own pride and joy was a black Audi 90, which he named Black Bess after the fabled steed belonging to the infamous highwayman Dick Turpin. I listened eagerly to Mama’s enthusing about the car, and remember repeating his descriptions of the 2.2-litre engine to my baffled primary school teacher. Following his example, I learnt how to take care of cars too – how to use Turtle wax with a chamois (‘shammy’) leather, carefully buffing the paintwork until I could see my face.

If there was a single indicator of the social and economic shift experienced by young British Asians in the 1990s, cars were it. As Habib and Fatima’s children graduated from university, married and embarked on professional careers in engineering, health, and finance, buying cars and houses were signs of their success. They were also blessed with a political context that is unrecognisable today: the ability to purchase homes with little to no deposit and favourable interest terms, meaning that the dream of ‘social mobility’ was possible. They were the beneficiaries of New Labour, finally experiencing their days of plenty, having grown up in the shadow of the 1970s economic crisis and Thatcherite Britain.

When I was about 8 years old, my parents both finally passed their driving tests and gained their licences to drive automatic cars (long having given up on manual). They bought a car and our weekend visits to Manchester became even more frequent. Their first car was a gold Nissan Micra, which they bought off our neighbour and family friend, Aunty Manju, who was emigrating with her husband and two sons to Canada. The Nissan had only two seatbelts in the back, one of which almost certainly did not meet safety standards – it was a sort of harness rather than an actual seatbelt – but to us, this noble carriage was the embodiment of our dreams. Until one day, when a terrible storm felled an almond tree in our front garden. The tree crashed right onto the roof of the little car, squashing it flat, and writing it off.

Aloo dum

aunty manju’s quick potato curry

(for potatoes as squashed as the nissan micra)

Serves 2 as a main or 3–4 as a side

Ammu learnt this recipe from our family friend, Aunty Manju. Aunty Manju hails from Orissa, close to West Bengal, and is a devout vegetarian Hindu and keen cook. She and my mother befriended each other through the Asian Women’s Centre where both of their children attended nursery. My sisters and I grew up with Aunty Manju’s sons, and during the school holidays we sometimes went to their house where we played GoldenEye 007 on the Nintendo 64 and watched Audrey Hepburn movies (what can I say, we contained multitudes … ) fuelled by a continuous supply of homemade chocolate chip cookies, as well as pakoras and bhajias, which Aunty Manju served with spicy tomato ketchup. You can use floury or waxy potatoes for this, it really depends on what you have to hand. I sometimes add baby spinach leaves for extra goodness.

Ingredients

1kg potatoes, peeled and cut into 6 × 4cm cubes

1 medium white onion (about 190g), cut into 6 pieces

4cm piece fresh ginger

5 fat garlic cloves

2 large tomatoes (about 300g), quartered

1–2 green chillies (depending on your

heat preference)

2–3 tbsp sunflower oil

1 tsp ground turmeric

1 tsp salt

Boil the potatoes in plenty of water until cooked through and starting to crumble a little at the edges. Drain well, return to the colander, and let them stand over the hot pan to ensure the water is fully evaporated off.

In a blender, blitz the onions, ginger, garlic, tomatoes, and chilli to make a thick paste. Heat the oil in a large sauté pan or wok and add the blitzed paste. Fry for a few minutes before adding the salt and turmeric and continue to stir until the oil starts to rise. Add a cup of hot water.

Bring to a simmer, add the cooked potatoes and stir well (if using baby spinach leaves, add them at this point). Cover with a lid and simmer for 5 minutes on a low heat. The potatoes will break up a little – the texture of the dish is soft, with the potatoes almost melting into the spicy sauce.

Serve with rice or ruti.

______

Mercifully, Ammu had just acquired a company car through her work. It was a forest green Renault Laguna that Shahed named Maid Marian – he had a penchant for literary romantic names. Because Ammu was now working in Bradford in the NHS, and needed to commute daily, we became a two-car family. Ammu’s were company cars – after the Laguna was a Honda Accord saloon, in a beautiful shimmering aubergine colour. Abbu’s wheels were sourced through Auto Trader, and always thoroughly vetted by Shahed. Through sheer bad luck, however, poor Abbu’s cars were always being written off: his black Mazda 626 was ploughed into by a driver who fell asleep at the wheel while the Mazda was parked outside our house. On another occasion, Abbu badly bent the fender of his bright, tomato-red Toyota Corolla, which the garage owner declared unfixable – and offered to take it off Abbu’s hands ‘as scrap’ for £200. I shed no tears, being an image-conscious teenager who cringed when my dad picked me up in the loud F-reg banger – but even I felt sorry for Abbu when the very same car was later spotted on the streets of Keighley being driven by an elderly white couple, having miraculously been resuscitated by the dodgy mechanic.

Cars became a sort of love language between Ammu and her siblings, and were traded, gifted, and swapped between the five of them. It was a form of care – ensuring the safety and comfort of one another, while also being a joyful luxury, of the kind they had gone without in their younger years. Cars were also a means of connection between family at times when we needed it most. As well as enabling me and my sisters to visit our grandparents in Manchester, getting a car was vital in providing a sense of escape for my youngest uncle, Nahid, when he was a young graduate working in London. After landing a job in investment banking, Nahid bought an Audi S3 and would drive it up to Yorkshire on the weekends, to escape the pressure and loneliness of City finance life. He would take me and my sisters on drives through the desolate Brontë countryside, with a soundtrack of Texas, Linkin Park, and Red Hot Chili Peppers. Wheels speeding, exhilarating, free.

When Nahid came to visit, we always had takeaway as a treat. As Ammu’s youngest sibling, Nahid was more like an older brother than an uncle in some ways, being only seven years older than Shabnam. Our order was always the same: one thin-crust vegetarian hot one, and one large deep-pan seafarer, with a dessert of Häagen-Dazs pralines and cream ice cream, and a complementary bottle of Pepsi. This feast was always consumed in front of the TV while watching Gladiators or, if we were feeling more highbrow, other films which became firm family favourites, like the 1987 TV version of Anne of Green Gables, the 1994 film Little Women, starring Winona Ryder as Jo March, and the tear-jerking film adaptation of A Little Princess, which caused us all to weep silently into our pizza crusts.

A big wedding

In Bengali families there is a firm order in which children are ‘married off’ – a phrase I always hated for its connotations of unburdening or offloading troublesome offspring. The order, roughly, is oldest daughter to youngest daughter, followed by oldest to youngest son. Eyebrows are raised when marriages fall out of order – assumptions being made as to what fault must be ascribed to the older sibling who has been ‘left’ on the proverbial shelf.

Habib and Fatima followed this order to the letter, and once their daughters were all married and settled, they turned their attentions to finding a bride for their eldest son, Shahed. The golden boy of the family, it was always expected that Shahed and his bride would live in the family home with his parents, taking on the responsibility of caring for them in their old age. A chartered chemical engineer (a fact always proudly relayed by either of his parents, at any given time) and caring, good-looking, and gentle, Shahed was a catch by any standards.

In 1993, when I was five, Fatima travelled to Bangladesh accompanied by her youngest daughter, Rebecca, and son-in-law. Their mission was to find a wife for Shahed. Within a few weeks, they had succeeded and Shahed flew out with his father, Habib, and his younger brother Nahid, to meet the young woman who had been identified as a prospective match.

Before going, I remember Mama showing us a photo of his intended that Rebecca had sent him in the post: Runa – or Mamee as we came to call her – was sitting in a chair outside in a garden. Her expression was demure, and she had dark eyes and light skin, and her round face looked soft and gentle. I liked the look of her and told Mama so.

But Shabnam decided she didn’t need or want a Mamee, withholding her blessing of the union – a fact which she kept characteristically quiet. Unlike me, my older sister was not one for histrionics and although she felt deeply, you had to prod her to find out what was really going on. In fact, I don’t think any of us really knew how Shabnam had felt until she wrote an essay for school many years later about losing her special buddy in Mama once he got married. I had had a similar reaction when my Aunty Rebecca got married a couple of years earlier – I felt as though her husband was taking her away from me and I refused to talk to him for months. It’s the paradox of extended families – bonds are so tightly forged, and even though the family will inevitably expand through marriage, it is not always a smooth transition. Unaware that he did not have his oldest niece’s blessing, Shahed wed Runa just nine days after they met for the first time. Within a year, Runa joined her new husband in England ready to build a new life in a new land, just like her mother-in-law did thirty years earlier.

The family received the new bride with pomp and ceremony. At the tender age of six, I was in awe of this princess-like figure. Obliged to maintain the appearance of a new bride for the first few weeks following her arrival, Mamee was always fully made-up and decked in gold jewellery. She would let me sit on her bed – the bedspread was a deep, maroon satin – and watch her as she coiffed, powdered, and painted at her dressing table, scattered with hair pins and brushes and perfume.

When a wedding takes place in Bangladesh, it is commonplace for a small reception or welcome dinner to be held in the UK when the couple reunites, for all the relatives who couldn’t attend the wedding itself due to work and school commitments, or financial constraints. I have strong memories of this welcome feast, known as a shagorana. The gaps in my memories are filled in by the photographs that live in family albums, showing the couple seated at Nanu’s dining table, flanked on either side by me and Shabnam. Sabreen and our cousin Sammy, were babes in arms at the time.

Shagorana refers to both the occasion and the hugely elaborate main dish itself. A shagorana platter is enormous and is eaten communally with the hands. It comprises of roasted lamb, chicken, or a whole fish, buried under mounds of aromatic pilau rice, and is decorated with all manner of delicate, tasty treats such as fried aubergine, fried potatoes, minced meat or fish cutlets, whole hardboiled eggs, and intricately carved vegetables. Creating it is a two-day affair. First the chicken or lamb is marinated for a day or so before being roasted. Meanwhile, the different accoutrements are made – the cutlets fried, eggs boiled, peeled, and then fried to crisp up all over, and the vegetables shaped. The fragrant rice is cooked separately and then, right at the end, the whole dish is assembled.

The shagorana is a team effort and always prepared by the women of the family: mothers and mothers-in-law, sisters and sisters-in-law, aunts, grandmothers. A newlywed couple is invited to dine at every relative’s home for a shagorana, on both sides of the family, and certain platters go down in family lore for their sumptuousness or for defying convention, as was the case with my own wedding shagorana, by not containing any meat.

Shagorana

wedding platter

Creating a shagorana is essentially an assembly job. The time-consuming bit is preparing all the composite parts. I like to think of it as staging the most spectacular show: you need the star attraction, the supporting cast, and the set design.

First, the star attraction: most of the time this is a couple of whole tandoori chickens or a roast leg of lamb. For pescatarians, like my husband, a side of tandoori salmon would be a perfect option (I think Avi holds the world record for consuming the highest number of salmon-based shagoranas). The chosen centrepiece is placed on a very large platter, and the rest of the dish is constructed around it.

Next, the supporting acts: pulao rice – aromatic and flavourful without being overpowering. The chicken, lamb, or fish is buried in mounds of hot rice for a shagorana, and the fun is delving in with one’s hand to uncover what tantalising centrepiece is hidden beneath the delicate grains.

Then, set design: this is where presentation and taste go hand in hand to create the desired outcome of something as beautiful to look at, as it is to eat. The rice-covered chicken, lamb, or fish is then adorned with all kinds of edible treats: fritters and cutlets such as maach bora, beguni, begun bhaja, aloo chop, as well as whole boiled eggs and slices of fried potato that are pressed into the rice. Finally, the whole platter is garnished with intricately carved vegetables like tomato roses, carved cucumber and carrot slices, carved baby radishes, and so on.

The platter is then presented to the couple with all the flourish and ceremony of a birthday cake. The newlyweds then invite everyone else at the table to join them in eating this lavish creation, traditionally with all the guests eating from the same platter using their right hands. It is a ritual as much as it is a meal and, frankly, it is worth getting married just to experience one!

Biye barir roast

wedding roast chicken

Serves 4–6

‘Biye bari’ literally translates to ‘wedding house’. A biye bari is a hub of activity, filled with relatives making flower garlands, preparing wedding thals (trays adorned with fruit, mishti and flowers) for the ceremonies, making pitha and applying mendhi to one another, and, of course, making delicious celebration dishes.

When I asked Mamee to send me this recipe, she replied immediately with a response befitting the Queen of Dawaats: ‘I’ve got guests at the moment, but will write it up and send you it tonight’. That evening, her son, Rohan, emailed me the typed up recipe. Mamee followed up with a text: ‘I usually don’t measure, just throw in the pan. When you try it add less or more, especially the salt’. So, I present her recipe here with her caveat. The nut paste is optional – Mamee omits it due to family allergies – but it adds a richness to the sauce.

The number of servings will depend on the size of the chicken pieces as well as how many you can fit into your largest frying pan or shallow casserole dish. When served alongside vegetable side dishes, pulao, and salad, this recipe will easily serve six people.

Ingredients

4–6 pieces of chicken leg and thigh quarters (about 2kg), skin removed

4 tbsp sunflower oil, for frying

for the marinade

2 tsp garlic paste

2 tsp ginger paste

2 tsp Kashmiri chilli powder

1 tsp salt

for the sauce

2 tbsp ghee

4 medium white onions (about 760g), thinly sliced

2 tsp garlic paste

2 tsp ginger paste

2 tsp salt

2 tsp ground coriander

2 tsp ground cumin

4 tbsp natural yoghurt

1 tsp ground nutmeg

2 tsp garam masala

3–4 green chillies

whole garam masala

5 green cardamom pods

2 pieces of cassia bark or whole cinnamon, 4cm each

3 cloves

1 tsp whole black peppercorns

1 piece of mace

2 bay leaves

nut paste

100g peeled almonds or cashews

50ml warm water

Rub the chicken pieces with the marinade ingredients. In a large frying pan or casserole dish (I use a shallow Le Creuset casserole dish), heat the sunflower oil and fry the chicken pieces until they are lightly browned all over. Set the chicken aside.

In the same pan, heat the ghee and add the whole garam masala. Add the onion, garlic and ginger pastes, and salt, and fry on a medium-low until golden brown and soft and thick – this can take up to 20 minutes. Add the ground coriander, ground cumin and yoghurt, cook for 5 minutes stirring often.

Blend the nuts with the water – it will be slightly runny but will thicken when cooked. Add the blended nuts to the pan, stir well and add the chicken pieces, making sure to cover each one with the masala. Cover and cook on a low heat for 30 minutes. Add the ground nutmeg, ground garam masala, and green chillies. Mix gently and heat through for 2 minutes. Serve with shada pulao.

______

In many South Asian cultures, there is a long-standing tradition of sisters-in-law and brothers-in-law teasing or pranking one another. This starts from the wedding, when the sisters and friends of the bride hide the groom’s shoes and demand a ransom for their return, or deny the groom and his party entrance to the wedding venue until he has paid a handsome sum. In keeping with this tradition, Abbu and his fellow brothers-in-law (my maternal aunties’ husbands) decided to play a trick on poor Mamee as a naive new arrival to both the UK and our family. They ostentatiously opened a bottle of the fizzy soft drink, Shloer, that was a staple at our family get-togethers, and pretended it was alcohol. To the horror of the poor new bride, they proceeded to down glasses of the white grape-flavoured drink and started acting as though they were ‘intoxicated’. Runa must have wondered what kind of family she had married into, but the joke was soon revealed and all remained friends.

In due course, Mamee’s gentle demeanour and loving and caring nature soon made her a cornerstone of the whole extended family, thawing even Shabnam who became as ardent a devotee of our new aunt as the rest of us already were. And when Mamee learnt to cook, we came to love her even more.

* * *

When she arrived in England, poor Mamee was barely able to fry an egg. As the only daughter from a small, close-knit family, she had never been expected to do much in the way of household duties. Now that she was the boro bou – the oldest daughter-in-law – Runa was in for a steep education. Our family took food very seriously. It wasn’t just about the technicalities of cooking: it was a mindset – a philosophy – a channel through which we expressed the whole range of human experience, from celebration to sympathy, excitement to mundanity, distress to comfort.

Taught by her mother-in-law and sisters-in-law, Runa had to first get to grips with the basics like how to make rice and clean fish, before progressing to the everyday essentials of cooking dal, vegetables, chicken, and meat. She was a fast learner and her natural interest and desire to experiment soon made her the unparalleled best cook across the whole family – no mean feat in a clan of proud chefs. Her specialism was, and remains, cooking for entertaining or as we say in Bangla, dawaat.

Dawaat

Literally meaning ‘invitation’, a dawaat is when guests are formally invited for a meal, as opposed to a more spontaneous form of communal dining and entertaining. Certain dishes are always present at a Bangladeshi dawaat: beef or mutton bhuna, chicken kurma, pulao, fried fish, fish curry, dal, various types of vegetables – stir-fried, or curried – and some form of appetiser in the form of kebab, cutlet, or fritter, along with an assortment of pickles and chutneys. The elaborate menu reflects the importance afforded to the affair: and while the number of guests can range from two to twenty and beyond, it is the special care afforded to the menu and presentation that sets apart a dawaat from a normal sit-down dinner.

Mughlai kurma

chicken in aromatic yoghurt

Serves 4–6

This delicate, fragrant Bengali specialty is a far cry from the ubiquitous sweet ‘korma’ found in British curry houses. The dish is aromatic rather than ‘hot’ and is a wonderful choice for those who prefer milder curries without compromising on flavour. It is traditional to make this dish using chicken on the bone, but you can use diced chicken thighs instead. The marinating is a crucial step in the preparation – the chicken must be marinated for at least eight hours in the fridge but is best when it has had twenty-four hours to absorb all the aromatic spices. This is a must-have dish at any celebration feast, especially for Eid.

Ingredients

1 large whole chicken (about 1.6kg), skinned and cut into 16 pieces or 1.4 kg boneless, skinless chicken thighs cut into 4cm pieces

6 eggs

2 tbsp sunflower oil

for the marinade

300g full-fat Greek yoghurt

4cm piece of ginger, finely chopped

6 fat garlic cloves, finely chopped

2 pieces of cassia bark or whole cinnamon

2 bay leaves

4 cardamom pods, lightly crushed

1 tsp salt

juice of 1 lemon

2 tbsp sunflower oil

for the sauce

3 tbsp ghee

2 large onions (about 480g), sliced

3cm piece of ginger, roughly sliced

4 fat garlic cloves, crushed

1 tsp salt

In a large bowl or lidded container, add all the marinade ingredients and whisk together to combine. Add in the pieces of chicken, coating well to ensure they are covered evenly in the marinade. Cover the bowl or container and leave in the fridge for at least 8 hours, ideally 24 hours, and up to 2 days.

To prepare the curry, heat the ghee in a large, heavy-based pan and add the onions, garlic, and ginger. Stir well and add the salt. Cover the pan with a lid and cook over a low-medium heat until for about 15–20 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the onions turn a light golden and are very soft. Take care not to let them caramelize. Let the onion mixture cool slightly before blending into a thick paste using a hand blender.

Add the marinated chicken to the pan, including all of the yoghurt and whole spices. Stir well to ensure that all the pieces of chicken are coated in the onion mixture. Cover the pan with a lid and cook over a medium heat for 35 minutes, checking occasionally to make sure the curry is not sticking to the pan. (If it is, add a little water and stir gently as needed to loosen any bits that have become stuck.) The curry is ready when the ghee rises to the top of the sauce and the chicken is cooked through.

While the curry is simmering, boil the eggs. Once cooked, allow to cool before removing the shells and scoring each egg lightly with a knife, using vertical lines going from top to bottom all around the egg (about five lines in total). Heat some sunflower oil in a pan and lightly brown the eggs all over. Drain on kitchen paper. Add the boiled eggs to the curry.

Serve the kurma with pulao rice and deshi salad.

______

Fulkopi bhaji

sautéed cauliflower

Serves 4 as a side

Ingredients

2 tbsp ghee

1 shallot or small white onion (about 80g), thinly sliced

2 garlic cloves, crushed

½ tsp salt

1 green chilli, thinly sliced

½ tsp ground turmeric

½ tsp black mustard seeds

½ tsp cumin seeds

1 medium cauliflower (about 600g), broken into florets and using the young tender leaves too

juice of ½ lemon

In a lidded wide wok or sauté pan, heat the ghee over a medium heat and fry the shallots until turning soft and golden brown. Add the garlic, salt, chilli, and the whole mustard and cumin seeds. Sauté for 30 seconds or so before adding the cauliflower and the roughly torn leaves. Reduce the heat to low and stir to coat the cauliflower in the spice mixture. Add half a cup of hot water (about 180ml) to the pan to create a little steam, and immediately cover the pan with a lid.

Cook on low for about 10 minutes, occasionally shaking the pan to ensure the cauliflower isn’t sticking. Remove the lid and stir gently. Cook until all the liquid has evaporated off and the cauliflower is tender but not soggy. Squeeze the lemon juice all over.

Serve as an accompaniment to any main meal.

(To be enjoyed as part of a full dawaat menu as shown here)

* * *

Nanu always says that you eat with your eyes first. Taste is actually the last thing we respond to when it comes to food. Our initial engagement with food is aesthetic and so presentation is of great importance, especially when entertaining. Garnish isn’t just garnish: it’s a symbol of the care – the regard – that the guests are held with. Bengali matriarchs are well-versed in the art of carving vegetables into decorations: roses made from tomatoes, intricately shaped cucumber slices, spring onions that are curled into fronds. One of my earliest jobs in the kitchen was to prepare the vegetables for garnish. Armed with a small, sturdy knife and a peeler, I learnt the art from Nanu.

Cucumber stars

Take half a cucumber, wash it and peel off the outer green skin in thin alternating strips so that it looks a bit like a zebra. Slice the cucumber into discs about 3mm wide. Stack discs of the cucumber into piles about 2cm high. Using a sharp knife, cut out four tiny ‘V’ shapes around the circumference of the cucumber slices (imagine a compass and make these cuts at the points where north, south, east and west would sit). Then, make another small V-cut between each point. Fan out the cucumber stars. (The small cutaway pieces can be stirred into yoghurt to make a raita later.)

Spring onion curls

Take a single spring onion and trim off the roots and the green leaves (reserve the leaves for some other use such as adding to dal or a vegetable bazi). The remaining stalk of onion should be about 10cm long and look a bit like a pencil, with no leaves attached. Place the onion on a chopping board and, using a small sharp knife, cut lengthways through the top 3cm of the stalk to make two lengths of onion at the top with the rest of the onion still attached. Now cut each length into 2 or 3 long strands ensuring they are still attached to the onion. Turn the onion upside down and repeat the same with the bottom 3cm – you should be left with an onion that is whole in the middle, but cut into fronds at each end. Repeat with the rest of the spring onions.

Now submerge the snipped onions in a large bowl of ice water. After 30 seconds the onion fronds should start curling back on themselves. You should be left with stems of onions that are decoratively curled at both ends. Shake off the excess water and allow to dry on kitchen paper.

Tomato roses

You will need a smooth, very firm tomato for this. The trick is to remove the skin of the tomato in one continuous strip and then rearrange it into a rose shape. To do this, take a very sharp paring knife, and start at the base of the tomato. Imagine you are peeling an apple: make a small cut about 1.5cm from the middle of the bottom of the tomato, and carefully cut a long, continuous strip of tomato about 1.5 cm wide, rotating the tomato with one hand and cutting with the other. Continue all around the tomato until the skin is removed in a long strip. Now curl the tomato strip tightly into a coil, and then gently arrange into a rose shape. Use to garnish your chosen dish.

______

A dawaat is not only an opportunity to get together and eat – it is also an occasion for a family to earn the reputation of being good hosts. Having this status conferred upon them does wonders for their social standing and popularity among family, friends, neighbours, and further flung acquaintances alike. My sisters and I joke about how we are students of the ‘Fatima Begum School of Hospitality’. Her lessons in dawaat etiquette are deeply etched into the very core of my being: bring individual glasses of water to guests with a saucer underneath; never hold a glass by the rim (always from the base); remember to wipe away splashes from the inside of a serving bowl before bringing it to the table; use a fresh serving spoon in each bowl, not the same one you dished up with from the pan. Glassware must be sparkling, not cloudy or scuffed from the dishwasher (which Nanu believes to be a time-wasting, inefficient way of doing the washing-up). Plates must never be chipped. Cutlery, if used, must be heavy and weighted. Cooking pans or baking trays are never to appear on the dining table: instead, all foods must be decanted into an appropriate serving dish. Certain bowls – deep and wide – are reserved for serving rice, while almost every Bangladeshi family owns at least one platter shaped like a fish, on which pieces of golden fried fish are always served, adorned with wedges of lime and green chillies.

Expanding horizons

Having mastered the art of traditional deshi cuisine, Mamee expanded into popular British or ‘generic European’ cookery, courtesy of television shows. The 1990s was the age of the TV chef, with the likes of Gary Rhodes, Nigella Lawson, and, of course, Jamie Oliver, taking over our screens with their take on cool Britannia and cool Italia. Less cool, but just as, if not more, educational were shows like Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook and Ready Steady Cook. The latter was hosted by Fern Britton with a rotating cast of chefs, including the ever-jolly Ainsley Harriott, Yorkshireman Brian Turner, baby-faced James Martin, and Henry VIII-lookalike Antony Worrall Thompson. During school holidays, I would watch with Mamee and Nanu, and we all learnt new techniques, and creative ways to use unfamiliar ingredients.

Another avenue into the world of culinary experimentation came courtesy of Nanu’s penchant for women’s magazines. Every week, Nanu would buy a stack of them – Women’s Weekly, Woman’s Realm, Bella, Best, Take A Break. Everyone had their own preferred sections: Nanu claimed to read the health pages (and definitely enjoyed the real-life tales of women being swindled by ‘love rats’ they had met on holiday); Aunty Aneesa diligently entered every competition going and often won something for her troubles; and I secretly used to read the problem pages, through which I prematurely learnt about the menopause and the concept of family therapy. Mamee’s favourite section, however, was the recipe pages. She would tear out these sections and actually use the recipes. In my opinion, one of the best was her paprika chicken and rice, which I loved.

I feel as though I learnt to cook from, and alongside, Mamee. I became Mamee’s kitchen hand, chatting away with her while I peeled garlic and ginger, shelled prawns, and rolled porothas. She let me do the jobs that Ammu wouldn’t yet entrust to me, like cleaning chicken and meat. Thanks to her faith in me, I soon gained confidence in the kitchen just as she did: a gift that continues to pass from one generation to the next.

______

Paprika chicken with rice

Mamee’s magazine recipe

Serves 4–6

Mamee and I were trying to remember which magazine she got this recipe from: we think it was Bella at some point in the mid-1990s. In any case, Mamee has adapted it over the years, with the addition of ghee and green chillies, putting her distinctive deshi stamp on this satisfying one-tray family dinner. The heat is layered throughout, with the paprika, chilli flakes, and green chillies – but you can add or omit according to taste. Serve with plain yoghurt and a simple salad.

Ingredients

1.5–2kg whole chicken, skin on

for the marinade

2 tbsp garlic-ginger paste

1 tbsp ground turmeric

2 tbsp hot paprika

1 tsp chilli flakes

2 tbsp natural yoghurt

1 tsp salt

good glug of olive oil

for the rice

1 vegetable stock cube

620g basmati rice

2 medium potatoes (about 520g), cut in 3cm pieces

2 carrots, cut into 3cm pieces

1 (of each) red, yellow, green pepper, deseeded and diced

1 medium red onion (about 190g), sliced

4 whole green chillies

2 tbsp ghee

2 tsp salt

500ml boiling water

In a large mixing bowl, combine the marinade ingredients and rub all over the chicken. Leave to marinate for at least 20 minutes or longer if you have time.

Transfer the chicken to a large, deep roasting tin and roast, uncovered, in a hot oven at 220ºC for 25 minutes.

In a measuring jug, dissolve the stock cube with the boiling water. Remove the chicken from the oven and add the rice, potatoes, carrots, peppers, onion, and chillies to the roasting tin. Pour the vegetable stock all over the rice, cover with foil and return to the oven. After 10 minutes, turn the heat down to 150ºC and roast for a further 40 minutes. Remove the foil and drizzle the melted ghee all over the rice and fluff it up with a fork. Re-cover the dish with foil and let it rest for 10 minutes before serving.

______

With our family’s food habits evolving over several decades and between two countries, we – like so many other immigrant families – have developed a unique cuisine by fusing the different elements from multiple food traditions. I view this as being symbolic of an increasing confidence in our identities – a beautiful sentiment in itself, but even better in its tangible, tasteable form.

Raan

roast leg of lamb with all the trimmings

Serves 6–8

This is our family’s ultimate festive centrepiece. We have several variations: sometimes opting for a long slow cooking, at others a more conventional roasting method. This is just as good paired with pulao, salad, and a vegetable curry, as it is with the trimmings given below. But whether styled deshi or English, having roast potatoes is non-negotiable.

Ingredients

2–2.5kg leg of lamb

for the marinade

1 white onion, roughly chopped (about 190g)

6cm piece of ginger

1 whole bulb of garlic

splash of olive oil

juice of 1 lemon

2 tbsp ground cumin

2 tbsp ground coriander

1 tbsp red chilli powder

1 tbsp ground turmeric

2 tbsp salt

250g Greek yoghurt

Put all the marinade ingredients except the yoghurt in a blender and whizz until it forms a thick, smooth paste – add a little more oil if needed. In a bowl, mix the paste with the yoghurt. Place the lamb in a large roasting pan and make a few deep cuts all over the meat with a small sharp knife. Rub the marinade all over the lamb ensuring it is thoroughly coated on all sides. Cover with foil, and leave to marinate in the fridge overnight, or even longer.

When ready to cook: take the lamb out of the fridge a good half an hour to an hour before cooking and allow to come to room temperature. Preheat the oven to 220°C and roast the lamb uncovered for 20 minutes. Then cover with foil, reduce the heat to 180ºC and cook for about 1 hour and 20 minutes. Check that it is done to your liking, roasting for longer if preferred, depending on the weight of the lamb.

To make tandoori roast potatoes

Allow 1 large white floury potato per person, and peel and cut each into 6 pieces. Boil in a large pan of salted water with a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda for 8 minutes. Drain the potatoes and steam over the pan to ensure all the moisture is evaporated. Line a baking sheet with baking paper and place the potatoes on it. Drizzle plenty of olive oil over the top and sprinkle with sea salt and a little tandoori masala. Roast for 30 minutes at 200°C, turning half way, until dark golden brown.

To make coriander carrots

Slice 400g carrots into diagonals and set aside. In a sauté pan, heat a heaped tablespoon of ghee and fry 2 cloves of crushed garlic until soft and starting to colour. Add the carrots along with half a teaspoon of salt, a pinch of sugar, the juice of half a lemon, and a splash of water. Cover and cook on medium heat for 10 minutes. Uncover and stir through a handful of finely chopped coriander. (Serves 4 – double quantities for more).

To make mustard cauliflower cheese

Break up a large cauliflower into florets and steam for 5 minutes. In a saucepan, heat 3 tablespoons of butter and add ½ tsp cumin seeds. Add 3–4 tablespoons of flour and stir to make a paste. Add 300ml milk, slowly and stir constantly over a low heat to stop lumps from forming. Stir in 1 teaspoon hot English mustard, a twist of black pepper and salt, and 50g sharp cheddar cheese. Arrange the cauliflower in a baking dish, pour over the cheese sauce, and top with breadcrumbs blitzed with some fresh coriander. Bake for 25 mins at 180°C or until golden and bubbling. (Serves 4 – double quantities for more).

______

Tandoori maach

marinated roast salmon

Serves 6–8 people

This makes for a stunning – and deceptively easy – centrepiece. If you cannot find a whole side of salmon, then you can use individual fillets instead. Make sure the fish is properly scaled and keep the skin on for added flavour and crunch. (Bengalis consider the skin a delicacy and never throw it away.) Serve with pulao or white rice, dal, and any vegetable side dish.

Ingredients

1 large side of salmon (approximately 1.2–1.5kg), scaled with the skin on

300ml natural yoghurt

juice of 1 lemon

1 tsp salt

1 tsp ground turmeric

2 tsp tandoori masala

½ tsp chilli powder (or to taste)

4 large garlic cloves, crushed

Place the cleaned fish in a large enough bowl or tub (a plastic washing-up or mixing bowl works well). In a separate bowl combine all the marinade ingredients and whisk with a fork. Pour the marinade over the fish, rubbing the yoghurt mixture onto both sides. Cover the bowl and refrigerate overnight – or for at least 8 hours.

Around 20 minutes before you are ready to cook, remove the salmon from the fridge. Preheat the oven to 200ºC. Line a baking tray with foil and then place a sheet of baking paper on top. This will ensure the fish does not stick to the tray when cooking. Transfer the fish to the lined baking tray and place skin-side down. Drizzle the salmon with a little sunflower oil and bake uncovered for 25 minutes. Present it on a large platter and garnish with wedges of lemon or lime, coriander, red onion rings and sliced green chillies.

______

Cake rusk trifle

Serves 6–8

Cake rusks are a genre unto themselves. These hard, brittle rectangles melt like butter when dipped in a cup of hot cha and are the essential accompaniment to any tea break. The most recognized brands are Regal and Kashmir Crown Bakeries (KCB to those in the know) – and are available from any Asian supermarket or corner shop. This recipe combines the biscuity rusk with smooth cream, custard, and refreshing fruit – tinned or fresh – to make a summer dessert of dreams. You can use pre-prepared custard from the supermarket chilled foods section, or use custard powder and make up your own – making your own custard is a magnanimous effort but wholly unnecessary for this deceptively simple dish.

Ingredients

40g flaked coconut

40g flaked almonds

150g cake rusks

1× 425g tin of pineapple chunks

1× 425g tin of mango slices (or fresh, ripe mango if in season – please don’t use the hard pre-cut versions sold as part of supermarket ‘meal deals’)

125g fresh raspberries

500ml custard, chilled

⅛ teaspoon ground cardamom

¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg

200ml double cream

2 tbsp coconut cream

1 tbsp icing sugar

In a small dry pan, toast the coconut flakes and flaked almonds for a couple of minutes until the aroma is released and the pieces are golden brown at the edges. Set aside.

In a glass Pyrex dish, or similar, arrange the cake rusks close together in a single layer, breaking into smaller pieces if necessary to fill any gaps. Drain the tinned fruit (reserving the juice or syrup) and arrange half of the fruit over the cake rusks in a single layer. Scatter over half of the raspberries.

In a bowl, gently stir the chilled custard together with the ground cardamom and ground nutmeg. Pour the custard all over the fruit to form a thick layer.

Now, whip the cream with an electric whisk and, when stiff, beat in the coconut cream and the icing sugar. Spread the cream over the fruit layer. Garnish with the toasted flaked coconut and almonds. Keep chilled in the fridge until serving.

______

As well as holding on to religious and cultural feast days, my family collected Western celebrations like magpies. We threw ourselves into what naysayers dismiss as being ‘Hallmark holidays’ – Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Valentine’s Day – with enthusiasm. While there is plenty of snobbery surrounding these occasions, with many claiming that they are merely displays of commercialism, there was no cynicism around these occasions in our house. In fact, on reflection, I feel there was an innocence in the way we chose to observe these holidays. It was a way of engaging with a celebration that was being observed by others around us, that was not tied to religion or nationalism. The universality of Hallmark holidays made them accessible and, for once, gave us a way in which we could also be part of the mainstream, and have as much ownership of these days as anyone else.

Every Valentine’s Day, Abbu would buy Ammu perfume, chocolate, and flowers. Her favourite perfume was Tendre Poison by Dior, which came in a green bottle with a gold top. (The spelling of ‘tendre’ drove eight-year-old me bonkers.) After presenting her with these gifts and a bunch of carnations, Abbu would take us all out to dinner. Always to an Asian restaurant, always in Bradford. Our favourite place was Mumtaz on Great Horton Road, where we always ordered the same thing: masala fried fish and chana chaat to start with, followed by lamb karahi, chicken karahi, fresh buttered naan, basmati rice, and lashings of sweet mango lassi. I loved going out to dinner on Valentine’s Day. The restaurants would always be packed with other Asian families with the same idea – a collective celebration, not just a date night for mum and dad. There was a sweet reconciliation of Asian and Western values with celebrating Valentine’s Day, which recognized the significance of romantic love, while embedding it within the context of familial bonds. In those times, to me at least, it felt as though we really did have it all.

Sweet endings and daily desserts

There are so many ways to end a meal, but none more celebratory or significant than cake. Our family occasions were always marked by a cake, as our photo albums attest, with print after print of different cakes: with and without candles; with dedications iced onto them; fresh cream; fondant icing; round, square, tiered, and novelty shaped. Cakes are not just dessert as they also provide a focal point for the celebration, peaking when the cake is finally cut amidst a burst of camera flashes and broad smiles.

My youngest aunty, Rebecca, was often the one to order and collect the cake from the family-run Martins bakery on Dickenson Road that specialised in fresh cream cakes with raspberry jam and flaked almonds coating the sides. I remember the cakes for Sabreen and our cousin Sammy’s first birthdays – born one day apart from each other, their cakes were shaped to represent the digit ‘1’ – with one pink and one blue, for the two cousins. Many years later, Rebecca’s eldest daughter, Maeesha, would make mine and my husband’s wedding cake, which was a beautiful three-tiered creation that tasted as good as it looked, with one layer each of red velvet layer, chocolate, and lemon drizzle. Years later, people still tell us that it was the best wedding cake they had ever had.

But cake wasn’t always to everyone’s taste as the older generation in particular preferred something a little more traditional. Mishti – also known as ‘mithai’ in other South Asian languages – is also always present at celebrations in its many different forms: from the sticky, syrupy orange wheels of jelabi to the plump, brown, juicy gulab jamun or fudgy nutty barfi and milky, soft rasmalai.

Mishti is often translated as being ‘sweets’ but this leaves out so much of the significance. Mishti transcends the role of simply being food: it is a cultural currency in itself. Births, engagements, and marriages are marked by the sharing of mishti. Turning up at a relative’s house without a box of freshly made mishti is sacrilegious. And, while flowers are welcomed, and chocolates are enjoyed – nothing shows that you are a well brought up, appreciative guest, more than a gift of these sweetmeats. Similarly, the absence of a gift of mishti when a child is born or an engagement announced is enough to draw the ire of relatives that will be remembered and remarked upon for years.

The ingredients for different forms of mishti vary, but principally involve milk solids, sugar, ghee, nuts, semolina, and aromatics such as rosewater, cinnamon, and cardamom. The expense of these luxurious ingredients is part of what makes mishti so important as a symbol of high regard. The significance of exchanging mishti is evident in the early establishment of businesses that created, distributed, and sold sweets to a diaspora Asian community who craved them. The earliest sweet shops emerged in the early 1960s in cities across the UK.

In Manchester, the earliest sweet house was founded by Pakistani migrant, Haji Abdul Ghafoor Akhtar in 1963. The shop at 149–151 Wilmslow Road in Rusholme became known as Sanam Sweet House, and over time expanded to other neighbourhoods across Manchester, including Longsight, Cheetham Hill, and Oldham. The following year, on a cold December day, Haji Abdul Rahman opened the doors of the Sweet Centre in Bradford for the first time. An established businessman in the area, he already ran a grocery shop on Lumb Lane, but decided to invest his entire life savings in setting up a dedicated sweet shop that also specialised in traditional Pakistani breakfasts of halwa, chole, puri and – the shop’s signature item – seekh kebabs. And down in London, Mr Mohammed Ali Khan established the Ambala Foods Company in 1965, whose flagship sweet store still stands on Drummond Street, NW1.

Ammu’s first foray into mishti-making was courtesy of pre-prepared packet mixes manufactured in India by companies such as Gits and Shan, which proliferated in the early 2000s. These instant mixes contain dehydrated milk and wheat, and only required the addition of water to make the dough or batter for a range of sweets including gulab jam, jelabi, and rasmalai. It was such a novelty seeing Ammu create these delicacies at home that we previously had to buy from specialist shops. To make gulab jam, she shaped the dough into balls, fried them in oil until they turned a deep brown colour, and then soaked them in sugar syrup until they swelled up into soft, stodgy bites. When I moved to London as a young graduate and I had friends over for a dinner party, I tried my hand at making them too.

Gulab jam

spongy sweet balls in lemon and cardamom syrup

Makes 20 balls

Making mishti at home is so deceptively easy with the help of these packet mixes. If you’re feeling extra fancy you can stuff the gulab jam with pistachios before frying. I like a mix of oil and ghee for frying – an economical way to get the full buttery flavour.

Ingredients

for the balls

1 × 100g packet Gits (or other brand) gulab jamun

milk or water (volume according to packet instructions)

500ml sunflower oil

3 heaped tbsp ghee for frying

for the syrup

1½ cups granulated sugar

2½ cups water

juice and zest of 2 limes

4 green cardamom pods

pinch of saffron strands (optional)

Make up the gulab jam mix according to the packet instructions using water or milk. Roll into small balls about the size of a large chocolate truffle (they swell during cooking). Place them on a tray lined with baking paper until ready to fry, covering with a damp cloth to prevent them from drying out. Heat the oil and ghee together in a large wok or deep frying pan – it will need to be deep enough to fully cover the balls, add more if needed. Fry the balls in batches until they are a dark, caramel brown all over. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on kitchen paper.

Make the sugar syrup by heating the water and sugar together in a wide saucepan, along with the cardamom, lime juice and zest and saffron if using. Bring to the boil and stir to dissolve the sugar, then reduce the heat and simmer for about 10 minutes until the syrup has thickened.

Add the gulab jam to the pan of warm sugar syrup and arrange in a single layer, allowing room for the balls to soak up the syrup and swell. They will end up doubling in volume compared to their original pre-cooked size. Let the balls soak for an hour before serving either warm or room temperature in individual bowls with a dollop of thick Greek yoghurt or cream.

______

An early lesson for anyone new to the shores of Britain, is the sanctity in which ‘pudding’ (or dessert, or sweet) is held. In even the humblest household in the UK, the evening meal is often a two-course affair, with the final course being made up of something sweet: whether that’s a bowl of ice cream, some jelly, cake, crumble, or even simply bread and jam.

The concept of ‘dessert’ isn’t as rigid in Bengali culture as it is for the Brits. While we have sweet dishes aplenty, they are not reserved for being enjoyed after a main meal, and on most days families wouldn’t routinely serve dessert, unless it was a plate of cut fruit. Instead, these sweet dishes are enjoyed more versatilely, such as breakfast for a special occasion or as part of afternoon tea. The following two recipes are classics that are delicious, no matter what time of day, or how many courses have already been consumed.

Suji halwa

sweet semolina pudding

Serves 4

This halwa is often enjoyed for breakfast along with a cup of sweet, hot cha or as a dessert. You can make this recipe in varying consistencies as you prefer, a bit like polenta – from buttery-smooth and porridge-like, to slightly firmer with a little bite. Both are delicious.

Ingredients

50g ghee

75g golden sultanas

2 cardamom pods

150g semolina

100g granulated sugar

200ml whole milk

100ml water

2 tbsp toasted flaked almonds, to serve

2 tbsp desiccated coconut, toasted, to serve

Melt the ghee in a non-stick, heavy-based medium saucepan over a low heat. Add the sultanas and stir gently, coating them in the ghee until they puff up slightly. Bash the cardamom pods to release the seeds and add them whole (pods and seeds) to the pan.

Add the semolina and stir well. The grains will soak up the ghee and look a bit like wet sand. Continue stirring over a low heat for about 4–5 minutes until the semolina is slightly toasted, golden in colour, and releases an almost nutty aroma.

Add the sugar, stir well, and reduce the heat to its lowest setting. Add the milk, stirring continuously with a wooden spoon, almost beating the semolina until it forms a smooth, porridge-like texture. Keep stirring while the semolina cooks for a further 5–7 minutes. The grains will swell as they absorb the milk.

Slowly add 100ml water and stir well. Cover the pan with a lid and allow to cook for another 3–5 minutes over a very low heat, stirring occasionally to ensure the halwa doesn’t stick.

At this stage the halwa is cooked, and should have a pudding-like, almost-set consistency. Serve warm from the pan in small bowls, scattering the toasted almonds and coconut on top.

Cook’s tip: adjust the texture to your liking by stirring in some more milk or water – especially good if you’re serving the halwa for breakfast.

Shemai

cardamom-infused vermicelli pudding

Serves 6

The fragrance of cardamom and ghee wafts through the home on Eid morning, making everything smell festive. This sweet dish can be enjoyed for breakfast, for a dessert, or at teatime. We enjoy this with flaky buttery porotha and hot tea, or – as Abbu enjoys it – spread thickly on some toasted buttered fruit loaf: a combination that epitomises the beauty of cross-cultural cuisine. Make sure to use the extra fine, brittle, roasted vermicelli found in Indian supermarkets or shops, not the Chinese or Italian varieties which are too thick for this dish.

Ingredients

2 tbsp ghee

100g golden sultanas

50g packet extra-thin vermicelli

500ml whole milk

100g granulated sugar

4cm piece of cassia bark or cinnamon

3–4 cardamom pods, crushed

2 tbsp grated creamed coconut

Heat the ghee in a medium-sized saucepan. When melted, add in the sultanas until they swell up and are juicy looking. Add the vermicelli, roughly breaking it into 2-inch strands. Lightly toast the vermicelli, stirring often. Pour in the milk and stir in the sugar, stirring constantly and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat and stir in the cassia bark and the cardamom pods. The vermicelli will start to absorb the milk. Cover and cook on low for 5–10 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Add in the creamed coconut and stir again. The shemai can be whatever consistency you prefer, ranging from quite dry to very creamy, depending on how much of the milk is evaporated off during cooking. I prefer it to be like a creamy rice pudding. Shemai, like scrambled eggs, continues to cook once removed from the heat, so turn it off a couple of minutes before it achieves the desired consistency. Remove the cassia bark – or leave it in for a rustic look – and serve in small bowls.

The ceremony of cut fruit

So much has been written in recent years, particularly by South and East Asian food writers, about how cut fruit is a love language in itself – particularly for parents from a generation who are more comfortable demonstrating their love, than they are making verbal declarations of the fact. This is certainly true within our family. My parents and grandparents showed their love most tangibly in the way they sourced, prepared, and served fruit.

My first understanding of ‘seasonal’ eating was from observing the excitement of my elders when certain fruits became available in the markets and would start appearing on our plates in vast quantities, before tailing out again just as we were starting to tire of them. At different points throughout the year, Abbu would bring home wooden crates of blush-coloured lychees, cardboard boxes of honey mangoes, and red net bags of shiny clementines. But the ultimate expression of this love was through the preparation and feeding of jackfruit.

Jackfruit is objectively a bizarre fruit: enormous with a bulbous, misshapen appearance and an unwelcoming spiky, leathery peel. But it is my belief that there has never been a fruit more revered, prized, loved, by its devotees, in all the world.

Although jackfruit has been ‘discovered’ by the West in recent years, it has a long-standing place in cultures and cuisines, from the Swahili coast to South East Asia. While the trendy European chefs laud canned green jackfruit as a magical vegan alternative to pulled pork, the full range and scope of the fruit is so much richer, as those who grew up with the fruit know.

Jackfruit is synonymous with community. It is such a ludicrously large fruit that it is only ever purchased with the express intention to share it. As such, it is often especially bought when relatives are visiting, in their honour. Nana Bhai would often wait until we were visiting during the school holidays, and then buy a whole kathal for us to enjoy over several days. The preparation of the fruit is time consuming and undertaking the laborious task is an absolute act of love: as Nana Bhai cut and peeled, fed us by hand and pushed bowls and bowls onto us until we could eat no more, we were left in no doubt as to his care for us.

Pitha

Of all the foods that come from the region of Bengal, pitha is the most unique. Pronounced ‘pee-ta’ (or ‘fee-ta’ in the Sylheti dialect), it is a collective term for different types of pastries made from Bengal’s staple crop – rice. Pitha is not just a food; it is the embodiment of an identity.

Each festival and season calls for a particular type of pitha. Patishapta pitha are made out of a loose batter that is fried into pancakes and then stuffed with molasses and coconut. Puli pitha are sweet coconut-stuffed dumplings that are either steamed or fried, and particularly enjoyed during the winter harvest season. And Bengali New Year is welcomed with an array of intricately decorated nakshi pitha, which are fashioned out of a firm dough before being carved into shapes, fried, and then soaked in a sweet sugar syrup.

During Ramadan, our Bangladeshi neighbours and some of Abbu’s students would send us ice cream tubs full of nuner bora – bright turmeric-yellow circles that had been fried until crisp around the edges – and if we were really lucky, dark, sweet, deliciously oily discs of handesh. The huge regional variation in types of pitha is a testament to the creativity of the Bengali people, and the pride attached to this art is apparent in the many pitha-making competitions held in villages and community halls across the land.

The making of pitha is a communal effort. It is labour intensive, and as the saying goes, ‘many hands make light work’. It is also a ritual. Traditionally, and still today, families gather with the express intention to make pitha: an afternoon or evening of chatter, laughter, and storytelling accompanies the rolling, folding, shaping, and frying before ending, of course, with the eating. My earliest memories of making pitha involve sitting at Nanu’s large oval dining table with Ammu, my aunties and my sisters, and poking and prodding mounds of the stiff white dough, feeling the comforting hum of grown-up conversation and occasional bursts of laughter wrap around me like a warm embrace.

Making pitha is an art form, and a beautiful demonstration of Bengali folk craft. Nakshi pitha is the most striking example of this – mounds of dough are shaped with the simplest of tools to make stunning creations that rival mendhi or henna designs for their intricacy. These are then fried and eaten, although it feels almost sacrilegious to consume something that has had so much care and skill put into it. Wooden moulds are sometimes used to uniformly create nakshi pitha designs, but the true skill lies in the freehand form that I, sadly, have not acquired.

What I did learn, however, under Nanu’s tutelage, was the fashioning of perfect mera pitha. At first glance, these pitha are the simplest of all varieties. There is no additional flavouring, just rice flour, salt, and water. The dough is shaped and steamed and then enjoyed with beef bhuna, as a sort of dumpling, or is sliced and then fried with crispy onions and green chillies. But the real skill lies in the shaping of them. Mera pitha should be rolled between the palms, or on a flat surface with one hand, into a spinning top-type shape. It is much harder than it appears, and requires practice to get the angle of the rolling just right. Some families shape them into spheres or slightly elongated balls, but in Nanu’s view this is simply because they haven’t mastered the art of rolling at the right slant; something I am so grateful to have had the chance to learn from her, and a skill she learnt from her grandmother.

Nanu’s pitha-crafting skills are boundless. As a child, I loved watching her make sweet, little doll-sized pots with lids out of the pitha dough, as well as elaborate swans with eggs tucked inside the bottom. These creations were steamed over boiling water and miraculously kept their shape, albeit a little fluffed up after being cooked. While these works of art were impressive to look at, it was awkward actually trying to eat them (breaking the neck of a swan felt somewhat barbaric). Instead, we gobbled up the spinning top-shaped mera pitha with either leftover meat curry or fried with onions and chillies.

______

Mera pitha biran

steamed and fried rice flour dumplings

Makes about 25 pitha

Ingredients

2 parts ground rice

4 parts water

¼ tsp salt

for frying

sunflower oil

1 small onion (110g), thinly sliced

2 green chillies, slit into pieces

In a heavy-based frying pan, gently roast the rice for about 10 minutes over a low heat to release a nutty aroma, making sure the rice does not change colour. Transfer the rice to a mixing bowl.

In a medium-sized pan, boil the water and salt together. Gradually add the rice, whisking it through, and reduce the heat to the lowest setting. Cover and cook for 5 minutes or so. This should form a stiff dough that isn’t too hard or sticky.

Turn the dough out onto a clean surface and knead for 5–8 minutes. Now take small amounts of dough, about the size of a golf ball, and roll between your palms to create an elongated oval, or a spinning top-type shape – practice makes perfect here!

In a wide steamer, arrange the shaped pitha and place over a pan of boiling water. Cover and steam over a medium heat for about 20 minutes. Note that the pitha will swell as they cook so take care not to overcrowd the steamer. When cooked, empty the pitha into a colander and rinse with cold water to ensure they don’t stick together. The pitha can be stored in the fridge until eating – either with a beef curry, or fried with onions as shown below. Fry right before eating, so that the smoky flavour really comes through.

To fry (makes enough for 2 people)

In a frying pan, heat a few tablespoons of sunflower oil and fry the onions and chillies over a medium heat for about 15 minutes until they are a deep golden brown.

While the onions are cooking, slice 5 or 6 of the cooled pitha with a sharp knife into pieces about 8mm thick. Add the pitha to the fried onions, increase the heat and cook for a further 5 minutes or until the pitha is brown and almost crunchy in parts. Divide the pitha into small bowls and enjoy hot with tea.

______

Some experiences are destined to become foundational memories in ways we cannot predict. An example of this involves making pitha during a family visit to Bangladesh in December 1997. My cousins decided that we would make chunga pitha (known as ‘sunga fita’ in Sylheti), a savoury type of pitha made by roasting pounded sticky rice in hollowed-out bamboo canes in a fire pit.

That night had all the atmosphere of a campfire scene from a Hollywood movie. The family courtyard was aglow with several small bonfires in which the pitha cooked, and the odd hurricane lantern that gave off the intoxicating scent of kerosene. Everything was smoky, and we sat wrapped in woollen shawls with the watchful moon overhead while the bamboo canes baked in hot coals for hours. I remember feeling sleepy and my cousins urging me to stay awake otherwise I would miss the eating of the pitha. When it was finally ready, the bamboo canes were broken off, revealing a cylinder of cooked, smoky, sticky rice. I tasted it and was filled with disappointment: to me it just tasted like burnt, mushy rice, but my cousins devoured these carefully prepared treats with excitement. But it was the insight into the ritual, the preparation and excitement that had gone into the whole evening, that stayed with me. It was one of my most formative memories of going back to my roots.

Part Six

Back to My Roots

For us, where we are born – for better or worse – has to be home …

The time comes for every child born into the diaspora for their first visit ‘back home’: a home that we were told was our own, but in truth, was not.

The stories Abbu would tell me and my sisters at bedtime were often recollections of his childhood escapades, and we would listen eagerly to the adventures of our very own Huckleberry Finn who climbed trees, stole mangoes, fished with rods that he fashioned out of branches himself, and evaded authority figures with a defiance we wished we were brave enough to copy. I longed so much to see this world that had moulded Abbu: to wade through paddy fields, hear frogs croaking in the long grass, swat away persistent mosquitoes, and sink my toes into the red earth.

What I did not know – could not know, as a child – was that the desh in Abbu’s stories no longer existed. His mid-century childhood idyll had faded over the decades. I was separated from Abbu’s ‘home’ by both geography and time, and despite both of our efforts, it was a place I would only ever be able to reach through his stories. But still, we tried.

My first visit to Bangladesh was in December 1991 when I was just four years old. I remember Ammu’s main preparation before we went was to wean me off drinking milk from a bottle at night. Like so many Bangladeshi children, my sisters and I all drank milk from a bottle until well beyond what would be considered acceptable by modern British standards. One of my earliest memories is lying in my parents bed (which we shared: co-sleeping was, and remains, the norm among many Bengalis) at night, with one foot across my other knee, swigging from a milk bottle, and twirling my hair. It was the feeling of pure contentment. Ammu’s insistence that I give up the habit was less to do with the bottle, however, and more to do with the limited availability of pasteurised milk in Bangladesh at the time. Our breakfast came from the cows, who were milked every morning, and the milk was then boiled by one of my aunts and then left to cool. Only then were we allowed to drink it. It was too pungent, too evocative of hay and cows, for me to enjoy, so I reluctantly eased my dependence on the white stuff. But at night, I dreamed of fridge-cold, creamy, silver top English milk.

How we consumed milk was just one of the many differences that I encountered on that first month-long visit. The essential use of water was also wildly different. We had a tube well that stood at the edge of the family compound, surrounded by stone tiles and a low wall that afforded some privacy. The well supplied our water for cooking and washing. It required someone to pump the heavy lever to release the flow of water from the spout, and we children took it in turns to swing our entire body weight on the stubborn handle to get it to move. It was much harder than it looked. Most of the time, our older cousins swatted us out of the way and took over the pumping, and a stream of earthy, metallic-scented water would gush forth with a glug-glug sound that was remarkably satisfying. My aunts filled kolshis or large urns with water for cooking each morning, fortunate that they had such a short journey to collect clean, potable water – a basic human right that not everyone in the village, even in the early 1990s, was afforded.

When it came to bathing, everyone did so in public while somehow retaining their modesty. Older children and adults bathed at the pukur – the large sunken pond that stood in the far corner of the compound, flanked by tall fruit trees and stone steps that led down to the water. I remember marvelling at how the ladies bathed in their saris, somehow expertly soaping and lathering and rinsing their hair and bodies without revealing so much as an inch of skin other than their arms and shins. Given my age, it was acceptable for me to be bathed at the tube well in the middle of the compound, while clad in my white cotton vest and knickers. Ammu would have a pail of water drawn and heated over the clay stove in the kitchen. The warm water was used to rinse the shampoo from my hair, while a bar of Lifebuoy or Gold soap was rubbed into my skin until it stung. My tougher Bangladeshi cousins were not granted the luxury of heated water for their baths, and remarked on how soft we English were for requiring such delicate handling.

The whole concept of compound living was a novelty, and one which I adored. A bari is made up of multiple households sharing the same land. In our case, the bari comprised of two built dwellings (one for each of my paternal uncles and their families), as well as a shared separate kitchen or ‘fakh ghor’, and an outhouse where the hired farmhands lived. The buildings stood around the edges of the large open courtyard, or ‘uthan’, which was the central hub of the bari where children played hopscotch in the dust and elders sat in cane chairs and drank tea. I marvelled at there being so many family members living close together; the novelty of always having a cousin to play with, or an indulgent aunt to run to after being disciplined by a strict parent, seemed so appealing.

Back then, the bari was also relatively self-reliant. We (for it is always, ‘we’, even when ‘we’ do not inhabit the bari permanently … ) owned paddy fields that provided us with enough rice to sustain us for the year. The pukur contained all kinds of large and small fish, which were carefully managed to maintain a steady supply. We also kept animals: five or six cows for milk, oxen for ploughing, a few goats, some chickens that gave eggs, and, occasionally their lives, for our nourishment. My grandmother, Bibi Ji, kept a kitchen garden in which every variety of gourd and squash grew, as well as beans, tomatoes, aubergines, and cucumbers. Fruit trees that had been planted by my grandfather, Dada Bhai, punctuated the landscape: mango, guava, tamarind, coconut, and, of course, jackfruit.

Everyday eating

In joined households of over twenty people, feeding everyone is a full-time team effort. The ladies of the family and the maids would sit in the uthan together from morning, preparing the ingredients for the day. Meals were made up of the critical triumvirate – vegetables, lentils, fish – accompanied by mounds of white rice, of course. Chicken, goat, and beef were reserved for more special occasions (such as the long-awaited visit of relatives from abroad …) and were cleverly prepared to feed as many people as possible: chickens were cut into smaller pieces so that a curry would go further, and often cooked with vegetables such as green beans, potatoes, or squash to bulk out the dish and make it last longer.

Huge trays containing red lentils and rice would be laid out, and my job (that of any errant child needing an honest pursuit) would be to pick out any tiny stones or grit. Spices were ground by hand using an enormously heavy grinding stone called a sheel bata: pods of fresh turmeric and red chilli were pounded to a paste – more pungent and densely coloured than the powders I was used to seeing Ammu cook with at home. Vegetables were peeled and sliced using a curved knife called a da, which stood on two sturdy little legs. These lethal weapons were like artists’ tools when wielded by my aunts, but I was always warned to stay well away.

The da was also used to scale, gut, and cut fish into pieces, which would then be soaked in a metal bowl of salted water and turmeric to eliminate any residual ‘fishy’ smell. The small fish, or choto maach, were cheaper and went further, often cooked in a thin, sour broth called a tenga or tok with tomatoes, orange peel, or olives. Sometimes they were tossed in chilli, turmeric, salt, and a sprinkle of rice or chickpea flour, before being fried until crunchy – this is still my favourite way to eat choto maach.

Choto maach bhaja

small fried fish

Serves 4 as part of a main meal

On my childhood trips to Bangladesh, I loved seeing my relatives catching fish in our family pukur. My male and female cousins alike would be part of the process, which involved wading out into the pond until they were chest deep in the water, and carefully using the nets to scoop up the catch. The fish were of all different sizes: larger varieties were cast back into the water until they had grown to their full size, but the little fish such as puti were gathered into a bowl to be eaten for dinner that night. This is my favourite way of enjoying choto maach.

Ingredients

600g small fresh fish such as sprats, whitebait, small sardines

2 tbsp chickpea (gram) flour

1 tbsp rice flour

1 tsp salt

1 tsp red chilli powder

1 tsp ground turmeric

sunflower oil, for frying

lime or lemon wedges, to serve

If the fish are very small, simply snip off the pointy part of the tail with kitchen scissors and place in a bowl of cold water until needed. If the fish are a little larger (small sardines, for example) then snip off the tail, cut open the belly and rinse out the cavity under a cold running tap. You can leave the head on for a delicious crunch.

Drain the fish well and place in a large bowl. Sprinkle over the rest of the dry ingredients and toss well to coat the fish in the seasoned flour. In a wok or deep frying pan heat enough oil (about 6cm deep) to deep fry the fish. Test the oil by dropping in a piece of the flour mix – if it sizzles and rises to the top, the oil is hot enough. Add the fish to the pan, shaking off the excess flour. Fry in batches for about 5 minutes, turning occasionally with a slotted spoon. When the fish are crunchy and golden brown, remove from the pan and drain on kitchen paper. Squeeze over some fresh lemon or lime and serve with rice and dal.

______

Keski maach aar komla tarkari

tiny fish with clementine peel

Serves 4 as a side

This quintessentially Sylheti all-in-one curry is so easy to make. The clementine peel adds a subtle citrusy note and the green chilli gives a hot, zingy freshness. Use the smallest fish you can find: keski is available in frozen blocks from Bangladeshi and Asian food shops, but you can use very small fresh anchovies or whitebait.

Ingredients

500g tiny fish, the smaller the better

1 small white onion, grated

3–4 green chillies, sliced into long strips

1 tsp salt

1 tsp chilli powder

1 tsp ground turmeric

1 tsp ground coriander

2 tbsp chopped coriander

peel of ½ small clementine, torn into 3 × 3cm pieces

sunflower oil

lime wedges, to serve

Rinse the fish thoroughly in cold water and drain well. In a small saucepan, mix the onions, chillies, salt, turmeric, chilli powder, and ground coriander. Add the fish, clementine peel, and a couple of tablespoons of oil, then stir to combine. Cover with cold water and bring to the boil over a high heat. Reduce the heat to medium and cook, covered with a lid, for 5 minutes. Stir and add the coriander. Cover and cook for another 2 minutes. Serve with rice and a wedge of lime.

______

Larger fish such as katla, rui, or mrigel, were big enough to be made into a couple of different dishes when expertly cut and portioned. Often, half would be cooked into a curry, and the other half reserved for frying.

What I remember the most from that first visit to Bangladesh is the scent of cooking. Because my aunts used clay stoves built out of the earth, fuelled with wood, everything had a smoky, earthy aroma to it. The scent was as much an ingredient to the dishes they cooked as the food itself, and one that is impossible to recreate. On subsequent visits back to the bari, that aroma has been missing, with all cooking now taking place on gas stoves in built-in kitchens. These modern methods are no doubt more practical and easier to use than the old ways, and a welcome change for the women of the household in particular, who are now also balancing working outside the home with their domestic roles. But from a purely nostalgic perspective, I mourn the loss of the old ways of cooking – the way Mejo Chachi showed me.

Mejo Chachi, the wife of Abbu’s second brother, was the main cook for the household. I remember her as a cheerful, jolly woman who was always smiling and bestowed hunga on us unreservedly. Hunga is the ancient Bengali way of greeting one another or expressing affection, when two people rub their noses against each other’s from side to side. It is somehow more affectionate and more playful than a kiss and is an expression I love to share with my children today.

My fascination with cooking was already apparent by the time I was four, and Mejo Chachi patiently and enthusiastically took it upon herself to direct my education. Under her tutelage I rolled rice flour rutis that she then griddled on both sides until they blistered and puffed up, before we ate them for breakfast with a light vegetable bazi or leftover meat curry.

Sawler ruti

rice flour flatbreads

Makes 8 rutis

While traditional rutis use either wholewheat flour (atta) or white wheat flour (maida), these rice flour rutis make use of Bengal’s staple crop. Unlike wheat flour ruti, the dough needs prior cooking here – but once you get the hang of it, it hardly takes any time at all. The hanky-like softness comes from kneading the dough very well before rolling. Make sure to use the powder type of rice flour, not just ground rice, which can be too coarse – I’ve even used baby rice in a pinch (the type without any added powdered formula) with success!

Ingredients

1½ cups boiling water

½ tsp salt

1½ cups rice flour

1 tsp sunflower oil

In a medium saucepan or pot, pour in the boiling water and salt. Stir and then add the rice flour and oil, mixing with a wooden spoon until it forms a crumbly dough. Cover the pan with a lid, turn off the heat, and let the dough stand for 10 minutes.

Next, transfer the dough to a large bowl and knead it well, until it forms one uniform ball. Keep kneading by hand for 5 minutes or so. Roll the dough into a large sausage shape and divide with a sharp knife into 8 pieces. Roll each piece as flat as you can. (Use a dusting of flour or two pieces of baking paper, if needed, to ensure that the dough doesn’t stick too much to the rolling pin.)

Heat a non-stick frying pan until it is very hot, then lower the heat to medium. Place the ruti into the pan and cook for a minute or so on each side until cooked through and soft. Repeat until all the rutis are cooked, keeping them warm by wrapping in a tea towel until eating.

______

Bindi bhaja

stir-fried okra

Serves 2 as a side

For this recipe the okra needs to be sliced very finely and fried until it is golden brown and almost caramelized in parts. If you’re not used to okra you may be surprised by how slimy it can be, but don’t worry as the texture is not at all sticky when cooked in this way. (You can minimise the gloopy texture by making sure that you dry the okra before slicing and don’t stir it too often while it is cooking.)

Ingredients

300g okra

2 tbsp sunflower oil

1 small white onion or shallot, very finely sliced

½ tsp salt

½ tsp ground turmeric

1 green chilli, slit lengthways into 2–3 pieces

Wash and pat dry the okra. Slice into circles about 3mm wide and set aside. Heat the oil over a medium heat, add the finely sliced onion and fry until golden brown. Add the salt, turmeric, and chilli, and stir well.

Now add the okra in a single layer and let them crisp on one side for about 3–4 mins. Stir very gently to allow them to turn dark golden brown on the other side. Occasionally move the okra around in the pan to ensure the okra doesn’t burn – it is ready when golden brown and crispy in parts. Serve with white rice, dal and any other meat or fish dish.

Bhorta

Bhorta is the quintessential Bengali food. It can be made of anything – fruit, vegetable, fish – and is characterized by a loose-textured ‘mashed’ quality. Favourites include potato, aubergine, tomato, and fish, all flavoured with mustard oil, chilli, and, sometimes, onion and coriander. British–Bangladeshi food writer, Dina Begum, writes beautifully about the cultural and culinary significance of bhorta, describing it as ‘the food of remembrance when nostalgia hits’. Indeed, bhorta is one of the oldest and least pretentious forms of cooking: it is economical (anything can be made into a bhorta), but more than that; it is emotive. The tradition of ‘bhorta parties’, where people get together and enjoy a meal comprised entirely of beautifully presented bhorta alongside rice has enjoyed a revival in recent years among the Bengali diaspora.

Here are recipes for three classic bhortas that can be enjoyed separately or served as part of a bhorta party.

A trio of bhorta

There is an eternal question as to whether onions should be left raw or fried before being added to the other ingredients. Some swear by one or the other while others (like me) change depending on the other ingredients and taste preference on the day of cooking. Every cook has their own favoured recipe, but there is an understanding of a shared orthodoxy: all are correct and all are delicious. Here are recipes for three classic bhortas that can be enjoyed separately or served as a trio – all that is needed is an accompaniment of freshly cooked white rice or ruti.

Begun bhorta

smoky aubergine

Ingredients

2 large aubergines (about 750g)

½-1 tsp salt

1 garlic clove, finely grated or crushed

2 green chillies, finely chopped

juice of ½ lemon or lime

3 tbsp mustard oil or peppery extra virgin olive oil

small bunch (about 40g) of coriander, stalks and leaves, finely chopped

Cook the aubergines under a very hot grill, over a gas flame, or on a barbecue until the skin is charred and blistering, and the inside is soft and pulpy. Allow to cool, and then remove the skin, reserving the flesh in a bowl. Mash the aubergines with the salt, garlic, chillies, lemon or lime juice, and mustard oil, until well combined. Fold in the coriander.

______

Tomato bhorta

tomato and garlic

Ingredients

1kg large ripe tomatoes, halved

5–6 garlic cloves, skins left on

3 tbsp peppery extra virgin olive oil

small bunch (about 40g) of coriander, finely chopped

2 green chillies, finely chopped

juice of ½ lemon or lime

½–1 tsp salt

Preheat the oven to 200ºC.

Evenly arrange the tomatoes, cut side down, and garlic in a roasting tray and drizzle with olive oil. Roast until the tomatoes are soft and charred (about 20 minutes), turning the tomatoes over halfway through cooking. Remove the roasting dish from the oven and take out the roasted garlic cloves. Peel off the skins and place the soft garlic in a large bowl and mash with a fork. Add the roasted tomatoes and all the juices from the roasting tray. Mash with a fork until the pulp has all broken down. You can remove some of the tomato skin if you wish, or leave it in. Add the coriander, chillies, lemon or lime juice, and salt, and mash roughly. Add a drizzle more of the oil and salt if needed, until the tomatoes resemble a thick relish.

______

Aloo bhorta

potato and coriander

Potatoes cooked on the barbecue are ideal for this, but instead you can parboil them and finish off by dry-roasting them in a pan or under a hot grill to get a slightly smoky taste. The layering of the dried red chilli and fresh green chilli creates a depth of flavour. You can use smaller quantities if you prefer, but this is a recipe for chilli lovers – so be as bold as you can.

Ingredients

8–10 (about 650–700g) small potatoes, with the skins on (larger types can be a bit too watery, but can be used in a pinch)

2 tbsp sunflower oil

2 shallots, very finely chopped

small bunch (about 40g) coriander, finely chopped

2 green chillies, finely chopped

1 large dried red chilli, crumbled or 1 tsp dried red chilli flakes

½–1 tsp salt

3 tbsp mustard oil or peppery extra virgin olive oil

Parboil the potatoes until you can easily slide a knife through them. Place a dry frying pan over a high heat and cook the boiled potatoes until they char and blister in some places, turning so they colour all over and do not burn. Alternatively, cook under a hot grill, turning occasionally, until the skins blister and char. Allow to cool and then peel off the skins. Break up the potatoes with your hands into a large bowl.

In a small frying pan, heat some sunflower oil and fry the shallots over a medium flame for 10–15 minutes, until starting to turn dark golden brown all over. Stir often to make sure the shallots do not burn.

Add the shallots, coriander, green chilli, and dried red chilli to the potatoes along with the salt and mustard oil. Mash well, adding more oil or salt as needed. The end result should be a slightly rough textured mash. To serve, arrange in a bowl and garnish with a drizzle of oil and some crushed red chilli.

Finding Abbu

It is only in retrospect that I realize how much significance I placed on these occasional childhood trips to Bangladesh, and how heavy it could feel. It was as though these couple of weeks every few years had to contain every possible experience – live up to every expectation – but more so than that, it was the opportunity to prove that I had passed some kind of ‘test’ of being truly Bangladeshi. For a while, I was under the impression that visiting Bangladesh would help me make sense of myself, and somehow offer some answers as to how I conceived of, and reconciled different parts of, my identity.

What I recognize now is that these visits also offered a way for me to understand Abbu more. His stories about his childhood came to life when we were in the village where he ran riot, and we could see the very fruit trees he had climbed. But more than that, there were people here who knew Abbu, who called him by his name. Ahsan. Nobody in our house, not even Ammu, called him by his name. In Bengali culture, wives traditionally refrain from using their husband’s names in public as a sign of respect. Instead, women resort to addressing their husbands in many creative ways ranging from the fairly neutral ‘hello’, to the traditional ‘[name of firstborn]’s father’, the amusing ‘where are you?’, and the almost passive-aggressive ‘are you listening?’.

Even though she never uttered it in reference to her husband, Ammu ensured that my sisters and I all carried Abbu’s first name as our last name. Her rationale was brilliantly far-sighted: she wanted us all to be at the top of the school register. Her last name had placed her at the very end of the register for her entire school career, meaning that she was often the last student to take part in different activities, like speaking in class or taking turns for sports. She did not want the same fate for her daughters. So, we all became ‘Ahsan’ – it had always been our name as much as Abbu’s. But here in Bangladesh, I heard Abbu’s two older brothers as well as my grandmother calling him by his given name. I started to piece together who Ahsan was.

Ahsan was the middle of five children, with two older brothers and two younger sisters. As a middle child myself, there are traits I recognize in Abbu that I imagine were exacerbated by his position among the siblings: sociable, quick to both anger and affection, always wanting recognition. Ammu said that Abbu was spoiled as a child, based on stories she heard from her sisters-in-law after they married. Ahsan was born after Bibi Ji had a stillbirth several years before, so it is possible that he was an especially welcomed healthy baby after a sad loss and, as such, was allowed to get away with more than his more studious, serious older brothers were.

The moment when I realized that Abbu – Ahsan – was someone’s son, was when I stumbled across him in the uthan near the kitchen eating a plate of hot fried rice and egg one morning. It was December 1997, and I was ten years old. Abbu never ate anything without us, let alone a dish that was such a favourite. If Abbu went to a restaurant with friends, he would bring home a takeaway for me and my sisters. If he ever sat down for a meal or snack at home, he would always call for us first to see if we wanted to join him. So, to see him indulging in this treat alone surprised me.

Abbu explained that Bibi Ji had made it for him. My grandmother’s health was declining, which we didn’t know at the time, and within the next six months, she would pass away. She was starting to forget things and her eyesight was poor. She referred to me and my sisters interchangeably as ‘the Londonis’, meaning ‘the ones from London’: a statement that offended me as much for its inaccuracy (we were very much not from London), as the lumping together of the three of us. I mostly remember her sitting on the veranda and chewing paan that Ammu had pounded to a paste for her, as Bibi Ji had few remaining teeth. She moved slowly and the thick lenses of her glasses offered little correction to her vision. I remember on one occasion offering to wash them for her after she complained of not being able to see clearly. I lathered the lenses with hand soap and rinsed them carefully, patting them dry with a soft towel and polishing cloth borrowed from Abbu’s glasses case. When I returned them to Bibi Ji, she seemed pleased, and I held on to that small act as the one interaction we had that felt unique to us.

That she had managed to independently prepare her son’s favourite breakfast – mustering both the physical and mental effort – was a testament to the love she felt for her middle child, the one who had gone so far away from her, and for so long. In that moment, I let go of whatever sense of rejection I felt at her apparent lack of interest in me as an individual. She loved her son so much. Her Ahsan. My Abbu. All was forgiven.

Dim aar bhath biran

spicy omelette with fried rice

Serves 2

This is my all-time favourite breakfast. If eggs in butter are glorious, then eggs in ghee are out-of-this world sublime. Don’t shy away from using plenty of it – the scent is what makes a huge part of this dish. If you don’t have ghee use butter, or a mix of butter and oil. The green chilli adds a fresh zing to the eggs, which you can deseed if you prefer it milder, while the red chilli powder provides a warm background heat. I make this without either form of chilli for my kids, but keep in the turmeric for both colour and taste.

Ingredients

for the omelettes

4 large eggs

1 shallot, finely diced

2 green chillies, finely sliced into rings

½ tsp ground turmeric

½ tsp red chilli powder

½ tsp salt

2 tbsp finely chopped coriander

for the fried rice

2 cups (cooked volume) white basmati rice

1 shallot, finely sliced

2 green chillies, each sliced into 3 long pieces

¼ tsp salt

ghee for frying

Crack the eggs into a mixing bowl and beat with all the other omelette ingredients until slightly frothy. Heat 2 tablespoons of ghee in a frying pan. Add a drop of egg to the pan to see if the ghee is hot enough – if it immediately sizzles, it is ready. Pour half of the omelette mixture into the pan and tilt so that the mixture evenly covers the base of the pan. It should curl up at the edges immediately. Let the eggs set a little and run a spatula around the sides of the pan to loosen. Allow to cook for 2 minutes, and then carefully flip (using a fish slice or palette knife to help).

Cover the pan with a lid and cook the omelette for 2 more minutes – it should puff up. Remove the lid and press down a little to make sure the omelette is cooked through and there is no runny egg. Slide the omelette onto a plate and repeat with the remaining mixture to make a second omelette. Keep the omelettes warm while you make the rice.

Melt two tablespoons of ghee in a wok or lidded frying pan and fry the shallots and chillies until they are dark golden brown. Add the salt and the rice, stir well, and cover with a lid and heat through, stirring occasionally to make sure the rice doesn’t stick. When the rice is heated through and beginning to turn golden brown in places, remove from the heat. Serve a mound of the hot fried rice on a plate and top with an omelette.

______

I never had the opportunity to meet Abbu’s father, Dada Bhai, who had passed away when I was two years old. All I know of him is what Abbu has told me: that Ahmad Ullah was born into a family of religious scholars who also farmed the land. Unusually, he was an only child – his mother died during childbirth and so his father raised him as a solo parent. Even more unusually, Dada Bhai’s father did not remarry when his child was young, only doing so many years later.

More unusual still, was that when the time came for the young Ahmad to marry, his bride – Ramjan Nessa – was also an only child for most of her life too. Her parents divorced when she was young, and she had a much younger half-brother from her father and step-mother. When explaining this to me, Abbu pointed out that divorcing and remarrying in the small village community at the turn of the twentieth century did not carry the stigma one might assume, in part because the families were religiously educated and recognized that divorce was as much a part of life as births, marriages, and deaths, and that it was far better to part ways amicably and free from blame, than to endure an unhappy life sentence.

Ahmad and Ramjan had five children who survived into adulthood: three boys (Arkan, Aman, and Ahsan) and two daughters (Hasibun and Mohibun). Abbu always spoke of his father as a visionary who saw the value in both his sons and daughters being educated: so much so, that he paid for their education, right through to university and graduate study, by selling off the family land. It was his belief that education was the currency for success, not landowning. His commitment to education resulted in a family of educators: Arkan was the principal of the local primary school, Aman was the principal of the high school, and Ahsan went on to teach at a graduate college in Habiganj, a neighbouring large town. Their youngest sister, Mohibun, became a teacher at a girls’ school and was such a trailblazer that all of her many nieces followed her into the teaching profession. In fact, teaching became embedded in the family DNA, with the majority of my cousins all becoming teachers, most of whom also married teachers, and now have children who also became teachers.

The downside to having a family of teachers is the risk of every conversation turning into a lecture; a trait markedly possessed by the males of the family and, seemingly, a universal affliction. But the upside is that everyone is seen as a potential educator, regardless of age. Our dinner table was always full of lively conversation where we were encouraged to share what we had learnt, ask questions, and discuss matters of current affairs or what we were reading. As I grow older, I am even more grateful for Ahsan and Selina’s approach to raising their children: we were encouraged to discuss politics, debate religion, and say what we thought. Our thoughts and beliefs were given space.

There are some things, however, that cannot be taught, and the sign of a wise teacher is one who allows their students to experience things that cannot be conveyed through theory. Abbu was determined to ensure that we children witnessed and participated in certain aspects of deshi life for ourselves.

Harvesting

The rice harvest usually takes place in the month of Agran when the weather becomes cooler, and the paddy fields are dry. On my first visit to Bangladesh, Abbu had the harvesting delayed so that we could see each stage and join in. First the rice (or dhan) is cut. In our fields this was done by hand with sharp scythes. Bundles of the dhan were then gathered and laid out on the floor of the uthan for threshing. Two cows were yoked together and led around in circles to trample the stalks of rice and dislodge the grains as part of the process known as dhan mara.

Ammu and Abbu were so intent on making sure we captured these moments that they dressed us up for the occasion. There are photos of Shabnam and me taking part in the dhan mara, following in the wake of the cows, wearing pink frilly party dresses, white knee socks, and shiny patent black leather shoes: outfits that were most certainly not our choice. Committing these moments to film also helped us commit them to memory. We had heard so much about where we ‘came from’, and the tales of this rural, agricultural life felt both romantic and exotic. It was a part of life that set us apart from our friends back in England – those whose families had only ever lived in England, who did not have this exciting parallel existence.

The final step in the rice harvesting was husking the grains. This is traditionally done by a deki, which is a sort of see-saw operated by the feet. Typically, one person steps on a lever that pulls up a heavy piece of wood, a bit like a giant pestle. Another person sits on the floor beside a trough filled with unhusked rice, which they carefully move around with their hands between heavy thwacks of the giant pestle, which pounds the grains so that they pop out of their husks. It is a dangerous and skillful job, but the women who operate the deki make it look easy.

In our final days of the trip, we were gifted a tiny model of a deki by a relative. When we returned to England, Ammu put it on the mantelpiece ‘for show’, but for years I secretly used to love playing with it, imagining I was a village girl who spoke fluent Bangla, could climb trees, and never had to worry about stealth pig.

Play kitchen

I used to especially enjoy hearing about the play kitchens that Abbu used to make for his younger sister Hasibun. Young Ahsan would fashion small huts from bamboo cane and Hasibun would bring her little pots and pans, and they would set up a little kitchen. What enthralled me the most about these stories was that they weren’t actually play kitchens – they were working creations with clay stoves fired with wood and Ahsan and Hasibun would cook like characters from one of my storybooks. Ahsan caught small fish and cleaned them, and then Hasibun would fry them in her little pan with some oil and salt and turmeric that she had begged from her mother. Ahsan would pick fruit – mangoes, papaya, bananas – from trees and peel and cut them with a small knife, and the domestic duo would eat with relish, inviting their friends to come and join them.

I fantasised about having the same one day; a dream which came true on that first trip to Bangladesh when I was four. Our older cousin, Nuru Bhai, made us the most beautiful kitchen with three side walls and a roof, all woven from bamboo cane. It was more charming than any IKEA or Fisher-Price kitchen. He furnished the kitchen with real miniature cooking pots and water urns.

The metal pots and pans were purchased from a travelling salesman who made a living from going village to village armed with huge net bags crammed full of every kind of utensil imaginable: kolshis, bodhnas, ladles, spoons. I was fortunate enough to be present when he arrived at the bari one morning. All the children flocked to see his wares, more for the novelty than because they were particularly excited by the prospect of a new cooking pot. The aunties, on the other hand, formed an excited circle around the salesman, picking up and tapping the pots and pans, testing out the size of ladles and the weight of tin beakers. As an adult I can fully appreciate how thrilling – and irresistible – it must be to have new kitchenware turning up at your doorstep.

Although Shabnam also enjoyed playing in the kitchen, for me it was more than play. It was as though I had found where I belonged: somewhere I found complete joy.

Picnicking

There are too many colonial remnants in daily Bangladeshi life to count – tedious, opaque bureaucracy to name but one – but a less problematic vestige is the Bengali love of picnics. Of course, the practice of eating outside predated the British presence in the subcontinent, but the formal ‘event’ of a picnic was markedly influenced by Victorian approaches to dining al fresco. Tables and chairs were carried by bearers, alongside heavy deghs or large pans of curries and rice that would be heated outdoors. The meal would be eaten on chairs set around the table, off proper plates. This elaborate approach to picnicking remains in Bengal today, and I experienced it for the first time on that initial trip to Bangladesh.

My cousins had arranged a visit to a local beauty spot called Madupkondo, which had a small waterfall and beautiful hillside views. About fifteen of us in total drove there in two Toyota LiteAce vans and instead of the usual array of picnic food – sandwiches, cheese, fruit, crisps – that I was used to, the vehicles were laden with enormous cooking pans brimming with beef bhuna and rice. When the time came to eat, the pans were heated over a gas stove, and heaps of hot rice and the spiciest curry I had ever tasted, were ladled onto melamine plates. We all ate with our hands, licking them clean.

Exhausted from the day and the heavy meal, I ended up falling asleep in the van after lunch, only later to be excitedly told by Shabnam that while I was asleep they had seen an elephant. I didn’t fully believe her, but when we returned to England and had our photographs developed, sure enough there was a series of pictures of an elephant that had approached our camp while I had been sleeping. I was absolutely outraged that my parents hadn’t thought to wake me for this moment.

I’ve been fortunate enough to have seen many elephants since then, but that betrayal still stings to this day.

Roaming free

On my second visit to Bangladesh in 1997, I was ten years old: the perfect age to roam a bit more freely. While Shabnam, at fourteen, was compelled to be ‘proper’, and Sabreen aged just six, was too little to be allowed to go anywhere without our parents, I was in a sweet spot of being just old enough to be slightly more independent, but young enough to not be expected to behave in a ladylike fashion. For once, being in the middle had its advantages.

The number one benefit was being able to go off exploring with my cousins, particularly my eldest cousin, Mukul Bhai, who was a doctor. Not only that, he also had a motorbike that I was allowed to ride on the back of. I remember clinging on to Mukul Bhai as we rode through the village, into the town, to visit some of his patients and friends. He was very popular in the community, not just for his medical expertise but, also, because he was rather dashing with a thick head of black hair and brooding eyes, and at that point, he was a confirmed bachelor. I was welcomed into the homes of his friends, fed juice and biscuits, and got to explore new places in the town that I wouldn’t have otherwise seen.

After we had finished with the house calls, Mukul Bhai took me to a cafe that he was a business partner in. He gave me a slender glass bottle of 7 Up that I sipped carefully with a straw, heeding Ammu’s voice at the back of my mind not to drink straight from bottles, lest I got an upset stomach. On the counter were trays of golden-brown shingara – pyramid-like pastries stuffed with potatoes and chickpeas – a much denser type of samosa. Mukul Bhai insisted I try one, and although they looked enticing, the sight of flies landing on them, which was unavoidable given the heat from the kitchen and the absence of a cover, made them somewhat less appealing, and I politely declined.

Shingara

potato and chickpea pastries

Makes about 16

Shingara are dense pyramid-shaped savouries, with a thicker, oilier pastry than that of their popular cousin, the samosa. I prefer a lighter version, with a crisp pastry that is thicker than filo, but not quite as greasy as some shingara can be. The chickpea and potato filling is very traditional, but for a slightly less starchy option, the chickpeas can be substituted for green peas. Hungry flies sitting atop of them, is decidedly optional.

Ingredients

for the filling

1 small white onion, finely diced

2 green chillies, finely chopped

1 tsp salt

½ tsp ground turmeric

½ tsp garam masala

1½ tsp panch puron

2 medium white potatoes, peeled and diced into 1cm cubes

1× 400g tin chickpeas, drained

for the pastry

225g plain flour

½ tsp salt

1 tsp nigella seeds (optional)

4 tbsp sunflower oil

50–80ml hot water

sunflower oil, for frying

To make the filling: heat a couple of tablespoons of sunflower oil in a wok or sauté pan and fry the onion, chillies, and salt over a medium heat until soft and translucent. Add the turmeric, garam masala, and panch puron, fry for 30 seconds or so, and then add the potatoes. Stir well, add a splash of water, and turn the temperature down to its lowest setting. Cover and cook for 15 minutes. Add the chickpeas, stir well, cover and cook for a further 5 minutes or until the potatoes are cooked through. Use a potato masher to very lightly crush the filling so that the edges of the potatoes and chickpeas are a little broken down, but not totally mushy. Taste the filling to check the seasoning and then allow to cool.

To make the pastry: mix the flour, salt, and nigella seeds together in a large bowl. Drizzle in the oil and mix with your hands until you have a grainy, sand-like texture. Slowly add the hot water little by little, mixing with your hands until a smooth, firm dough is formed – you may not need all the water. Knead on a lightly floured surface for 3–4 minutes, and then place the dough in a bowl and cover with a clean damp cloth and rest for about 30 minutes until needed.

To make the shingara: after the dough has rested, knead for a couple of minutes and then roll the dough into a large sausage shape. Cut the dough into 8 even pieces and return them to the bowl and cover with a cloth until needed. Roll each piece into a circle about 3mm thick. Cut each circle in half. Shape each cut semi-circle into a cone shape by folding and sealing the edges with a little water. Put a couple of teaspoons of the filling mixture into the cone, and then seal the top with some more water and pinch the ends together to firmly seal the shingara into a small pyramid shape. Now take two opposite corners and pinch them together so the shingara can stand upright. Stand on a baking tray lined with baking paper and cover with a clean dry tea towel until ready to fry. Repeat until all the filling and dough has been used.

Heat enough oil in a wok or deep frying pan (about 8cm) and deep fry the shingara for about 6 minutes, turning occasionally to ensure a light golden crust – they shouldn’t colour too quickly, but the oil must be hot enough to sizzle, otherwise the shingara will absorb too much oil and the pastry will be greasy. Serve with coriander and mint yoghurt or foler chatni.

______

Freedom was found not just outside the bari, but within it too. I was allowed to slip off with my cousins who were of a similar age to me and explore every corner of the compound, from the cow sheds to the fruit groves, and the roof terrace on top of one of the taller buildings. My cousins would supply us with contraband items, such as powdered red chilli and salt that we ate with green tamarind picked straight from the tree. On one occasion, we were rumbled by one of my aunts who told my cousins off, not for messing around on the roof, but because they had fed me raw chilli powder and because I was ‘English’ my stomach would not be able to cope with it. I had never felt more embarrassed about the accident of my birth.

Missing England

As much as I enjoyed deshi food, and all the new and familiar flavours and dishes, after a couple of weeks in Bangladesh, I always found myself missing food from England.

The big ones for me, that I recall, were fish fingers and baked beans, which we did not have very often at home anyway, but the fact that we just couldn’t obtain them in Bangladesh somehow made me yearn for them even more. With certain other foods, Bangladeshi versions were available but they just didn’t taste the same as in the UK, which was especially the case with chocolate and bread. The chocolate came from the Middle East and had some kind of additive in it to stop it from melting that resulted in its taste being chalky and powdery. Even the brand names that we recognized, like Galaxy and Cadbury, suffered the same fate. It was revolting. We soon realized it was better to avoid chocolate altogether than to feel cheated by these imposters.

The sliced white bread that was available in the shops in our nearest town was very sweet and dense, almost like a cross between brioche and cake, which sounds all very well, but all I wanted was a simple slice of normal, buttered toast. My cousin, Urmi Apa, made it her mission to recreate out favourite Western dishes, and would transform the bread into a sweet, eggy fried bread that she called ‘luf’ (as in, the English word ‘loaf’). For Sabreen, who loved pasta, Urmi Apa invented a version she called ‘macaruni’ – consisting of fried onions, salt, and turmeric. Her kind efforts to make these dishes so that we would feel more at home has stayed with me for all these years.

Luf

breakfast deshi toast

Serves 2

What sets this deshi-style breakfast apart from standard French toast is the bread: it is very sweet, almost cake-like. Use the sweetest bread you can find: something like brioche or challah would work well.

Ingredients

3 large eggs

2 tbsp of milk

pinch of ground cinnamon (optional)

4 thick slices of sweet bread (like brioche or challah)

ghee, for frying

Beat the eggs and milk together very well. Add the cinnamon, if using, and dip the slices of bread in the egg mixture, allowing it to soak into the slices. Meanwhile, heat plenty of ghee in a frying pan and fry the eggy bread for a couple of minutes on each side until dark golden brown and cooked through. Serve with a dusting of more sugar (if you can take it), or some sliced banana and yoghurt.

Probashi

I was aware from a young age that nobody among our family in Bangladesh could truly understand what Abbu’s experience as a probashi was like. ‘Probashi’, the Bangla word for ‘the one who lives away from home’, has its closest translation in the English word ‘expat’, but that does not carry the same emotional weight of probashi.

I was in my teens when I started to consider how it must have been for Abbu, the son whose fate had taken him overseas. He sent remittances that sustained everyone else back home: paying for their education, their weddings, their houses, and their lives. But who cared for Abbu? Who out of his siblings and nieces and nephews, could understand the sacrifices that he endured to be able to provide that? Living a life where his daily interactions required him to speak in a foreign tongue; never being able to fully pursue his passion and his career to the highest level; going from being in a majority where he never had to think twice about his race or his religion, to suddenly being thrown into a world where he was targeted for both.

‘Why do you want to know?’ was a question one of my cousins asked me when I was asking about war on my last visit to Bangladesh in 2016. I was in the early stages of writing my novel, Hashim & Family, which touches on both the deshi and diaspora experiences of the 1971 Bangladesh War of Independence. The well-meaning enquiry made me furious. Why shouldn’t I know? I wanted to say. This is my history too. It is the fate of children of the diaspora to be viewed always as an addendum to their country ‘of origin’, as though we somehow collectively cash in our Bangladeshi-identification rights because we are birthed on foreign soil. But it isn’t foreign, not to us. For us, where we are born – for better or for worse – has to be home.

But we are also made to feel guilty if we are not fully ‘at home’ in Bangladesh. There is a sense that we are never quite enough. Our Bangla isn’t fluent enough, our accents are strange. As a child, it was hard not to feel that, somehow, we were a source of amusement when laughed at for eating with a spoon, or for defaulting to English after a few faltering attempts in Bangla or Sylheti. On our visits, my hesitation around language often rendered me unconfident and shy (a totally different person to how I usually saw myself), which resulted in bouts of frustration and upset. Frustration that was directed towards my parents for not taking us ‘back’ often enough, to our family in Bangladesh for not understanding the impossible situation we found ourselves in, and towards myself, for not being a ‘proper’ Bangladeshi.

I was well into my adulthood before I began to see my position of being exactly who I am – a diaspora British–Bangladeshi – as a standalone, legitimate identity. After decades of feeling inadequate or fraudulent, I recognize that we – for there are so many like us – are enough. Whatever our proficiency in language and dialect, whether we can cook traditional dishes, whether we know how to correctly drape a sari or not, whoever we have chosen to marry – none of it defines or dilutes our claim on our heritage. Moreover, our dedication to that claim is born out of strength: whatever we hold on to from our heritage, we have held on to despite living in a society that constantly tells us that we aren’t fully integrated, where we do not have the comfort of being the majority. And whatever we embrace from the country of our birth, the one that has been our home our whole lives, we don’t need to apologise for making our own. It is our birthright.

The diaspora experience is almost like being a child pitted between two acrimoniously separated parents. Who do we show loyalty towards? How do we please both? How do we show that they both matter to us? While Bangla has a word to describe the one who lives away from home, there is no word, as far as I’m aware in any language, for the one who lives in the place they were born, which sometimes feels like home, but sometimes does not; and who also has a second place that is supposed to feel like home, but often cannot.

I have stopped searching for a word. I know there are so many of us, who visit and return, are of both and neither fully, searching and finding, holding on and letting go. There is immense power and peace in knowing that this, too, is enough.

Part Seven

Coming of Age

Nothing is truly original: we borrow and tweak …

Habib died of a broken heart. It took several years but in the end his heart could not fight any longer. Years of trauma and grief, compounded with stress and heavy smoking, took its toll on Habib’s heart. In 1999, when I was eleven years old, Nana Bhai passed away.

I had grown used to visiting Nana Bhai in hospital. Every couple of years, he had another heart attack and each time, we would all drive down from Keighley to Manchester to visit him, sometimes taking days off school. And each time, he would give off the impression of being fighting fit, trying to be cheery and reassuring to me and my sisters, even when he was very unwell. I remember one occasion when he was taken by ambulance from home to the hospital, and how he gave me his signature double thumbs-up from the hospital stretcher as they were carrying him down the stairs, the oxygen mask obscuring much of his face.

When we visited Nana Bhai, we would take lots of fruit – green grapes and clementines – that someone would wash and peel and arrange on a plate so he could easily help himself. But Nana Bhai would of course insist that we eat first, pushing shiny clementines into our hands, insisting we eat even though he didn’t have the strength to peel it for us himself. I obliged, often out of boredom, perching on the edge of Nana Bhai’s bed taking care not to disturb the many tubes and wires, nibbling orange wedges. Even now, sometimes the taste of a clementine can transport me back to a ward in Manchester Royal Infirmary, with the faint smell of antiseptic and the blue-green curtains around the beds, and that fearful feeling that I might lose someone I love so much.

Nana Bhai’s tiffin

As well as fruit, Nana Bhai was always supplied with home-cooked meals during his lengthy hospital stays. A hot lunch and dinner were always sent over so that Nana Bhai would be spared the grimness of hospital catering.

Nanu and Mamee would carefully prepare dishes that were flavoursome while also being compliant with the strict diet Nana Bhai had to follow: low fat, low salt, no red meat. Hot, freshly cooked rice was a must, of course, which would be eaten with very lightly spiced dal and a vegetable bazi. Sour foods were considered to be healthy too: tenga, a sour fish broth, or dal with green mango were often supplied. When Nana Bhai was very unwell, the plainest of all invalid foods was lovingly prepared – that same zau that sustained Nanu throughout her pregnancies.

Tomato tenga

sour tomato broth

Serves 4

This garlicky, hot broth is just the thing for coughs and colds, and is best served generously over hot white rice – with some small fried fish if desired. The traditional method keeps the tomato skins in the tenga, but you can remove them before serving if you prefer.

Ingredients

2–3 tbsp sunflower oil

1 garlic bulb, peeled and crushed

1kg very ripe plum tomatoes, cut into wedges

1 tsp salt

1 tsp red chilli powder

1 tsp ground turmeric

juice of ½ lime

In a saucepan, heat the oil and fry the garlic until the aroma is released and the garlic is golden (not brown). Add the salt, chilli powder, turmeric and fry for 30 seconds. Add the tomatoes, stir well, cover with a lid and simmer for 10 minutes until the tomatoes have started to soften. Add a cup or two of cold water and bring to the boil, then reduce the heat and simmer for 10–15 minutes or until the tomatoes are very soft and fully broken down – use a wooden spoon to help with this step. The tenga is ready when the tomatoes have fully cooked down, with just a few larger chunks here and there in the pan, and it resembles a thin soup. Squeeze over the lime, stir and serve with rice and, if desired, a squeeze more lime and green chilli.

______

The food was transported to the hospital in a shiny metal tiffin carrier. This consisted of three round containers that neatly stacked on top of one another, and then a metal grip with a twisting lock that kept the containers together. The whole contraption was wrapped in clingfilm and several plastic bags to prevent it from leaking, and would be brought back at the end of each day after visiting hours were over to be washed and refilled for the next day.

It was an unwritten family rule that no one was ever left alone in the hospital. Nana Bhai had visitors from the start of the permitted hours until the end. We had rotating shifts, always ensuring that his mealtimes were covered. Nanu stayed the longest, sometimes all day. With a stack of magazines beside her, she would read, fuss, hassle the nurses for updates, and demand to see the consultant. Nobody had a fiercer advocate than Habib had in Fatima. Habib would lie back propped into the bed by pillows, patiently reciting verses of the Qur’an, and counting the beads of his sandalwood tasbih.

When my sisters and I visited, we would offer to ‘tiffai’ Nana Bhai – massaging his hands and arms – as long as there weren’t too many tubes and wires. It was a token gesture for him and for us; we felt like we were alleviating some of his discomfort, and he allowed us to feel like we were helping. And, unlike Nanu, who thought nothing about collaring an errant grandchild and setting them to work massaging her arms and legs, or even her head, for what felt like hours, Nana Bhai never took advantage of our efforts. In fact, he used to buy crisps and chocolate bars from the snack trolley for us so that we had a treat when we came to see him.

Even though I loved Nana Bhai and wanted to keep him company, I always felt a sense of relief when it was time to finally leave the hospital, and I’d get to go back to the house and play with my cousins or spend time listening to my aunties and uncles chatting. I didn’t like seeing Nana Bhai so immobile, when he was usually always pottering around, seeing to his pigeons, or going to the market wearing his flat cap and overcoat.

I’ve never been able to explain it, but on Nana Bhai’s final day I didn’t want to leave the hospital at all. I arrived early that morning with my parents and sisters, but when they left at lunchtime, I didn’t feel ready to go. Instead, I opted to stay by myself with Nana Bhai until Nanu arrived with my aunty and uncle who came to take over the second shift. In the hour or so when we were alone, Nana Bhai and I sat in a comfortable silence. He dozed, I sat in the chair, just glad to be beside him. The doctor came by and said that Nana Bhai had improved greatly. He may even be allowed to go home soon. When visiting hours were drawing to an end, Nanu wanted to stay on the ward with him. The nurse refused. He is improving, she said, there’s no need. I kissed and hugged Nana Bhai goodbye, and I remember feeling a sense of gratitude that I had spent my day with him.

Habib Ullah passed away peacefully in the small hours of the next morning. He was the pioneer who started it all. Habib who had seen so much in his seventy-six years, who lived more lifetimes than most can hope for. Habib who hated being late and chivvied his family so that they were always the first to arrive at any function (perilous when dealing with Asian weddings that run notoriously behind schedule). Habib who loved watching snooker and admired Tony Benn. Habib who made the best chips. Habib who was generous to a fault, something that was also his greatest blessing. There are so many things I wish I could have asked him about. So many more of his stories I wish I had heard. But I am so grateful that I have the ones he shared with me, as I piece the fragments and half-forgotten details together into this chronicle for him, for me, for our future.

* * *

Nana Bhai’s death was the first I had experienced. In retrospect, I am grateful that it was the case: the timely passing of a beloved grandparent, without any sort of shock or trauma, is perhaps the gentlest first encounter with death and loss that we can hope for. In a family that has had too much untimely loss, buried too many of our kin young, this in itself feels like a blessing.

I witnessed the Muslim Bangladeshi rituals and practices of death and mourning, learning a whole new dimension to both my culture and faith. As soon as we had been told about Nana Bhai’s passing, the whole of Nanu and Nana Bhai’s house became a hub of quiet activity. The living room was turned into a prayer room: rugs and blankets were spread on the floor, and mourners sat cross-legged around the perimeter of the room reciting prayers. There is a practice of reciting a certain number of short prayers, known as tasbih, and the belief is that the more that is recited in the name of the deceased, the easier his or her passing will be: their sins forgiven, and entrance to Paradise granted. There is something almost mechanical about how swiftly everyone falls into performing these duties: someone scribes in a notebook how many hundreds of prayers each person has done, and then tallies it all up. The aim is to have as many khatams – full recitations of the Qur’an from beginning to end – as possible. It is an effective channel for grief that makes the bereaved feel useful, as well as fulfilling a spiritual duty.

What surprised me the most was that Nana Bhai came home before the funeral. Muslim burials are swift, with funerals often taking place the same day, where possible, or the day after. Nana Bhai was given the Islamic funerary rites of ghusl (being washed), and then wrapped in a plain white shroud. He was then brought home where he lay in state in the front room overnight until the funeral the next day. Members of the family stayed with him, reciting prayers, as incense burned in the corner of the room making the whole thing feel surreal and somehow otherworldly.

Books offering guidance around burial, grief and mourning appeared all over the house; I recognize now that this was an indication of how the adults of the family were looking to religious instruction in the process, seeking assurances in texts and handbooks. For me, it was all new. I learnt that in Islam a forty-day period of mourning is mandated and, after that time, there is no ‘obligation’ to be in any formal state of mourning, although the natural period of grief is often much longer than this. Where other faiths place longer-term restrictions on activities such as dancing, singing, or even eating meat, after a death – or issue limitations on adornment, dress, and cutting of the hair – Islam does not. As an adult, I appreciate this pragmatism around death: there is space held for the bereaved in the aftermath of a death, and for those six weeks there is no obligation for them to do anything other than mourn. But after that, with God’s blessing, life continues.

I have always admired cultures and traditions where the funeral is a celebration of the deceased person’s life. Their passing is marked by joviality and gratitude and a reminder to make the most of life. In the Bangladeshi Muslim culture, death is approached with solemnity. It is a chance for us all to confront our mortality, to remember that on the day of reckoning we will have to answer for what we did in this life. But there is an affirming side to it all too. There is always an outpouring of support, from mosque committees who handle all the practicalities and logistics of burial on behalf of the family, to neighbours bringing around food and making sure the bereaved are taken care of, to friends who come to sit with the family in prayer. Through the power of the community’s sense of love and duty, the newly bereaved are assisted through another life milestone, never having to face it alone.

It may sound strange but given that I tend to chart some of the most meaningful events and phases of my life through food, it is perhaps less surprising that one of the things I remember most clearly about that time is the food. Suddenly Nanu’s house was filled with neighbours and family friends, some of whom I knew, some were new to me. There were distant acquaintances who had lost touch until now, friends from the old days, members of the local mosque, people from across the street. All of them brought prayers and food.

The kitchen was stacked high with huge shiny metal pans filled with the most delicious foods: oily rich lamb and potato curries, creamy chicken kurma, steaming pulao rice. Roasting dishes full of tandoori chicken, platters of samosas and kebabs. The food was similar to what would be served at a wedding, and yet we were mourning. Initially it felt hard to reconcile the festive foods that kept being delivered each day, freshly cooked, with the sombre mood of the house. But in some ways it felt like the most befitting way of honouring Nana Bhai of all.

Some of the dishes stick in my mind to this day. In the days and weeks after Nana Bhai died, Nanu’s next-door neighbours brought around many dishes, including a vegetable bazi that I remember so clearly because it contained carrot, as in our house carrots rarely made it into the bazi. Next door’s version was cooked with nigella seeds, which gave it a slightly bitter, moreish taste that was totally new to me. I also remember a lady called China who came round, armed with a huge pan of lamb chop and potato curry, pulao rice, as well as a tray of lasagne ‘for the kids’ she said, ‘in case they didn’t like spicy food’. I remember being absolutely stricken with indecision as to whether or not I identified as ‘one of the kids’ that evening, as what I really wanted was to eat both options.

Ammu told us that grief affects everyone in different ways. She said that when her brother Ahmed died, she and her siblings went from tears to hysterical laughter in moments. Not everyone loses their appetite either, she said. In grief, sometimes people find solace in food, not just for the taste, but for how it makes them feel. I was so grateful that she shared those two things. There is a textbook definition of what grief looks like: wasting away, refusing food, crying all day, every day. In my experience – not just from Nana Bhai’s passing, but since then too – this doesn’t match up to real life. Sometimes the pain is so raw that escaping into a plate of hot rice and curry feels like a balm. And sometimes laughter finds a way to bubble up and burst out between tears and prayers.

Aloo mangsho

lamb chop and potato curry

Serves 6

Tender lamb shouldn’t need too long for the meat to be soft enough to fall off the bone. If you can only get mutton chops, make sure to adjust the cooking time as this meat will need longer and slower to cook. Don’t be afraid to use plenty of ghee or oil for this recipe – I’ve given quantities that don’t sound too outrageous, but you can afford to be a little heavier handed here.

Ingredients

1–1.2kg lamb chops

2 large white onions, sliced thinly

2 tbsp garlic paste

1 tbsp ginger paste

1½ tsp salt

2 large floury white potatoes (King Edward, Maris Piper)

2 tbsp flour (wheat, rice and corn flours are all fine to use here)

2 tbsp ghee

2 tbsp sunflower oil

whole spices

1–2 pieces of cassia bark or whole cinnamon, 5cm long

1 black cardamom pod

5 green cardamom pods

2 bay leaves

3 cloves

ground spices

1½ tsp ground cumin

1½ tsp ground coriander

1 tsp ground turmeric

1 tsp Kashmiri chilli powder

1 tsp hot paprika

1 tsp garam masala

In a large saucepan, heat the ghee and the sunflower oil before adding the whole spices. Stir for a minute or so and then add the lamb chops, and brown all over. Add the onions, garlic and ginger paste, salt, and all the ground spices. Stir well, ensuring the lamb is well coated in the spices. Add 2 cups of water and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat to medium-low, cover with a lid and simmer for 30 minutes. Check occasionally that the liquid isn’t drying out, adding a little more water if needed.

Meanwhile, prepare the potatoes. Peel and cut each potato into 4 large chunks and dust with flour. Fry the potatoes on all sides in hot oil until brown all over – the potatoes will not be cooked through. Drain on kitchen paper. Add to the curry with an extra cup or so of water as the potatoes will absorb the cooking liquid, and simmer for a further 20 minutes or until the lamb and potatoes are cooked through.

A changing world

It’s an unseasonably sunny afternoon in early September, and I’m waiting with my friends for the bus outside school. The year is 2001 and the art folder I am carrying is covered in pictures of Devon Sawa and Josh Hartnett that I have printed out in the school computer room at lunchtime. My bus friend, Lisa, shares an earphone of her CD Walkman with me – Dido is singing about how she isn’t an angel, and I’m wondering what we’re going to have tonight for dinner.

Shabnam and some of her friends walk over to us. Have you heard, she asks, about the planes going into the World Trade Center? I don’t know what she’s talking about. I notice everyone around us looking at their phones – Nokia 3210s and 3310s – reading out texts sent from parents and friends. The news is received piecemeal but soon begins to take shape: an attack in New York, something about terrorism, planes being hijacked, and people jumping out of buildings.

This is big, I realize. But in that moment, I have no idea how big it will become.

What struck me the most was how quickly everyone’s language shifted overnight. Certain words entered the collective lexicon and we all spoke them as though we had known them our whole lives: Al Qaeda, Taliban, Osama bin Laden. Suddenly there was a war, not against a country, but on ‘terror’, and people were talking about Afghanistan and women wearing the burqa. Condoleezza Rice and Colin Powell became household names, along with George W. Bush who read books upside down to school kids, and that moronic Dick guy who accidentally shot someone.

We had all been collectively catapulted into a new world order that was driven by fear and suspicion. And suddenly my family, and people who looked like us, were the objects of that suspicion. We were rebranded overnight from being ‘Asian’ to being ‘Muslim’, and the screaming Western media launched and sustained an agenda of anti-Muslim content that continues to this day. While we had grown used to, in some way, being marked out for our race, it was an entirely different experience suddenly being asked to explain, defend, or even denounce our religious beliefs. Something so personal had been dragged into an ugly world that did not want to understand, only to assign blame.

I often think about how at least I remembered what it was like to ‘just’ be Asian. The generation of Muslims born after 11 September 2001 have no memory of being viewed without suspicion. All they’ve ever known is a world where hatred towards them is permissible, mainstream even. As the popular Muslim peer and Yorkshire woman, Sayeeda Warsi, phrased it: Islamophobia had well and truly passed the dinner table test.

At the time, Shabnam and I were studying at a state grammar school in a small market town about a forty-minute bus ride from Keighley. Sabreen would start a couple of years later. Our single-sex school was predominantly white, with a demographic drawn from rural farming communities in North Yorkshire and parts of Lancashire, as well as small villages around Keighley, and the few of us who were from the ‘urban’ badlands of Keighley itself. My sisters and I were often one of maybe two or three students in the year who were non-white. It was a small, supportive school with teachers who cared and an environment where academic success was celebrated, rather than looked down on for not being ‘cool’. I did not encounter racism or anti-Muslim sentiments at school, a fact for which I am thankful, but that protection did not extend to the real world.

At the age of sixteen, I got a weekend job at the WHSmith in town. I loved the sense of independence it afforded me: working and earning a paltry £70 a month that went straight into my Halifax building society account, and then straight back out again on phone credit, CDs, and eating out. Instead of taking a sandwich into work, one of the perks of being a working woman, in my mind, was being able to buy lunch. Each weekend, I merrily frittered away an hour’s worth of pay on a six-inch veggie patty with cheese, jalapeños, pickles, sweetcorn, and lettuce, with a bag of Doritos and a bottle of water from Subway.

Beyond the freedom to buy whatever lunch I desired, working provided me with an insight into British society that was interesting, sometimes amusing, and often depressing. One of the tasks was to count up all the newspapers that had not been sold at the end of the day. The numbers would be written on a piece of paper and bundled with the unsold papers that would be returned to the warehouse and pulped. There were hardly ever any returns for the tabloids: the Sun, Daily Express, and Daily Mail were always sold out, especially when there was a promotion for a free CD or something similar. These were also the newspapers that were ordered in the highest quantities, numbering several hundred. In contrast, we ordered about eight to ten copies of the Guardian, three of the Independent, and similarly low numbers of the Telegraph but around twenty of The Times. While the Telegraph and The Times did sell, it was often the case that we’d return about half of that day’s Guardian and almost all the copies of the Independent.

Sometimes I would flick through the bestselling tabloids and my stomach turned at what was being peddled. Sensationalist stories about halal school meals, Muslims cancelling Christmas and ‘Muslim grooming gangs’ were gobbled up … alongside topless photos of teenage girls. The commodification of women was apparent too in the proliferation of ‘lads mags’ – that scourge of the early 2000s – such as Nuts and Zoo, and for the slightly more ‘thinking’ man, Loaded. These were among some of our best-selling titles, but my favourite colleague and I used to hide these rags behind copies of the boring upper-shelf titles like Model Rail and Angling Times, in the belief that if we could, somehow, limit the availability of this media, women would actually be regarded with a modicum of respect one day – not just used as fodder to incite sectarian outrage.

One day, an elderly man came to my till and thwacked his copy of the Sun down on the counter. After paying his 30p, he muttered an Islamophobic slur at me before walking off. I was stunned. Tearfully, I continued serving other customers in the long queue who had overheard the incident. Some offered comforting words – ‘take no notice of him, love,’ reassured one blonde middle-aged woman. A younger man in his thirties smiled sympathetically and nodded. But I couldn’t smile back. What use was their support when the man who threatened me had gone unchallenged?

There were other such instances: some overt, like the graffiti sprayed onto the doors of the mosque Abbu attended. Others were more subtle, like the sudden increase of questions I faced about why my mum wore a headscarf, and didn’t I care about women’s rights? These questions could be attributed to curiosity and a lack of information, and so for a long time I took them in good faith, doing my best to try and explain and educate those who respectfully enquired. But there comes a time when that feels like a burden, and I began to tire of having to state what should have been obvious: no, I didn’t endorse terrorism; yes, I did believe in women’s rights; no, I didn’t want to ban Christmas; yes, I am still a Muslim; no, I don’t support the invasion of Afghanistan.

Muslim communities were hugely proactive in the wake of the 9/11 attacks to try and strengthen community relations across the UK, and to show that Muslims were not outsiders to be excluded, nor terrorists to be feared. Several community and religious leaders in Keighley came together to form an interfaith group that regularly met and went on interfaith walks and held joint events. Abbu was the vice president of the organisation, and in a world where divisions seemed to be widening, the interfaith group offered a tiny beacon of hope: that common ground and unity could exist, in this small town at least. There was an innocence around this sincerity: we really believed that if we could just talk to people, share some tea and samosas, they could see us for who we really were, and the hatred would die down. Interfaith was seen, for a while at least, as the panacea for the cracks in our society. And it had its value: interfaith activism was how I ended up meeting the man I went on to marry. But focusing on religion detracted from other, more pertinent issues – ensuring economic prosperity, a more responsible media, less interventionist foreign policy – that needed to be addressed if we really were to hope for a peaceful, secure society.

These post-9/11 years were my early education in activism and political participation. I drew much of my strength from the actions of my parents during this time. They never wavered in their faith or their political beliefs, refusing to let themselves or others be seen as less than anyone else. Their experience of campaigning for racial equality and policy change in the aftermath of Ahmed’s death informed how they responded to this increasingly hostile climate. Ammu and Abbu led by example in demonstrating how the personal very much is political. While many British Muslim families understandably may have sought to quieten their children, for fear of recrimination, my parents encouraged us to find our voices.

When the UK joined the USA in the illegal invasion of Iraq in 2003, my parents took me and my sisters on the protest marches in Bradford and London. There was something exhilarating about being surrounded by people who held the same beliefs as us, who were using their voices to speak up against a misuse of power. In encouraging us to participate in this way, Ammu and Abbu were giving us the most important message of all: that our voices and our beliefs mattered. Maybe we couldn’t change the course of history: we were not able to stop the invasion, were not able to prevent the needless killing of innocents. But we tried – our humanity and that of the world around us relied on our continual efforts to try. Out of these years, the unbreakable link between our faith and our political activism was forged, and for that I am ever grateful.

The graduate(s)

Habib, who left school without learning to read and write, was a huge believer in education for his children and grandchildren. He followed politics avidly, was a lifelong Labour supporter, and admired Tony Benn – he would have loathed Tony Blair. I often wonder how he would have felt knowing that all his grandchildren would go on to get university degrees, and that three of his granddaughters would win places at one of the oldest, most prestigious universities in the world.

My parents credit Shabnam’s English teacher, Mrs Todd, for putting Oxford on their radar. It would never have occurred to them that one of their children would end up there, had it not been for the encouragement of the dedicated educators we were fortunate to have championing us. Under Mrs Todd’s careful guidance, Shabnam applied for, and was offered a place at, Wadham College to read English and French. The pride felt not only by my parents and our family, but the wider Bangladeshi community, was palpable. Abbu sent an announcement to one of the national Bangla newspapers along with a passport photo of Shabnam. This was a success for us all.

I visited Shabnam once a year during her time at Oxford, accompanying her to libraries with wooden spiral staircases and basement stacks that stayed open deep into the night, lamplit and magical. Together, we wandered the cobbled streets, the sky filled with spires and domes, and ate in the grand hall with the long, dark wooden benches and candlesticks and portraits hanging from the walls. Seeing Shabnam in Oxford made it seem possible that the same could happen for me, and for Sabreen, and for others like us – state school educated, of Bangladeshi heritage, Muslim. Why not take our rightful spaces in institutions that were now finally open to people like us?

So, where Shabnam went, her younger sisters followed: I, to Hertford College to read History and English, and Sabreen to Worcester College to read Arabic and Islamic Studies. Since then, the numbers of British–Bangladeshi students at Oxford and Cambridge has steadily increased, with Oxford University making ninety-two offers to Bangladeshi and Pakistani heritage students in 2023, although it is still a sobering fact that this number falls only in the double digits.

Finding my feet

People often ask about my experience of Oxford, and I can say with certainty that I loved it. For the most part, that was because I was fortunate enough to make lifelong friends very early during my time there. I even met the man who I would later marry, although neither of us could have guessed this at our first meeting. I was at a college that prioritised welfare and had tutors who genuinely cared about their students. There is plenty that can be said about the syllabus, such as the number of modules dedicated to British and European history, compared to the rest of the world, for example. But for me it was a happy time, a safe place in which to practise being an adult, to find my feet, and to learn in every way.

That’s not to underestimate the severity of my homesickness, however. The year that I started, Ramadan coincided with my first term. I spent each day trying to navigate my way through library stacks, scribbling essays, and going to tutorials. And I spent each evening crying.

I sought solace in the student Islamic Society that hosted iftar (the meal to break the fast) each evening. Here I made friends who were going through the same thing: young adults who were living alone for the first time, independent from their close-knit, perhaps overly watchful families, navigating studying with being away, trying to stay true to their values, and explore new horizons at the same time. The iftars were often sponsored by alumni who remembered what it felt like to be in that position, and the offerings varied daily – sometimes there were towers of pizza boxes from Domino’s and we consumed the cheesy, floppy slices sitting cross-legged on the floor in a conference room. But what we all looked forward to the most were the days when huge pans of rice and curry would be delivered from one of the Indian restaurants on Cowley Road.

My time at Oxford was marked as much by food as it was by my studies, and politics, and grappling with my place in the world.

One of the most curious things about Oxford life was the ritual of Formal Hall. Every student at the university belongs to a college. These colleges are where most students live for at least their first year. Meals are taken in the college dining hall, often simply referred to as ‘hall’. Different colleges have slightly different set-ups but, by and large, students can choose between dining informally or eating at ‘formal’ hall – an elaborate candle-lit affair that requires the wearing of gowns and sometimes suits.

Dining formally was undoubtedly intimidating for many young students, particularly those who had not had to grapple with multiple sets of cutlery before. This was one area, however, in which I felt highly accomplished, thanks to a book, The Ultimate Problem Solver by Moyra Bremner, which I read cover to cover during my childhood. It had a whole chapter devoted to ‘etiquette’ that contained passages about the correct use of cutlery, which glass to use for what type of wine (very useful knowledge in our teetotal family), and even how to correctly butter and eat a bread roll. If I ever felt wobbly in these formal dining situations, as though I somehow was a fluke for being there, I looked around and saw posh white boys impolitely sawing through their bread rolls and slathering them with butter, and calmly felt reminded that they were no better than me. In fact, I thought, as I broke off and buttered small pieces of my roll in accordance with the correct etiquette, I’m just as deserving as anyone else in this room.

It wasn’t all just gowns and long tables though. One of my favourite parts of Oxford’s food scene were the kebab vans that were dotted around the city. The vast majority of them are run by Muslim immigrants who named the vans after themselves: Hassan’s, Hussain’s, Ali’s, Ahmed’s. These vans are beloved by students, particularly for the cheesy chips, burgers, and kebabs that soak up the alcohol after a night out. Ironically, I frequented them for a very different reason. Because the vans served halal meat – the dining hall at Hertford did not – I sometimes nipped out to Hassan’s on an evening for a chicken shish or shawarma when I tired of the stodgy, carby offerings in hall.

It annoyed me when people talked about the vans as being the shameful ‘cheeky’ end to a night of revelry, suggesting that the food was only fit to consume when inebriated. My indignation was such that I even wrote a piece in the Cherwell, one of the student newspapers, stating as much – the illustrious beginning to a career in food writing. The vans, actually, had some of the highest food hygiene ratings of any eateries in Oxford (famously higher than chains such as Zizzi’s and ASK that stood on George Street), and the quality of the food was, and remains, excellent. As far as I know, Hassan’s is still parked in the same place today, about a minute’s walk from Hertford on Broad Street, feeding a new generation of hungry students.

Cooking for one

The kitchens at Oxford were not very well equipped for cooking as many colleges encouraged students to have as many meals as possible in the hall. The most that undergrads could hope for was a hotplate, a microwave, and a fridge in the shared ‘kitchens’ that, really, were repurposed utility closets. Many of us had kettles in our own rooms (the university’s freshers’ guide suggested that ‘propping your door open and offering your corridor neighbours a cup of tea’ was a surefire way to make friends), but for most people, a Cup-a-Soup or Pot Noodle was the extent to which they cooked.

Cooking for myself was one of the things that most excited me about living as a ‘grown-up’. The freedom to choose what and when I wanted to eat was one of the fun upsides to living independently. Being restricted to whatever options the college catering team had decided to prepare for the day felt infantilising. After some trial and error, I came up with a few different recipes that were easy enough to make in the cupboard-kitchens.

Student prawn curry

Serves 1 with leftovers (in theory)

Because it was tricky to get hold of halal meat in the supermarkets of Oxford, I used to cook a lot of prawns – they were easier to prepare than fish, especially in shared kitchens which didn’t lend themselves to scaling and cleaning salmon fillets. I kept a mini pantry of ingredients in a box underneath the sink in my room, hidden away from opportunistic kitchen thieves: bottled lemon juice, salt, a couple of jars of spices – the little luxuries that jazzed up my student cookery. My vegetables came in the form of pre-prepared packet mixes from Sainsbury’s as I didn’t have anywhere to store larger quantities. Twinned with a packet of microwavable rice, this sort-of-curry was quick, tasty and filling.

Ingredients

2 spring onions

1 fresh green chilli

1 tomato

2 celery stalks

1–2 garlic cloves

2 tbsp olive oil

¼ tsp salt

½ tsp ground turmeric

1 × 150g packet cooked large tiger prawns

160g shop-bought stir-fry mixed vegetables

½ tsp cumin seeds

juice of 1 lemon or 1–2 tbsp of bottled lemon juice

1 × 250g packet microwavable Tilda basmati (use Uncle Ben’s at your own peril …)

Snip the spring onions and green chilli into slices with kitchen scissors. Chop the tomato roughly and slice the celery into half-moons. Crush the garlic. In a small pan heat the oil and sauté the spring onions, garlic, celery, and salt for a couple of minutes. Add the turmeric and tomatoes, cover with a lid and cook for 5 minutes or so until the tomatoes are mushy. Add the washed prawns, stir-fry vegetables, and lemon juice – stir, cover, and cook for a further 5 minutes. Meanwhile, microwave your rice according to the packet instructions.

Tip half the rice into a wide pasta bowl and top with half the curry. Pack up the other half of the rice and curry for tomorrow’s dinner. After demolishing the contents of the bowl, throw caution to the wind and finish off the leftovers too. After all, tomorrow is another day.

______

One-pan cheesy masala chips

Serves 1 hungry student

I used to make this in an IKEA frying pan that my Aunty Rebecca gave me when I went off to university. By my student calculations, this was a far more economical snack than walking to one of the kebab vans and getting a box of chips for £1, as a 2kg bag of white potatoes from Sainsbury’s cost the same. Making it took a little longer, of course, but there was something relaxing about pottering around making late-night comfort food after a long day in the library.

Ingredients

1 very large or two medium white potatoes suitable for frying (Maris Piper or King Edward)

sunflower oil

½ tsp tandoori masala

handful of grated mature cheddar cheese

thick white bread, sea salt, Heinz tomato ketchup, to serve

Peel and chop the potatoes into chips about 1–1.5cm thick. In a bowl, drizzle with plenty of oil, sprinkle over the tandoori masala and mix well. Heat a good amount of oil in a frying pan until sizzling and arrange the potatoes in a single layer – you may have to cook the chips in batches. Shallow fry the potatoes over a medium-high for 5–6 minutes, until golden brown on one side. Then, flip the chips over, cover with a lid and reduce the heat to low and cook until crisp on the other side and cooked through – this can take up to 10 minutes. Once cooked through, remove the lid and turn up the heat to allow the chips to crisp up a little more. When golden brown and crisp, put the chips in a dish and scatter over the sea salt and cheddar cheese. Have between two pieces of bread with some tomato ketchup – add a fried egg for a heartier snack.

Moving to London

After graduating, most of my closest friends jumped on that young professional bandwagon and moved to London, and so did I. I got a job in the non-profit education sector and moved into a sunny two-bedroom flat in Bow, East London, with my friend Natalie, who I had known since we were fourteen. We were at high school together, and both went to Oxford for our undergraduate degrees, and now we were braving life in the Big Smoke side by side. Living with Natalie was like living with a best friend and a family member all rolled into one. We looked after each other in the way that young people in their early twenties in a big city do. We became each other’s chosen family.

When I think back to our years living in that flat, I mostly remember us narrating our lives to one another in a ludicrous amount of detail. We would follow each other around the flat as we got ready for work, telling one another about the meetings we had that day, or gossiping about our colleagues. Before bed, we’d pad around the flat taking off our make-up, regaling one another with long and involved updates about the friends we had seen that evening, or what our families back home were up to. And because Natalie was a friend from home, we had seen each other in every iteration and through pretty much every milestone we had had so far: bespectacled school girls sitting exams, shedding tears over break-ups, applying for university, preparing for interviews, landing our first jobs. It was partly that long, trusted history that made Ammu and Abbu slightly more comfortable with the idea of me living away from home after university.

As well as the gossip and rent, Natalie and I also shared our food; something uncommon among housemates. We cooked for each other generously and often. Our menus were absurd, given that there were just the two of us and we did not earn nearly enough to warrant the extravagant spend on gourmet ingredients: a midweek roasted lamb shoulder with roast potatoes and cheesy leeks was not uncommon. We also often cooked from our respective heritages: Natalie would make Japanese miso aubergine and sticky rice, while I would cook dal and sardines. I was fortunate that Natalie adored the crispy fried sardines I made, as the scent of frying fish is not especially housemate-friendly.

One of my favourite things about cooking is the stories that are embedded within the recipes we follow. Each one has its own history, whether we are aware of it or not, having passed through hands and kitchens over time. There is something humbling in the realisation that nothing is truly original: we borrow and tweak, adjust and adapt its path in the world, with our own innovations being just one part of each recipe’s trajectory. One of the dishes Natalie used to make for me – a recipe that she got from an ex-boyfriend’s mother – was tuna coriander pasta. I have never met the mother, and barely remember the ex-boyfriend, but the dish lives on in my kitchen.

Tuna coriander pasta

Serves 2 hungry flatmates

Natalie used to make this dish for us on evenings when we were both home, often at the end of the month when we were awaiting pay day. I loved it, as the coriander, chilli, lemon, and fish combination reminded me of so many classic Bangladeshi dishes. When Avi and I got married, my friends collated a book of their own signature recipes as a wedding gift: this was Natalie’s contribution, recreated here with her permission.

Ingredients

150g fusilli pasta

2 garlic cloves

5cm piece of fresh ginger

1 red chilli

olive oil

1× 145g tin of tuna, drained (if in oil, you can use this for frying)

dash of balsamic vinegar

1 lemon

large handful of coriander, chopped

salt and pepper to taste

Boil the pasta in plenty of salted water. While it’s cooking, peel and finely chop or grate the garlic and ginger. Slice as much chilli as you like into little circles. Heat a generous glug of olive oil in a frying pan and sauté the garlic, ginger, and chilli for a minute or two, taking care not to let them brown. Add the tuna to the frying pan and mix with the garlic and ginger, breaking up any chunks with a wooden spoon. Add a dash of balsamic vinegar, a good squeeze of lemon, and season to taste. Keep the tuna moving in the pan and don’t let it dry out – it only needs 2–3 minutes just to heat through. When the pasta is cooked, drain it and add to the frying pan, with a little more olive oil and the coriander. Toss and adjust the seasoning if required. Enjoy in a very big bowl.

______

My London friend-family was made up of a core group of university friends and additional friends from other walks of life – former colleagues, friends of friends, friends of siblings, and so on. Most of us graduated in 2009, right into an economic recession followed by Tory-administered austerity. We were the lucky ones with jobs and salaries at least, albeit on the low end. While most of our university peers went into law or finance or management consultancy, our group gravitated towards the non-profit sector, education, journalism, the arts, and, as such, were perpetually broke and chronically unable to save.

Nevertheless, we managed to find ways to enjoy being young and in the big city by eating at cheap restaurants, like Bistro One and Lahore Kebab House (LKH for those in the know), or at one another’s houses. There was always a reason to celebrate: birthdays, Christmas, Eid, Easter, long bank holiday weekends, and even Palentine’s (Valentine’s Day for friends).

There are certain dishes that I associate so strongly with this period of my life: the group of friends who are now scattered across the world, many of them parents now, too, and the nights we spent in one another’s cosy, lamplit flats, with empty plates and full bellies, contented and safe.

Lemon chilli chicken

Serves 2

My early food writing in the 2010s took the form of a Tumblr account that I named ‘Dine with Sha’. It contained recipes, musings, and photos of lavish dinner parties I had no business throwing on my meagre charity sector employee’s salary. I took down the website years ago but archived the posts. Here is the recipe for lemon chilli chicken – a favourite of mine in those days – in full, as I originally wrote it up on the blog all those years ago.

Ingredients

2 tbsp sunflower oil

1 medium onion, thinly sliced

3 garlic cloves, crushed

3cm piece ginger, minced

¾ tsp salt

½ tbsp cumin seeds

3 green chillies, slit lengthways into 2 or 3 pieces each (add more or less to taste)

2 medium tomatoes, roughly chopped

½ tsp tandoori masala (optional – gives a nice colour)

1 very juicy lemon

6 chicken drumsticks or thighs on the bone

Heat the oil in a pan and fry the onions until soft and golden brown. Add the garlic, ginger, salt, cumin seeds, and green chillies, stir and cook for a further minute of two. Add the tomatoes, a pinch of tandoori masala (if using) and the juice of half a lemon. Stir, cover, and cook on a medium heat for about 5 minutes to make a fairly thick sauce.

Score the chicken portions with a sharp knife and add to the sauce, coating the chicken pieces evenly. Add half a cup of water, or enough to just cover the chicken. Cover and cook over a medium heat for a further 25–30 minutes, stirring partway through the cooking time. When the chicken is cooked, add the rest of the lemon juice and stir well. Serve with rice or couscous and a vegetable side.

Chef’s tip: you can also make this dish with boned thigh/leg meat cut into chunks; simply reduce the cooking time accordingly. Avoid using breast meat here as it can be too dry.

From curry house to supper club

Back in the 1970s, Habib embarked on the restaurant trade primarily for business reasons. For migrants who did not possess qualifications or particular ‘skills’, this was an industry in which they could establish themselves. When none of Habib’s children followed him into the restaurant business, it was presumed that this marked the end of our family’s involvement in the hospitality sector.

A generation later, I found myself several years into a career that I was beginning to tire of. I had worked in mission-driven organisations for some time but I found the work draining and the sector overly reliant on the goodwill of its inadequately remunerated employees. What I found myself really wanting to do was to write and to cook. With the encouragement of my now-husband, Avi, I decided to start giving Bengali cookery classes on the weekends. It combined two of my greatest passions: cooking and teaching, and I loved the idea of being able to teach people about the food that meant so much to me.

Under the banner of Tiger Kitchen, I ventured into the ‘start-up’ world, learning as I went along about all the aspects of setting up a business: from insurance and branding, to marketing and promotion. It provided an outlet for my more creative inclinations, not just in terms of food but also in building something that was my own and that I was passionate about. In the first year of running Tiger Kitchen, I expanded from teaching classes to hosting supper clubs at venues across London, which, at first, were populated mainly by friends and colleagues, and later being attended by people I did not know: a welcome indicator that my business was growing.

I also catered private events with my friend Chris, the only one of us who had a car, who would transport me and my kit to and from different venues. I even had a market stall in Hackney for a short while, which Natalie and her now-husband, Richard, helped me with. I was reliant on the support of family and friends in those early months: Natalie showed up again as the front-of-house manager for my supper clubs, supported by my sister Sabreen and, now-sister-in-law, Sara, who waited tables and cleared glasses with grace and charm. There were times when my friends stepped in to help spontaneously – Leah, a former housemate and now a cookbook author and food magazine editor, helped plate up my signature mango cake at my very first supper club, and Ed, a food-loving doctor, diligently prepped vegetables for my takeover of a popular East London cafe. One of the most romantic things my husband has ever done was to quietly gain his Level 2 Food Hygiene certificate, meaning he was officially able to act as my sous chef. He was my trusted second in command in the kitchen, chopping, slicing, stirring and, most of all, cheering me on when I felt as though I had bitten off far more than I could chew.

Extending my table

My first supper club was at a venue in Battersea, a community kitchen that could be hired out for private supper clubs. It was exhilarating in every way – from learning how to fire up the industrial ovens, to designing the table layout and decor, to deciding a menu.

The inaugural event was titled ‘A Taste of Bengal’, and I wanted the menu to reflect exactly that. I built the courses around the core ingredients: rice, lentils, vegetables, and fish, and included a meat course too. In practical terms, it was important to have items that could be prepared easily in large quantities and that would benefit from advance preparation. I opted for roast chicken for the main course, with the twenty-four-hour marinating adding to the flavour and meaning that I could prepare the dish in stages, with begun bhaja for the vegetarian option, served with pulao and shak. The meal was rounded off with the mango cake that became the signature dish at my supper clubs, served with hot cha.

For the decorations, we strung up fairy lights and I used one of Ammu’s saris as a table runner and set up the speaker to play Bangla folk music. I made gift bags for guests to take home with them, each one containing some After Eights as a nod to Nana Bhai’s restaurant. I hired a photographer to document the evening, and took a day off work to prepare for the event.

The guest list was made up of people from so many different parts of my life: friends, colleagues, parents of kids I tutored, and even some food bloggers. One of those bloggers, a doctor by the name of Aaron Vallance, messaged me about his dietary requirements (no pork, no shellfish). It was a tenuous connection, but I remembered that Nanu and Nana Bhai’s GP back in Manchester was a Jewish doctor called Dr Vallance. I assumed, from Aaron’s message that he, too, kept Jewish dietary laws, and as the name was the same I messaged him back to ask if he had a relative who had been a doctor in Manchester in the 1970s. Astonishingly, he replied that his late grandfather, Dr Reuben Vallance, had been a doctor in Manchester at that time and confirmed that it was the very same Dr Vallance who was Habib and Fatima’s family GP – who had known the family and seen them through the most difficult times. It was Dr Reuben Vallance who had suggested that Habib start keeping pigeons after his first major heart attack.

If there was ever a symbol of the power of food to unite and reunite, to draw people together and build friendships and connections, this was it. An unexpected fragment from Habib’s past had come alive that evening when Aaron and I met, marvelling at the coincidence that we had somehow found one another decades after our grandfathers had known each other.

I felt that Nana Bhai was with me that evening, giving me his blessing and showing me his signature double thumbs-up.

Over time, the menus expanded and developed, with different themes ranging from deshi street food, to Bengali brunch. Here are a couple of recipes that became supper club favourites. (A sample menu from the supper club days is also given here.)

Lebur shorbat

lime and mint sherbet

Makes approximately 1 litre

My sister Sabreen always makes this refreshing drink during Ramadan, served in small colourful Moroccan tea glasses. When I asked her for her recipe, she said that she makes it by eye (a family trait … ) with the approximations measured to one of Ammu’s large glass jugs. I’ve tried to recreate the proportions as best I can, but this is a drink that needs to be adjusted to personal taste, as the sourness of limes and the potency of the mint can vary. I served this at my supper club in mini school-milk bottles with a straw and, also, at our wedding in a Mason jar drink dispenser!

Ingredients

8–10 limes (choose heavy ones with a thin skin)

4–5 tbsp caster sugar (1 tbsp for every 2 limes)

50ml boiled water

1 large bunch of mint (leaves only)

pinch of fine grain sea salt

1 litre (approximately) cold water

Halve and juice the limes. Pour the juice into a screw-top jar or salad dressing shaker. Add the sugar and hot water and shake or stir well to dissolve the sugar. Pour the sugar syrup into a large jug along with the mint leaves and salt. Stir and top with 500ml cold water. Taste – it should still taste quite concentrated. Add a little more water (100ml at a time) and adjust the amount of sugar or add extra lime juice. You want a strong lime flavour that is sweet, and not too watery. Keep adjusting until you get the strength you want – you may end up with a little more or less than 1 litre. Once ready, chill in the fridge until needed – you can pour the juice through a tea strainer to remove the mint leaves before serving.

______

Maach pakora

crunchy fish bites

Makes enough for 4–6 people to snack on

This pakora recipe works equally well with pieces of chicken or vegetables – if using the latter, they do not need marinating ahead of time – just the batter will do. Serve with minted yoghurt and chana bhaja for a substantial snack.

Ingredients

600g white fish fillets (such as cod, hake, haddock) cut into 4cm pieces

3cm piece ginger, minced

3 garlic cloves, minced

½ tsp of fine grain salt

juice ½ lemon

for the batter

150g chickpea (gram) flour

75g cornflour or rice flour

¼ tsp bicarbonate of soda (optional)

1 tsp ground turmeric

1 tsp Kashmiri chilli powder

1 tsp salt

1 green chilli, deseeded and finely chopped (optional)

15g coriander, leaves coarsely chopped, stalks finely chopped

250ml sunflower or corn oil, for deep frying

Place the fish in a bowl with the ginger, garlic, salt, and lemon and mix well. Allow to marinate in the fridge while you prepare the batter. In a large mixing bowl, stir together all the ingredients for the batter. Slowly pour in 100ml cold water, little by little, mixing together with a whisk or fork. The consistency should be a thick, smooth batter – a bit like natural yoghurt. Stir through the coriander and green chilli if using. Now add the marinated fish pieces to the batter, taking care not to include any of the marinade liquid. Coat each piece of fish in the batter evenly.

Heat the oil in a deep non-stick pan or wok – it should be about 4–5cm deep. Test that the oil is hot enough by adding a drop of batter to the oil – it should immediately come up to the surface but not colour too quickly. Add pieces of the well-coated fish to the hot oil, taking care not to overcrowd the pan. Fry for 5–7 mins, until the outside is golden and crispy. Test one piece to see if it’s cooked through before removing the rest of the pakoras with a slotted spoon. Drain on kitchen paper, patting off the excess oil. Do not cover, as this will make the batter less crispy. Repeat, cooking in batches until all the fish is cooked.

Narikel pitha

coconut pastry puffs

Makes 8–10 pitha

You can buy boxes of these frozen pitha from Bangladeshi grocers in the UK – and they are actually delicious! But there is no question that making them at home, sitting around a table surrounded by laughter and loved ones, is the best way to prepare and eat these sweet pillows of delight. There are two similar types of ‘puli pitha’: the more traditional recipe uses a rice flour based dough, and the pitha are steamed and then poached in spice-infused milk, whereas the simpler version, called ‘fob’ in Sylheti, uses a wheat flour dough and the pitha are deep fried for a crispy finish.

A note on gur or jaggery: there are two types of gur – one is made from unrefined cane sugar, and the other from dates. This recipe uses the date palm molasses, known as kejurer gur, which can be found in South Asian food shops – it is quite potent and adds a toffee-rich depth to this dish – if you can’t find it, use a really dark brown muscovado sugar.

Ingredients

for the pastry

150g plain flour

2 tbsp sunflower oil

60ml water (approximately)

for the filling

2 tbsp ghee

1 stick cinnamon

2 green cardamom pods, lightly bashed

80g desiccated coconut

50g jaggery (gur) grated or dark muscovado sugar

60ml whole milk

sunflower oil for frying (about 1 litre)

To make the filling: heat the ghee in a wide saucepan over a medium heat and add the cinnamon and cardamom, and fry for 30 seconds or so to release the aromas. Stir in the coconut and jaggery (or sugar) and cook for another minute or so. Add the milk bit by bit and keep stirring – adding milk to hot sugar can cause it to bubble furiously for a few moments so take care and use a wooden spoon with a long handle! Reduce the heat and cook for about 5 minutes until the coconut has absorbed the milk, and the mixture has thickened to a paste. Set aside to cool.

Prepare the pitha dough: place the flour in a large mixing bowl and slowly add the oil and mix with your fingertips until the flour feels sandy in texture. Gradually add the water in small quantities, mixing until it forms a soft, non-sticky dough. Cover the bowl with a damp towel and leave to rest for 15 minutes.

To make the pitha: knead the rested dough for a few minutes until it is pliable. Roll the dough into a large sausage shape and use a sharp knife to cut the dough into 8–10 equal portions (weighing about 25g each). Take each piece and roll into a small circle about 10cm in diameter. Place 2 teaspoons of the filling onto one half of the circle and then fold over the other half to form a semi-circle, crimping or twisting the edges to seal, with a little water if needed. Repeat this filling and folding to make the rest of the pitha.

To fry: in a wok or deep pan add enough sunflower oil so that you can deep fry the pitha (about 7cm). Heat the oil to about 180ºC and fry the pitha in batches until the pastry is crisp and golden. Drain on kitchen paper and serve with hot tea.

Mishti aam

mango cake

Makes 12 slices

This sponge recipe is my go-to for basic cakes and it has never failed me. I add a little baking powder to help it rise as the mango pulp can be dense and make the rest of the ingredients work overtime to achieve a fluffy, moist cake. I served this at my very first supper club and it has become one of the most requested recipes from attendees – so now here it is, in all its simple, wholesome glory for all your dinner parties and bake sales.

Ingredients

200g butter, room temperature

200g granulated sugar

2 eggs

200g self-raising flour

½ tsp baking powder (optional)

200g mango pulp

to decorate

150g mango pulp

2 tbsp shelled pistachios, crushed

200ml extra-thick double cream or yoghurt

Preheat the oven to 180ºC and butter a 20cm square or round baking tin.

In a large mixing bowl, beat together the butter and sugar using an electric mixer until pale and smooth. Add in the eggs and beat further. Using a metal spoon, fold in the flour (if using the baking powder, sift with the flour and add together). Fold in spoonfuls of the mango pulp until it is evenly mixed. Pour the cake batter into the tin and bake in the middle of the oven for 35 minutes. Check it is cooked through by putting a knife or cocktail stick through the middle of the sponge – if it comes out clean, the cake is ready. Allow to cool slightly and turn out of the tin.

Plate each slice of cake with a dollop of extra-thick cream or yoghurt, topped with crushed pistachios. Decorate the plate with a swirl of mango pulp (a squeezy condiment bottle can help) and serve with a cup of hot cha.

______

Running a start-up alongside salaried employment was exhausting, exhilarating, and a true lesson in the importance of friendship and community. I barely turned a profit in those first couple of years, but I loved that I was able to play out what had been such a long-standing fantasy of mine. Where my grandfather had turned to this business out of necessity and a lack of other viable options, I had the privilege of arriving at this out of choice – fuelled by passion and a desire to try something new.

It is the luxury of being the third generation of a migrant family, to be able to choose our paths relatively free from the pressure to ‘succeed’, either in terms of earnings or status. While earlier generations prioritised certainty and security, my generation has the liberty to ask ourselves what we want and to pursue that. That freedom is the greatest gift that Habib and Fatima could have bestowed on their grandchildren.

New beginnings

One of the most underrated blessings in life is the unpredictability of our paths. I was raised with the belief that Allah is the best of planners; far from being restrictive, it is a mindset that I find liberating. We can have ideas of what we want, or what is the best path for us, but what if there is something that transcends our own hopes and dreams – something that can afford us excitement and adventures beyond what we could have imagined for ourselves? What about a path that we would never have thought of ourselves but that we were put on, somehow, and turns out to be the best journey. I love the idea of remaining open to possibilities beyond our imagination.

That is what happened.

Part Eight

Brave New World

Some things never change, and for that I am grateful …

Avi and I had known each other since university. We were both part of the same interfaith society that was dedicated towards fostering a greater understanding between Muslims and Jews. It was a small group of students drawn from both faiths who got together every couple of weeks and held social events, invited speakers, and discussed theology and politics. Although Avi and I got on well enough, it wasn’t until several years after graduation that we reconnected at a college reunion in London and soon realized that we wanted to be together.

We were fortunate to have the support and love of both of our families, which is not to say that the journey was all smooth sailing. There were long-held assumptions from both sides that we would each marry ‘within’ our own communities; an assumption that, in all honesty, we had held for ourselves too. Discovering that we had found our life partner in each other was as much of a surprise to us as it was to anyone else. But what is written is written. We married in West Yorkshire, surrounded by 200 family members and friends, of all faiths and none, who came together to bless and witness our union and our intention to live in this world side by side.

Curating the menu was my favourite part of planning the wedding. Although I happily delegated choosing my bridal outfit to Sabreen and Ammu, and while Avi’s mum, Hila, was tasked with planning all the fairground games we had as part of our summer fete-style reception, when it came to the food, I wanted full oversight. Together with Ammu and Abbu, Avi and I met with the caterers to select the dishes we would serve our guests for the three ceremonies spread across two days. For the gaye holud – the traditional Bengali pre-wedding ceremony where guests daub the bride and groom with turmeric – we served a simple buffet of masala fish, chickpea salad, chicken bhuna, and spinach and paneer, followed by profiteroles, fresh fruit, and lots of mishti. For our civil ceremony, we opted for a Middle Eastern buffet of couscous, falafel, houmous, and various salads, accompanied by an English cream tea of scones, jam, cream, and plenty of cake. Guests were then treated to a mocktail and canapé hour, where samosas, tikkis, and kebabs were circulated before our joint religious ceremony and evening banquet.

While other brides may dream about their dress, or the decor, or a first dance, all I fantasised about was having guests tell me that ours was the best wedding food they had ever had. Happily, my dream came true.

In some ways, Avi’s avoidance of eating meat was perhaps more of an adjustment for my family than his faith. Ammu and my aunties fretted constantly about what to feed him – putting on a newlywed feast without serving meat felt inhospitable. Thankfully, he ate fish and chillies at least, and they could work with that. Mamee and Nanu worked together in creating the shagorana for Avi and me, which was served at a celebration dinner hosted by my Aunty Rebecca. The centrepiece was fish – a whole side of roasted tandoori salmon – covered in a mount of shada pulao and adorned with maach bora, fried aubergine slices, fried potatoes (199), boiled eggs, and intricately carved vegetables (here). It was so beautiful and such an iconic moment and, in some ways, it felt as significant as the wedding ceremony itself.

Even now, during our visits to Keighley, Ammu always makes double the amount of dishes just for Avi. Abbu buys sides of salmon for Ammu to roast with assorted vegetables or entire bream to be fried whole with onions, and warns the rest of us that these dishes are Just for Avi. Avi responds by diligently eating his fish feast by hand, teasing out the sharp bones, and even – much to Abbu’s delight – tackling the fish heads: the part considered to be a delicacy in both Bengali and Jewish tradition.

After the wedding, Avi and I moved into a tiny one-bedroom flat in Bethnal Green, East London. The neighbourhood had connections to both strands of our heritages, with a significant Bangladeshi population, as well as remnants of the old Ashkenazi Jewish community who had lived there since the late nineteenth century. It felt, somehow, as though this was a corner of the world that could hold space for both of us. But within a year, Avi was offered the opportunity to work overseas. The job was in Ethiopia.

When I informed Abbu about the position, he flatly objected to it. He loved Avi, but this – moving his daughter halfway across the world – was not part of the agreement. Abbu had moved from his homeland because he wanted to secure a more comfortable life for his children – why would they now choose to move somewhere so much less comfortable, to a place that he had only heard about in terms of famine and poverty?

I was not without hesitation myself. I had been married for less than a year, and yet suddenly it felt as though my whole identity, and how I was being perceived by the outside world, was shifting. I gave up my day job, and paused Tiger Kitchen, to prepare to move our lives to East Africa. I tried to focus on the positives of the move: I would have more time to focus on completing and editing my debut novel, Hashim & Family, for which I already had a publishing contract. It was a chance to get to know a whole new part of the world. We were so lucky to have this opportunity to embark on this adventure – an adventure that would always be a part of our story.

From England to Ethiopia

I had never visited anywhere in sub-Saharan Africa before we packed up all our worldly belongings and moved over 3,000 miles from London to Addis Ababa. The sprawling, bustling capital was far busier than I imagined it would be: traffic was often gridlocked, air pollution was rife, and the noise from roads and bars was sometimes unbearable.

As well as the huge environmental shift, there was a sudden, very unexpected change in my identity. My diplomatic ID card had ‘SPOUSE’ emblazoned across it in bright red letters. Everywhere I went, I was being introduced as ‘Avi’s wife’. People addressed me as ‘Mrs Avi’s last name’, even though I had intentionally – and fiercely – chosen to keep my own name and the title of ‘Ms’. I felt as though my whole sense of self was being subsumed into this role I had now been cast in: the wife of a diplomat – a role I had not understood the requirements of before I took the job.

Orienting myself in a new city, new country, new continent, was a full-time occupation that I tackled with both apprehension and determination while Avi was at the office. I did not speak Amharic, whereas Avi spoke it well having spent time in Ethiopia on and off for almost a decade. Because of his ongoing relationship with the place and some already established friendships, it felt as though Avi was able to hit the ground running, whereas I felt vulnerable and incompetent.

Remembering Nanu’s determination to learn the language before coming to Britain, I took Amharic lessons to be able to exchange greetings, make basic enquiries in shops and restaurants, and understand some essential vocabulary. I spent the first few weeks forcing myself to get out of the house: for a walk around the neighbourhood, to meet up with other diplomats and expats, and gratefully accepted invitations to the homes of Avi’s Ethiopian friends. But, just like my early weeks at university, even though I gritted my teeth and toughed it out by day, every evening was spent in tears – I was exhausted and depressed, and I did not know how to fix things.

What sustained me were conversations with my family back home, particularly those with Abbu and Nanu. I realized that they had done what I had done, in even more challenging circumstances and with less support. In those early months, I developed a new appreciation and understanding of the hardships my family members must have endured, as well as the resilience and sheer force of will it must have taken to establish themselves, not just as new arrivals, but as real, rounded people – people with friends and hobbies, with interests and preferences, and a rich, full life. I drew strength from the realization that I was just another piece in my family’s tapestry of movement and migration. I started to embrace my new environment, rather than just endure it.

The transience of the expat scene meant that within a couple of months, Avi and I were no longer the new kids on the block. Instead, the responsibility fell to us as old-timers to welcome, include, host, and support new arrivals. We did this in much the same way that we entertained back in London: through hosting Sunday lunch and board game afternoons, midweek dinners, and occasional well-catered house parties. Our home became a hub for others, which gave me a sense of purpose and pride.

The first time we invited some new friends – a mix of expats and locals – over for dinner, I decided to cook some old family favourites, making use of the ingredients I could easily find. I decided on dal, keema, and niramish, as they seemed closest to certain traditional Ethiopian dishes. Misir wot, a spicy lentil stew flavoured with berbere chilli, was not dissimilar to our red lentil dal. The light cabbage stir-fry known as gomen was almost identical to the deshi style of sautéing cabbage. And keema was a cooked version of the Ethiopian raw, minced beef delicacy called kitfo.

I walked down the busy road we lived on, with its four lanes of traffic and herds of goats on the pavement, and made my way to Fresh Corner, the fruit and vegetable shop that also had a butchery counter. I selected my potatoes, green beans, carrots, and tomatoes – putting them in small net bags I had brought with me, much to the consternation and amusement of the shop assistants. The bags are free, one took pains to inform me. No charge for bags. I thanked her and tried to explain that I didn’t want to use plastic. She shrugged and laughed with her colleague. I imagined that they thought of me as the stingy foreigner who didn’t want to spend pennies on a bag – and I thought about how I would explain, if I could, but the language barrier rendered me incapable. I existed only as I was seen; my right to reply could not be exercised. I imagined the frustrations that Habib, Fatima, and Ahsan must have experienced, and had a renewed sympathy for them and the migrants across the globe who have to endure a level of disdain and dismissal that is far worse. I went to the butchery counter, probably not dissimilar from the one Habib worked at all those decades ago, and enquired if they had any minced beef. Oh yes, smiled the butcher. Very fresh, just one moment. He disappeared around the corner and came back a few minutes later with a small plastic wrapped packet of raw red beef. I took it from him and was startled by its warmth. Just now, he said, nodding towards the back door where I saw the carcass of a cow being portioned out. I felt silly for associating fresh meat with being fridge-cold, when the blood-warm package in my hand reminded me that it had come from a once-living animal.

I had to learn a new way of shopping and adjust my expectations of available produce. Fresh milk was non-existent, and we mostly relied on UHT varieties. The local ‘farm’ butter, as opposed to imported blocks of President and Lurpak, was cheap but smelled like a barn. The real disappointment was eggs as you’d buy a plastic bag of ten eggs, and around half of them would be rotten. Fed up with playing unwanted games of egg roulette, we got some chickens – Sylvia (Pankhurst), Rosa (Parks) and Mindy (Kaling) – and were finally able to enjoy fresh eggs. The thrill of going out to collect the offerings each morning never faded. As an unexpected benefit, I now consider those chickens as part of my socio-political education: terms such as ‘pecking order’ and ‘ruling the roost’ suddenly made sense in a way that I had never fully been able to appreciate before.

There was a small cafe across the road from our house that sold coffee and light meals, and it became a weekend morning tradition for us to wander across to enjoy a cup of traditionally prepared buna coffee and some spicy scrambled eggs with injera (a fermented pancake made from teff, a grain that is indigenous to Ethiopia and Eritrea). Now, with our own layers back at home, we started making the scrambled eggs on the days we felt too lazy to even walk across the road.

Ankulal firfir

spicy scrambled eggs

Serves 2

These Ethiopian-style scrambled eggs became a firm favourite in my time living there. The spiciness reminded me of our deshi way of cooking eggs, with plenty of chilli and onion. Serve with porotha for a really Ethio-Bangla fusion feast.

Ingredients

1 shallot, diced

½ tsp red chilli powder

4–5 large eggs

2 green fresh jalapeño peppers, sliced

1 large tomato, seeded and diced

½ tsp salt

ghee for frying

In a large frying pan heat plenty of ghee – enough to grease the base of the pan. Add the shallot and chilli pepper and stir. Meanwhile, beat the eggs in a bowl with the salt and chilli powder, and set aside. Add the tomatoes to the pan, and fry for a minute or two. Pour over the eggs and let them set a little. Stir, breaking up the eggs into big pieces. The eggs should be firm and in large pieces, like a broken omelette – not the European type of creamy, small textured scrambled egg. Serve with injera (Ethiopian pancake) or porotha, with mitmita on the side – an Ethiopian blend of salt and red chilli.

Spris

mango and avocado smoothie

Serves 2

Avocados aren’t native to Bangladesh, but mangoes are grown in abundance. This pairing is a match made in heaven. A spris from our local fruit and veg shop in Addis Ababa cost 30 birr – about 60p at the time. When my parents came to visit, I made sure they tried it too – needless to say, it went down very well.

Ingredients

1 large or 2 small avocados

2 large, juicy mangoes

In a blender, blitz the avocados until they are smooth. Pour into two tall glasses. Rinse the blender well and put in the peeled, chopped mango and blitz until smooth. Pour the mango over the avocado. Serve with a long spoon and a straw.

My fisherman

Eventually, I settled into the rhythm of everyday life in Addis Ababa, working out where to buy vegetables, which bakeries had the least disappointing pastries, who to order specialist ingredients from. One hurdle that I hadn’t been prepared for was how difficult it would be to source fish in a landlocked country. As a deshi, life without fish was a horrific prospect – we got by on tinned tuna, mackerel, and sardines for a while but even I tired of bhortas and boras. I craved fish that was fresh, with fins, scales, and all. At some point, Avi had a meeting in the south of the country in a lakeside town called Awasa. Lake Awasa is known for being one of the few sources of freshwater fish, particularly Nile tilapia. This remarkable husband of mine made time before his meeting to go down to the local fish market and buy as much fish as he could manage. He then caught a bajaj (tuk-tuk) back to the hotel where he was staying and asked the staff to store the fish until his flight back to Addis later that day. When he came back home that evening, armed with a carrier bag full of fresh fish, I knew all over again that he was the one for me.

The next time Avi went to Awasa for work, I joined him. While he was in meetings, I decided to visit the fish market myself and found one of the calmest, prettiest fish exchanges that I – who, unsurprisingly, have been to many – ever witnessed. Small boats around the lake emptied their catches into large containers that were then transported to a central courtyard area of sorts, where tables and chairs were set up and smartly dressed fishermen, clad in football shirts and jeans, gutted and rinsed fish, ready for sale. In the corners, fires were lit with cauldrons of soup bubbling away on top of them. The soup was a light, yellow-tinged broth, made from every part of the tilapia, including the bones and heads. I bought as much fish as I could carry, paying a few birr extra to have them cleaned for me. I tucked the bag into the cool box that I had brought with me for the purpose, and caught a bajaj back to the hotel.

The whole experience of going to great lengths to source ingredients reminded me of the stories my grandparents told about their early days in England, and the methods they used before supply chains and imports of certain products were more established. We made this trip on several occasions during our time in Ethiopia, and the airport staff at Awasa – a tiny, one-room building with a rickety scanner and a cramped waiting area – soon began to recognize us. Security staff were always amused, waving us through with a smile when we came in with our coolers full of fish.

Back in Addis, we rationed our fish carefully – we had it fried with onions and chillies of course and sometimes turned it into a curry or a tenga, which is a little like the famous, fragrant and punchy Awasa fish soup.

Being ‘Mrs’ Diplomat

As hard as it was to adjust to our new life, I welcomed the chance to focus on my writing. I threw myself into the edits for my novel and continued with other projects in the run-up to publication. But there were aspects about the diplomatic ‘scene’ that I found difficult. I was always astonished by how comfortably people threw around the term ‘trailing spouse’, as though we are all doggedly following our partners around the world with no sense of agency or autonomy, ceasing to be individuals in our own right.

Another aspect was reconciling my criticisms of my country with suddenly being a representative of it. When I think of the parts of British society I most admire, I think of the NHS; the public transport system; supermarkets (no other country in the world has anything close to ours); our sense of humour; Bisto gravy granules; free museums; commemorative blue plaques. But all too often, what it means to be ‘British’ is distilled into one very potent symbol: the monarchy.

One of the quirks of the British diplomatic calendar is that the ‘national day’ is the monarch’s birthday; ironically, it is an occasion that is barely acknowledged in the UK. The reason for this is because while most other countries celebrate their national day as a day of independence (usually from the British) the UK does not actually have an established common day: the saints’ days of England, Wales, and Scotland being for the nations, rather than for the United Kingdom as a whole. As such, the Queen’s Birthday Party – now the King’s Birthday Party – served as a diplomatic event to host foreign dignitaries and work contacts, and express our patriotism.

The birthday party is a major event and embassies often go all out with displays of Union flags, cream teas, bunting, red telephone boxes, and all the usual symbolism. I always feel uncomfortable on such occasions. For many families like mine, the monarchy remains a symbol of a system that inflicted centuries’ worth of pain and exploitation on our ancestors. And, although the Commonwealth is touted as being some kind of recompense for that, there has never been any acknowledgement or apology for what we have endured. At these types of events, I often look around and see other people engaging with the festivities with seemingly uncomplicated enjoyment. For those people, with a different history and family trajectory to my own, these celebrations are straightforwardly enjoyable in a way they never will be for me.

Ranir mishti

pistachio and cardamom sponge with raspberry jam

Serves 8–10

Here is a recipe that I developed based on the famous Victoria sponge cake – but created with a different kind of queen, or rani, in mind. This is for anyone who needs to take a little time out, with a slice of cake and a cup of tea. Bringing down imperialism, an optional (welcome) extra.

Ingredients

4 eggs

250g butter

250g caster sugar

250g self-raising flour

1 tsp baking powder

¼ tsp ground cardamom

125g fresh raspberries

250ml whipping cream

2 tbsp of coconut cream (not milk)

180g good-quality raspberry jam

30g shelled pistachios, crushed

30g desiccated coconut

dried rose petals

Preheat the oven to 180ºC and butter two round 20cm cake tins. (You can also use pre-cut baking paper rounds, which I love.)

In a large mixing bowl beat the eggs, butter, and sugar with an electric mixer until smooth, pale, and slightly thickened. Sift in the baking powder, flour, and ground cardamom. Fold in gently until all mixed together. Finally, fold in the fresh raspberries.

Divide the cake mixture between the tins and bake on the middle rack of the oven for 25 minutes. Test that the cake is cooked through by inserting a cocktail stick in the middle of the sponge – if it comes out clean, it is done. Remove the cakes from the oven and allow to cool a little in the tins. Run a knife around the edge of each tin to loosen the cakes. Turn onto a wire rack and cool completely.

In a bowl, whip the cream and 2 tablespoons of coconut cream using an electric mixer until thick. In a different bowl, whisk the raspberry jam until it has slackened a little.

To assemble: place one of the cakes on a large plate or stand, and spread the jam to the edges. Then spread the cream on top. Finally, place the second cake on top. Dust the top with the pistachios, desiccated coconut, and rose petals (you can use a little of the cream smeared on top to help the toppings stick). Cake fit for a queen.

The richest continent

The biggest privilege about living abroad was the chance to introduce my family to a new part of the world. Ammu and Abbu came to visit us in Ethiopia, and we toured the northern part of the country, as well as going on a safari in Kenya and spending time in the winding streets and unspoilt beaches of Zanzibar. At the end of their visit, Abbu enthused passionately about what he had seen and experienced. He talked about how clouded his assumptions about Africa had been. It is so beautiful, he kept saying. It is so rich. But in Western discourse, the entire continent is always referred to in terms of poverty and disease and corruption – the limited praise is in terms of its ‘potential’. If only, they always say mournfully. If only they could get their act together. If only there were honest leaders. If only there was infrastructure.

What isn’t talked about is the alternative. If only the continent hadn’t been plundered for centuries. If only the wealth of these lands had been kept on this soil. If only colonialism had not taken place.

Abbu had encountered a new dimension to the impact of colonialism. Of course, he had lived with the consequences of imperialism as it affected his homeland. But now he had witnessed it in a new context. He thanked me and Avi. It was a conversation I will always remember. I wouldn’t have come here, if it hadn’t been for you, he said. I would never have seen this.

What I should have said at the time was this:

I would not be here if it wasn’t for you. I would never have seen or lived in the places I have – I would never have learnt or studied the things I have had the chance to – had you not sacrificed so much. Leaving behind everything you had grown up with. Everything you knew. The only thanks should be from me, to you.

On a taxi journey in Addis Ababa, Abbu heard the song ‘Africa Must Wake Up’ by Damian Marley and Nas featuring K’naan, and promptly became obsessed with the hopefulness of its lyrics, which suggest that tomorrow may bring a better day for the continent – while also acknowledging the grief around what, and who, had been lost due to colonial plunder. When he returned to the UK, Abbu listened to it constantly on YouTube, enthralled by the lyrics that could have easily been written about his own land.

New roots

I never imagined that I would be raising my children thousands of miles away from where I was born. Neither did Abbu, or Nanu, or Nana Bhai for that matter. And yet in all our cases, work and marriage and opportunity brought us to new and unfamiliar lands. There have been times in my life where I have felt a strong connection to my ancestors – the gap of age and time shrinking thanks to a shared human experience. Moving countries was one such time; another was becoming a mother.

I experienced debilitating sickness – not just in the morning – with both pregnancies. The first time, I was in Addis Ababa with no family other than Avi close by. The physical and mental toll of pregnancy completely shocked me, and this was no mild nausea: I could not look at, smell, or think about food, let alone eat it. I turned to Ammu and Nanu, and my sister Shabnam, for solace. As it happened, extreme pregnancy sickness – which would later be diagnosed as hyperemesis gravidarum for me – ran in our family. It was an experience that transcended place and time: the complete revulsion of any cooking smell, even the scent of rice boiling, united us across the generations. Strangely, I drew some comfort that what I was going through was an experience shared with other women in my family, miserable as it was.

As well as sickness, we shared the experience of finding ourselves carrying a new life while being so very far from home. Fatima discovered that she was pregnant with her first child, Selina, while living in England with only her husband for support. As a young bride, Selina spent the early months of her first pregnancy living with her in-laws in Bangladesh, when her nausea alerted her mother-in-law to the fact before she had even realized it herself. Now, here I was in Ethiopia suddenly preparing to bring a child into the world.

Avi and I returned to the UK for the birth of our son, who was born at the height of the Covid-19 pandemic in 2020. I delivered him in the same hospital that I was born in, in my hometown of Keighley. Because of the restrictions on visiting, only Avi was allowed to see us during the three days we stayed in hospital after the birth. He brought me food that had been lovingly prepared by Ammu: a plastic Tupperware container full of rice, chicken curry, spinach and potato bazi, still hot from the pan. Although they could not visit me, I felt the full force of my family’s love at that time – as always, most potently expressed through food.

We returned to Ethiopia four months later, sad to leave our loved ones behind, but excited for our new chapter as a family of three. The welcome we received still makes me cry when I think about it now. We arrived at our house – a bright yellow, two-storey building to the east of the city in an area called Gerji. Our guards and gardener, hired by the British Embassy to manage the property, had clubbed together to buy us gifts. There was an outfit for the baby, jewellery for me, a leather wallet for Avi, as well as a card that they had all signed, and a bunch of hand-picked garden flowers arranged in a plastic Sprite bottle with its top sawn off. It was the most touching display of generosity and love, and is just one example of how welcomed we were and what a caring community we built in our time there.

We used to hold an annual Christmas party for the household staff and their families, and it was a highlight of the calendar for all of us. I would cook a hybrid of Bangladeshi and Ethiopian dishes, and Avi would buy fresh injera from the bakery, and we would eat together and chat, swap stories, and hold each other’s children on our laps. One of the sad parts about moving around at a young age is that our son doesn’t have any memories of his life in Addis, but we remind him often of the people who knew and loved him, his many aunties and uncles who we are still in touch with today.

When our boy was seven months old, Avi received his next posting. We packed up and travelled south, to Zimbabwe.

Due south

I found our second move much easier than our first. This was partly due to the place itself: Harare is like a small town rather than a capital city and is so different from the hustle and bustle of the big, noisy, messy city of Addis. We settled in right away, familiarising ourselves with new foods: sadza, made from maize meal, and eaten with greens – not unlike the deshi shak – and chicken or beef stews. The abundance of delicious avocados, bananas, watermelon, and papaya meant that our fruit bowls were always well stocked. We fell in love with the parks and cafes with playgrounds that the northern suburbs offer. Harare is a divided city, with the high-density areas containing blocks of flats, whereas the affluent suburbs – where we were fortunate enough to live – boast an almost complete absence of high-rise buildings. And traffic, despite the complaints of the locals, is positively relaxed. Nature is apparent at every turn, with the avenues being flanked by beautiful purple jacaranda trees and blazing red flamboyants that bloom in the hot season, and parks where zebras, giraffes, and a range of antelope roam freely.

As well as the peaceful environment, I also felt much more confident going out and about because English is so widely spoken in Zimbabwe. In Addis, every interaction took much more effort as I tried to communicate in broken Amharic, recalling the vocabulary from my weekly lessons, which became exhausting after a while. Hard as it was, it was an experience I am glad to have had, as it was just a tiny taste of what life must have been like for migrants – including Habib and Fatima, all those years ago – who had to learn to communicate in a new tongue, in a new place, and navigate new systems that, unlike in my experience, were often hostile towards them.

The uncomfortable reality is that I found life in Harare so much easier, in part, due to the pervading legacy of colonialism. Zimbabwe, formerly known as Rhodesia, carries some of the deepest scars of British colonialism in Africa, and a trauma that is still apparent in the racial fault lines that plague the country to this day. By contrast, Ethiopians proudly proclaim that they have never been colonised: other than the five years of Italian occupation from 1936 to 1941 under Mussolini, Ethiopia avoided European colonisation (but, mercifully, kept the macchiato). Being British, our position felt much more loaded in Zimbabwe than it did in Ethiopia. I was glad that despite my English accent, my skin spoke for me: I was descended from the colonised, not the colonisers. But now, if only by marriage, I had to grapple with the duality of being a diplomatic representative of the British government.

Another reason why I found the second move easier, was the natural shift in expectations that I carried. My experience of moving to Ethiopia had prepared me for some inevitabilities – feeling out of place, missing certain home comforts – but, also, I knew enough to be hopeful. To trust that I would find my people soon enough, and that we were capable of building and maintaining a beautiful community that would come to feel love and gratitude towards our new home. And our faith was rewarded.

When I announced our impending move to Zimbabwe on social media, an old university friend got in touch and gave me the contact details of one of her relatives. ‘Would you like me to put you both in touch?’ my old friend offered. ‘She’s a lovely lady.’ It reminded me of the stories I grew up hearing, about how new arrivals to England would be met at the airport by a distant relative or a friend of a friend, who may have travelled across the country just to make sure that their kin would be met with a welcoming face and someone to help navigate the early days in a foreign land.

I gratefully accepted.

Aunty Bhuran and Uncle Colin soon became our family away from family. Shortly after we arrived, they invited us for lunch at their beautiful home, which sits on over an acre of land where they keep ducks, geese, and bees, and grow their own vegetables and fruit. Monkeys sometimes gambol around the grounds and have even been known to dart into the house and help themselves from the fruit bowl.

A fascinating couple who are now in their sixties and seventies, Aunty B and Uncle C, as they like to be known, have called Zimbabwe their home for over forty years, and raised four children in the same house they live in today. They met in South Africa during apartheid: English Colin and Bhuran, who was born and raised in Kimberley to a Muslim Cape Malay family. Their love was illegal under South African law at the time due to the racist ‘colour bar’ that forbade whites and non-whites from even using the same facilities, let alone marrying. So, the young couple crossed the border into what was the newly independent country of Zimbabwe and, like so many migrants, made a new land their home.

Colin and Bhuran’s dedication to their country is inspiring and tangible in their daily life: both are technically retired, although their long list of voluntary activities – ranging from repairing potholes, to establishing and running medical clinics and educational facilities, means they are always busy. It is inspiring to witness two people, neither of whom were born in this land, so fully and pure-heartedly making it theirs, through serving and loving their local community out of faith and love of God and humankind.

As well as being active volunteers, Bhuran and Colin are also warm and welcoming hosts who love food: the bedrock of any good friendship. Aunty B is an incredible cook with a culinary repertoire that, like her heritage, spans the globe. Being of a mixed heritage, she describes herself as a ‘masala’ – a mix of ethnicities and cultures. One of her favourite things to remind us of is that she is related to both me and Avi, having ancestors who were European Ashkenazi Jews, and ancestors who hailed from Bengal.

Aunty B introduced me to the delights of Cape Malay cookery, which is a unique culinary dreamscape fusing Malay and Javanese flavours with Indian subcontinental inspired curries, and European roast meats and potatoes. We spent countless weekend brunches, Eids, and Christmases sitting on the terrace with Bhuran and Colin and their many guests, enjoying lavish buffets of biryani, chicken curry, tilapia and coconut curry, fluffy rotis, roasted lamb, and beautiful fresh salads, before rounding off with delicacies such as koesisters – spicy Cape Malay pastries that are dusted with coconut – and spongy, moist apricot malva pudding with vanilla ice cream. There isn’t anything Aunty B can’t cook, but one of her signature dishes is coconut fish curry – the recipe for which, she has kindly allowed me to share with you.

Aunty B’s coconut fish curry

Serves 4–6 as a main

Cape Malay cooking is defined in part by its sweetness; sugar finds its way into many recipes. When twinned with the creaminess of the coconut and heat of the green and red chilli, the result is balanced and harmonious. Serve with white basmati rice and some sautéed vegetables.

Ingredients

1 large onion, finely chopped

2 tsp cumin seeds

4 garlic cloves, minced

4 tbsp sunflower oil

2 green chillies

6 medium tomatoes, grated

1 tsp salt

3 tsp sugar (or less to taste)

½ tsp red chilli powder

500g fish fillets (such as tilapia, hake, or salmon)

400ml coconut milk

2 tbsp coriander, chopped

In a wide saucepan with a lid, heat the oil over a medium temperature and fry the onion, cumin seeds, garlic, and green chillies until the onion turns translucent.

Add the tomatoes, salt, sugar, and red chilli powder and simmer over a medium heat until the oil separates from the tomato gravy and the sauce is soft and glossy looking. This can take around 20 minutes.

Carefully add the fish to the pan and spoon the tomato gravy over the fillets to cover them. Cover the pan and simmer for about 5 minutes, then pour in the coconut milk. Simmer for a further 10 minutes, before removing from the heat. Sprinkle chopped coriander over the fish just before serving.

______

We felt so comfortably at home in Zimbabwe that I stayed to give birth to our daughter, instead of travelling back to the UK. She entered the world in late 2023 at the height of the flamboyant season – its bright red tree blooms colouring the Harare landscape – in the baking heat of summer in the southern hemisphere.

Perhaps surprisingly, Ammu was the one who suggested that I stay in Harare for the birth. Travelling around so close to the due date, pulling our son out of school, Avi having to return to Zimbabwe for work soon after the birth – it was a lot. It will be easier on you this way, she reassured me. We will come to you. And so they did: Shabnam came first for the early days after the birth; a few weeks later Ammu and Abbu came; and then a few weeks after that, Avi’s parents visited too. It meant that in those early months, we had a steady stream of loving, caring visitors to help and support us all.

Jackfruit-gate

Ammu and Abbu arrive in Harare when our daughter is six weeks old. They are laden with gifts for us all: clothes, toys, food. They keep producing new items from their magic, TARDIS-like suitcases: huge bags of mixed nuts, bars and bars of every kind of chocolate, a mountain of tinned mackerel (especially for my son who is obsessed with the stuff), jars of Patak’s pickle. Some things never change, and for that I am grateful. Even though I know I am technically an adult – with two children to prove it – it’s still a novel thought that I am grown up enough to be hosting my parents in my own home. Ammu and Abbu are very delicate about it, wanting to help but not to overstep. Their purpose is to meet and spend time with their grandchildren, as well as look after us all.

They are model guests: in-between doing the grocery shopping and cooking, they play with the toddler and hold the baby. We chat over tea, they nap, we sit in comfortable silence, we go out to cafes, they meet our friends. I cook some days; on others Ammu takes up the mantle. When she does, I think to myself: I’m not a proper grown-up yet. She is so quick in the kitchen, flying around chopping and frying and washing up as she goes along. I am good, but I am still not as good as her. She makes all the dishes from my childhood: dal with tomatoes, bhorta (with the tinned mackerel they have brought), and lots of shak – she and Abbu are delighted to discover that mustard greens are eaten widely in Zimbabwe where they are called tsunga.

I spend most of my time on the sofa, cuddling and nursing my newborn. Even so, it is hard not to revert to child-mode myself when my parents are around. It sounds counterintuitive – I have just become a mother again, and yet I feel more childlike than ever. All I want is their attention, their praise – to be told how well I am managing, that I am a grown-up after all, that I can do this. But I can’t do this. Of course, I find it impossible to express this. Instead, I find myself bursting into occasional tears, frustrated outbursts even. It’s the hormones, I overhear Ammu explaining to Abbu, she just can’t help it. And I feel both relief and shame that they understand and there isn’t judgement or, if there is, that they keep it to themselves.

Our fridge has never been as full as when Ammu and Abbu are here. Each trip out to the market results in them coming back with another exotic fruit: watermelon, papaya, pineapple, mangoes. Our son is delighted, blissfully gobbling up the platters of fresh fruit that Ammu arranges for him. Preparing fruit is a time-honoured expression of love that exists in so many cultures. There is something particularly tender about someone else taking the time to peel, slice, deseed, and present something delicious that will nourish one’s body and spirit. It is one of the most memorable expressions of love from my own childhood: Nana Bhai wandering into the room where we were watching television, to present us with a plate of beautifully segmented oranges, Abbu feeding us chunks of plump mango with a tiny fork reserved for such use.

One day we are driving past a roadside vendor selling jackfruit. Ammu and Abbu are giddy with excitement. Avi stops the car, and they buy a handsomely large, spiky-skinned kathal for the sum of $10. At home, Abbu proudly places the fruit on the dining table; I hold the baby next to it for scale and we take photographs for posterity. The jackfruit is ceremonially prepared by my parents while the rest of us watch. I take more photos to send to our family members in Bangladesh and the UK – Ammu and Abbu smiling broadly, their hands buried in the jackfruit, separating segments of yellow flesh and the huge seeds.

One jackfruit yields far more fruit than a family of our size can consume. We share it with friends and neighbours, packing the rest in large containers and storing it in the fridge. It doesn’t last long – it is so delicious, so restorative, that we polish it off in a matter of days. I tell my parents that this is the best kathal I have ever had.

A few days later, Ammu and Abbu parade into the house with three enormous jackfruit. Far from being grateful, I am suddenly overcome with panic. Where am I supposed to store these fruits? How do I prepare them? It manifests in a display of my complete ingratitude. My poor parents are alarmed, wondering what they have done wrong.

The mood is lightened with a knock at the door, when our good friends and Embassy colleagues, Róisín and Will, turn up with a fourth jackfruit. They heard how much we enjoyed the last one and were driving past the street vendor, so decided to buy one for us. The situation is explained to them and the laughter helps put everything into perspective. They stick around to watch Ammu and Abbu carve one of the kathal, and return home with Tupperware boxes full of fruit. Afterwards, Ammu is full of praise for our new friends. Other people would have said ‘oh we drove past the jackfruit seller and thought of you’ – but these friends, they actually stopped and bought one for you, she says approvingly. That’s true friendship.

Later, I apologise to Ammu and Abbu for my reaction, and all is forgiven, but I am still unable to tell them the real reason for my outburst. This is not about jackfruit. It is because Ammu and Abbu are leaving us in three days. It is because I am thirty-six years old and I have never prepared a jackfruit by myself, and suddenly I have been given three and have no idea what to do with them. I am terrified of getting it wrong, of being an amateur when I am supposed to be a parent myself. And now, somehow, I am a parent of two. I don’t know how to do any of it.

Our last few days together are lovely, but then the thing I have dreaded happens: they have gone and I am on my own again, recovering from major abdominal surgery, but with two babies and three jackfruit to take care of. The babies can wait, but the jackfruit needs dealing with soon or they risk spoiling.

There’s nothing for it. I have to do this.

I prepare for the kathal-cutting with careful precision. This is about so much more than fruit. It is a test of my competence. It is my badge of adulthood. I line the table with plastic bags. I select two knives – one short and sturdy, one larger with a broad, flat blade – and oil the blades, making sure the handles are not slippery. I set out several containers to put the fruit in. I don an apron and begin the carving. I remember how Ammu does it: a large incision right through the centre of the fruit, running from top to bottom. Then another across the middle from side to side. Put your hands into this cross and pull the jackfruit apart – you may need someone pulling on each side. (I have an unwelcome flashback to my C-section, remembering hazily observing surgeons pull either side of my abdomen with a surprising amount of force, not feeling a thing, and then hearing the cry of my baby, then suddenly feeling everything. I note the comparison with some interest – something to explore in therapy perhaps – and put the thought out of my mind.)

Now it’s about getting the fruit – separating the seeds from the flesh, sorting into tubs. It is therapeutic, calming. I wash the seeds and spread them on a towel to dry. When the seeds are fully dried, they can be cooked. The flesh will be eaten just as it is. With fruit this perfect, there is nothing that can improve it. I wash my knives and my hands, scrubbing the juice off with oil and then hand soap. The peel and waste is neatly wrapped up in the plastic bags and thrown away. I survey my handiwork proudly. Four lidded boxes of fruit, and many shiny seeds.

I have succeeded. I am proud.

* * *

Eager to prove my new-found adult credentials to my in-laws, I buy a jackfruit when they come to visit a few weeks later. I have no idea how to select a good kathal, but I apply some basic principles from choosing other fruit and hope that it works: I pick a dense, heavy kathal and take it home. Again, I prepare my work station with plastic sheets, oiled knives, and tubs, but when I cut it open, the jackfruit is unripe. It is dry and pale, completely different to the juicy yellow it is supposed to be. I am devastated. How did I get it so wrong? My mother-in-law is reassuring – she can see that I am disappointed, but she doesn’t understand how much weight I have unduly placed on this. I put the fruit in the fridge in the hope that it will ripen later. It doesn’t.

A few days later, I decide to try and make something out of the situation. I know that some people cook savoury dishes with jackfruit, but I have never tried it myself before. I haven’t even seen Ammu do it. I am going into this completely blind. I look up a few recipes online and watch a few YouTube chefs cook it – but they use the tinned variety, and I am not interested in the Western ‘vegan pulled pork’ type of recipe. I’ll have to just make it up as I go along.

If in doubt, I think to myself, make kofta. That way I can be assured that the fruit will be properly cooked through and not too hard. So, I par-boil the jackfruit and mash it. I assume that it will taste fairly bland, so I add plenty of minced garlic and ginger and salt and spices. It will need a binding agent, so I use cornmeal, which is abundant here in Zimbabwe – in Bangladesh, of course, we would use rice flour instead. It is yet another example, I realize, of our family’s habitual adjustment and adaptation in all things, not just food. An agility that, when twinned with holding on to the deeply rooted things that matter, allows us to flourish wherever we are in the world.

Kathal kofta

jackfruit kofta curry

Serves 4

Ingredients

250g fresh unripe jackfruit or 1× 400g tin of jackfruit, drained

2 medium floury white potatoes (such as Maris Piper or King Edward)

3 spring onions, very finely chopped

2 fresh green chillies, sliced

1 tsp salt

1 tbsp garlic-ginger paste

2 tbsp rice or cornflour

sunflower oil, for frying (about 500ml)

for the sauce

2 large white onions, diced

3 large tomatoes, roughly chopped

1 tsp garlic-ginger paste

1 tsp ground turmeric

1 tsp ground coriander

1 tsp ground cumin

1 tsp red chilli powder

½ tsp salt

handful of coriander (about 50g), chopped

To prepare the kofta: if using fresh jackfruit – rinse the jackfruit, cut into even-sized pieces about 4 × 4cm and boil for 10 minutes until fork-tender and the flesh easily breaks when firmly pinched. If using tinned jackfruit – simply drain and give a quick rinse in cold water to get rid of any brine. Peel the potatoes and cut into even-sized cubes about 4 × 4cm. Boil until soft and drain well.

In a large mixing bowl, combine the jackfruit and potato and mash well with a potato masher (a hand blender will give too soft a paste). When thoroughly mashed, add the spring onions, chillies, salt, and garlic-ginger paste. Mix thoroughly and form the mixture into golf ball-sized pieces. Lightly roll the balls in rice or cornflour and shake off any excess. Heat the sunflower oil in a deep pan or wok over a medium temperature. Test that the oil is hot enough by dropping a little of the kofta mixture into the pan. If it sizzles and rises to the surface, the oil is ready. Shallow fry the kofta for about 3–4 minutes until lightly golden brown all over. Drain on kitchen paper. (You can test one to see if it holds together and the temperature of the oil is correct before frying the others.)

To make the sauce: blitz the onion, tomatoes, and garlic-ginger paste in a blender until it forms a smooth paste and adding a little water if needed. In a wok or deep sauté pan, heat enough oil to coat the bottom of the pan, and then add the onion-tomato mixture. Fry over a medium heat for a couple of minutes before adding the ground spices and salt. Cook for 10–15 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the oil starts to come to the top and around the edges of the pan. Now lower the heat and add the jackfruit kofta, turning carefully to coat them in the sauce. Cover and cook for a minute or two until thoroughly heated through. Scatter over the coriander and serve with rice.

______

I am delighted when my experimentation works. The kofta are perfectly cooked: crunchy on the outside, soft in the middle, and deliciously spiced. I arrange them on a plate with a side of basmati rice, a wedge of lime and some green chilli. Proudly, I take photos and send them to my parents. Their replies are full of praise.

I can do this, I realize. I am a grown-up.

A Menu for Every Occasion

Deshi dreams

quintessentially Bangladeshi

Begun bhaja

fried aubergine

Maach bhaja

fried fish with crispy onions and chilli with a garlic lemon dressing

Bagar dal

tempered lentils with panch puron

Shak

wilted greens with chilli

Bhath

steamed white rice

Midweek miracle

unbelievably quick and delicious

Aloo murghi jhol

chicken and potato curry

or

Maacher tarkari

simple fish curry

Bindi bhaja

stir fried okra

Bhath

steamed white rice

Summer story

light bites perfect for entertaining

Trio of bhorta

smoky aubergine, tomato garlic, spicy potato

lemon chilli chicken

or

coconut fish curry

Bhath

steamed white rice

deshi salad

Cake

rusk trifle

layered jelly and custard

Winter warmer

easy one-pot comfort food

Keema shepherd’s pie

or

Paprika chicken

or

Bhuna kitchuri

rice and lentil ‘kedgeree’

Shak

wilted greens with chilli

Shemai

cardamom infused vermicelli pudding

Store cupboard supper

for when you didn’t get to the shops

Dim bhuna

emergency egg curry

or

Maach bortha

crispy chilli tinned fish

Bagar dal

tempered lentils with panch puron

Bhath

steamed white rice

Tinned mangoes and cream

Sunday lunch

a ‘Benglish’ roast dinner

Tandoori murghi

birthday chicken and roast potatoes

or

Tandoori maach

marinated roast salmon

or

Raan

Roast leg of lamb

Fulkopi bhaja

sautéed cauliflower

Shada pulao

fragrant basmati rice

Pineapple fritters

Cha nastha

A Benglish afternoon tea

Aloo chop

stuffed potato cutlets

Cheese and (Patak’s) pickle pinwheels

Shingara

potato and chickpea pastries

Ranir mishti

pistachio and cardamom sponge with raspberry jam

Cake

rusk trifle

layered jelly and custard

Cha

Tea with Carnation milk

Village vibes

A taste of the bari

Bhorta

trio of bhorta: smoky aubergine, tomato garlic, spicy potato

Choto maach bhaja

small fried fish

Tomato tenga

sour tomato broth

or

Kechki maach aar komla tarkari

tiny fish with clementine

Aloo aar oori bazi

potato and green bean stir-fry

Bhath

steamed white rice

Narikel pitha

coconut pastry puffs

Iftar party

for breaking the fast during Ramadan

Lebur shorbat

lime and mint sherbet

Beguni

battered aubergine slices

Daler bora

lentil fritters

Maach bora

tuna cakes with Colman’s mint yoghurt dip

Chana bhaja

spicy fried chickpeas

Bhuna kitchuri

rice and lentil ‘kedgeree’

Shemai

cardamom-infused vermicelli pudding

‘By the way, I’m vegan’

plant-based goodness

Beguni

battered aubergine slices

or

Daler bora

lentil fritters

Kathal kofta

jackfruit kofta curry

or

Aloo dum

quick potato curry

Fulkopi bhaja

sautéed cauliflower

or

Bindi bhaja

stir-fried okra

Bhath

steamed white rice

Easy entertaining

deceptively simple, undeniably delicious

Maach bora

tuna cakes with Colman’s mint yoghurt dip

Aloo dum

Quick potato curry

Mangshor jhol

homestyle staff lamb curry

Doi begun

aubergines in yogurt

classic deshi salad

Shada pulao

fragrant basmati rice

Mishti aam

mango cake

Honouring a VIP

for when you need to impress your boss/in-laws/bank manager

Maach pakora

Crunchy fish bites

Foler chatni

Fruit chutney

Biye barir roast

wedding chicken

Fulkopi bhaja

sautéed cauliflower

classic deshi salad

Shada pulao

fragrant basmati rice

Suji halwa

sweet semolina pudding

Ultimate deshi dawaat

new hosting level unlocked

Aloo chop

stuffed potato cutlets

Begun bhaja

fried aubergines

Bagar dal

tempered lentils with panch puron

Fulkopi bhaja

sautéed cauliflower

Tandoori maach

marinated roast salmon

Mughlai kurma

chicken in aromatic yogurt

Mangshor jhol

homestyle staff lamb curry

Shada pulao

fragrant basmati rice

Foler chatni

Fruit chutney

classic deshi salad

Gulab jam

spongy sweet balls in lime and cardamom syrup

The OG supper club menu

Tiger Kitchen-style entertaining

Jhal muri

Toasted spicy puffed rice

Lebur shorbat

lime and mint sherbet

Maach pakora

Crunchy fish bites

Daler bora

lentil fritters

Niramish

Mixed vegetable sauté

Mughlai kurma

chicken in aromatic yogurt

classic deshi salad

Shada pulao

fragrant basmati rice

Mishti aam

mango cake

Narikel pitha

coconut pastry puffs

Resources

Books

Banerji, Chitrita, Bengali Cooking: Seasons and Festivals, Serif, 2006.

Bremner, Moyra, The Ultimate Problem Solver: The Complete Encyclopedia for Your Home, Hutchinson, 1992.

Chapman, Pat, Curry Club Indian Restaurant Cookbook, Piatkus Books, 1984.

Jaffrey, Madhur, An Invitation to Indian Cooking, Alfred A. Knopf, 1973

Macdonald, I.A. (1989) Murder in the playground: The Burnage Report. London: Longsight Press.

Sayce, Richard, Indian Restaurant Curry at Home Volume 1, Misty Ricardo’s Curry Kitchen, 2018.

Shaffi, Wahida, ed. Our Stories, Our Lives: Inspiring Muslim Women’s Voices. Policy Press, 2009.

Shakur, Tasleem and Ahsan, Shabnam, Stories of ’71: Reflections on the Bangladesh Liberation Movement in the North West of England, Knowledgists Without Borders, 2023.

Journals

Kavita H. Poddar, Geeta Sikand, Dinesh Kalra, Nathan Wong, P. Barton Duell, ‘Mustard oil and cardiovascular health: Why the controversy?’ Journal of Clinical Lipidology, Volume 16, Issue 1, 2022, Pages 13-22.

Web

Hickel, J. (2018) How Britain stole $45 trillion from India, Al Jazeera. Available at: https://www.aljazeera.com/opinions/2018/12/19/how-britain-stole-45-trillion-from-india (Accessed: 10 April 2025).

Why the queen of Indian cuisine refused to use the word ‘curry’ (2018) BBC Scotland. Available at: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/articles/1ry1nvpfMvC1qQf8hMkJtyz/why-the-queen-of-indian-cuisine-refused-to-use-the-word-curry (Accessed: 10 April 2025).

Ahmed Iqbal Ullah Race Centre and education trust. Race Archive. Available at: https://www.racearchive.org.uk/ (Accessed: 10 April 2025).

Begum, D. (2021) Bhortas are anything but basic, Whetstone Magazine. Available at: https://www.whetstonemagazine.com/south-asia-journal/bhortas-are-anything-but-basic (Accessed: 10 April 2025).

Ethnicity (2024) University of Oxford. Available at: https://www.ox.ac.uk/about/facts-and-figures/admissions-statistics/undergraduate-students/current/ethnicity (Accessed: 10 April 2025).

Recipe List

Part One

Home and the World: Ghore Baire

Bagar dal (tempered lentils)

Shak (wilted greens with chilli)

Begun bhaja (fried aubergine)

Maach bhaja (fried fish with crispy onions and chilli with a garlic lemon dressing)

Bhath (steamed white rice)

Part Two

Pioneers: Making It Abroad

Jhal muri (toasted spicy puffed rice)

Cha (tea with Carnation milk)

Cheat’s chitoi pitha (crumpets and curry)

Maach bhorta (crispy chilli tinned fish)

Maach bora (tuna cakes with Colman’s mint yoghurt dip)

Zau (invalid’s rice porridge)

Part Three

Building a Legacy

Mangshor jhol (homestyle staff lamb curry)

Tandoori murghi (birthday chicken with roast potatoes)

Shada pulao (pulao rice)

Pineapple fritters

The perfect chip butty

Tukra tukri (Habib’s eggy bread bits)

Dim bhuna (emergency egg curry)

Part Four

This Land is My Land

Aunty Mahroof’s tuna jacket potatoes

Keema shepherd’s pie (spicy minced lamb with potato)

Cheese and pickle pinwheels

Sandwich fillings

– Classics

– A-grade leftovers

Aloo chop (stuffed potato cutlets)

Aloo aar oori bazi (potato and green bean stir-fry)

Aunty Aneesa’s porothas

Foler chatni (fruit chutney)

Niramish (kitchen garden stir-fry)

Dalchini aar dim noodles (egg and cinnamon noodles)

Beguni (battered aubergine slices)

Daler bora (lentil fritters)

Chana bhaja (spicy fried chickpeas with minted yoghurt)

Ahsan’s ‘English’ brunch

Bhuna kitchuri (rice and lentil ‘kedgeree’)

Birun bhath (sticky rice)

Aloo murghi jhol (Ammu’s chicken and potato curry)

Maacher tarkari (everyday fish curry)

Doi begun (aubergines in yoghurt)

Classic deshi salad

Part Five

Days of Plenty

Aloo dum (Aunty Manju’s quick potato curry)

Biye barir roast (wedding roast chicken)

Mughlai kurma (chicken in aromatic yoghurt)

Fulkopi bhaji (sautéed cauliflower)

Paprika chicken with rice (Mamee’s magazine recipe)

Raan (roast leg of lamb with all the trimmings)

– Tandoori roast potatoes

– Coriander carrots

– Mustard cauliflower cheese

Tandoori maach (marinated roast salmon)

Cake rusk trifle

Gulab jam (spongy sweet balls in lemon and cardamom syrup)

Suji halwa (sweet semolina pudding)

Shemai (cardamom-infused vermicelli pudding)

Mera pitha biran (steamed and fried rice flour dumplings)

Part Six

Back to My Roots

Choto maach bhaja (small fried fish)

Keski maach aar komla tarkari (tiny fish with clementine peel)

Sawler ruti (rice flour flatbreads)

Bindi bhaja (stir-fried okra)

A trio of bhorta

– Begun bhorta (smoky aubergine)

– Tomato bhorta (tomato and garlic)

– Aloo bhorta (potato and coriander)

Dim aar bhath biran (spicy omelette with fried rice)

Shingara (potato and chickpea pastries)

Luf (breakfast deshi toast)

Part Seven

Coming of Age

Tomato tenga (sour tomato broth)

Aloo mangsho (lamb chop and potato curry)

Student prawn curry

One-pan cheesy masala chips

Tuna coriander pasta

Lemon chilli chicken

Lebur shorbat (lime and mint sherbet)

Maach pakora (crunchy fish bites)

Narikel pitha (coconut pastry puffs)

Mishti aam (mango cake)

Part Eight

Brave New World

Ankulal firfir (spicy scrambled eggs)

Spris (mango and avocado smoothie)

Ranir mishti (pistachio and cardamom sponge with raspberry jam)

Aunty B’s coconut fish curry

Kathal kofta (jackfruit kofta curry)

Acknowledgements

This book is a love letter to my whole family: generations past, present, and future.

My deepest thanks goes to them:

My babies, AK and ZL. This book is especially for you, so that you may know our story and carry it with you with pride.

My husband, Avi, for being the embodiment of patience, support, and encouragement. And for learning to eat with his hands.

My parents, Selina Ullah and Ahsan Ullah, for building a home in which learning, growth, and conversation were always encouraged – and fuelled by the most delicious food. And for always believing that their children can.

My grandmother, Fatima Begum, who is my inspiration and the bravest person I have ever known.

My sisters – Shabnam Ahsan for providing the first comments and edits on this manuscript, for allowing me to cite her research for this book, and for brainstorming book titles along with Sabreen Ahsan. And to both, for letting me write about our childhood memories.

Amirul Khan, Safiyah Khan, Yusuf Khan, and Nahim Rahman, for the afternoons of cake and tea, and for always squashing up around the table to make room for us all.

Aneesa Parveen, Shahed Iqbal, Mahmuda (Runa) Iqbal, Rebecca Parveen, Nahid Iqbal, for allowing me to share their stories and recipes, and for all the delicious meals they have cooked for me over the years.

Those who are no longer with us, but are always remembered: Habib Ullah, Ahmed Iqbal Ullah, Shobuj Ullah, Ayesha Rahman, Rizwan Rahman, Ahmad Ullah, Ramjan Nessa.

And all the others who are not mentioned by name, but make up the unique, beautiful, complicated tapestry of our tribe.

I am also indebted to:

The friends who are like family – Aunty Azizun, Aunty Baqia, Aunty Manju, Aunty Mahroof, the Esoof ‘Chittagong’ family, Natalie Holden, Bhuran and Colin Weston, for their love and for letting me share their stories and recipes. And all the friends who I have cooked for, eaten with, and made memories with.

Those who took care of my mind, body, spirit, and family while I wrote this book.

Our Zimbabwean family: Locardia Mureru, Feathers Alberto, Vimbai Alberto, Aishling Mufaka.

Marc and the whole team at Cafe de Paris, Harare, who kept me supplied with flat whites and pastries for the duration of writing this book.

Ohemaa Nkansa-Dwamena whose wisdom, kindness, care and encouragement has meant so much to me over the years.

Those who helped bring this book to life:

The team at HarperNorth for championing and believing in this book, especially Megan Jones, Taslima Khatun, and Ben McConnell.

The Guild of Food Writers and the Society of Authors for their generous grants to support my work.

Those in the publishing world who generously offered their advice and expertise, especially Mark Richards and Pragya Agarwal. And all the inspiring, brilliant writers who so kindly endorsed this book – some of their names are on the cover.

My international network of incredible recipe testers: Priyanka Bose, Aaron Bram, Hila Bram, Natan Bram, Sara Bram, Carleigh Chadwick, Rebecca Cobby, Daniel Dittrick, Charlotte Fischer, Fi Ginley, Natalie Harney, Cathy Holman, Lauren Jacobs, Helen Kingstone, Caitlin Phillips, Nicola Radford, Jessica Saffer, Ciara Silke, and Aaron Vallance.

And finally, my thanks to you, dear reader. I hope you come to love these recipes and make them your own.

Book Credits

All photographs © Shahnaz Ahsan

Map Illustration © HarperCollins Publishers

would like to thank the following staff and contributors for their involvement in making this book a reality:

Fionnuala Barrett

Peter Borcsok

Sarah Burke

Alan Cracknell

Jonathan de Peyer

Anna Derkacz

Tom Dunstan

Kate Elton

Sarah Emsley

Simon Gerratt

Monica Green

Natassa Hadjinicolaou

Emma Hatlen

Jess Haycox

Jean-Marie Kelly

Taslima Khatun

Megan Jones

Rachel McCarron

Ben McConnell

Alice Murphy-Pyle

Genevieve Pegg

Natasha Photiou

Sarah Prior

Florence Shepherd

Bobbie Slade

Eleanor Slater

Hilary Stein

Jack Storey

Emma Sullivan

Katrina Troy

Daisy Watt

About the Publisher

Australia

HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.

Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

www.harpercollins.com.au

Canada

HarperCollins Canada

Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower

22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor

Toronto, Ontario, M5H 4E3

www.harpercollins.ca

India

HarperCollins India

A75, Sector 57

Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201 301, India

www.harpercollins.co.in

New Zealand

HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand

Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive

Rosedale 0632

Auckland, New Zealand

www.harpercollins.co.nz

United Kingdom

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF, UK

www.harpercollins.co.uk

United States

HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

195 Broadway

New York, NY 10007

www.harpercollins.com