From the corner of my eyes, I could see Deuta (my father) tiptoeing towards me. ‘Piku, Maa has already started. Let’s go!’ he whispered in my ears. I kept my book on my desk, and we sprinted towards the kitchen. I could smell a faint burning scent. Maa had sprinkled some rice flour over the stove as an offering to the Fire-God. ‘Look, this is how one should start the process—as a mark of respect,’ Deuta remarked, as we peeked into the kitchen. This was no ordinary prelude. She was preparing this season’s first batch of ‘Pitha’ (cake), a traditional delicacy favoured among the Assamese people during Magh Bihu. I waved to my father, signalling him that let us grab our seats at the galleria (the dining table) and watch her. He was excited because he knew he could taste it the sooner she made it. There are countless varieties of pitha, but the one she was preparing is my absolute favourite: a mixture of til (sesame seeds) and jaggery as a filling, wrapped in a rice coating. One could either shape it as a half-Moon or like shawarma over a hot tawa.
I glanced at Deuta and said, ‘can I try making it?’
‘This isn’t biryani. Uhuuuh,’ he waved his palm and left-swiped all my credibility.
‘Let’s have a bet. I’ll make just one and if it turns out anything close to being edible, what’d I get as a prize?’
‘Your life, maybe. Because I’m sure she wouldn’t spare you if you waste that rice powder.’
My father wasn’t this pessimistic. However, three years ago, he tried his hand in making a pitha, and he failed miserably. These days, whenever mother runs out of arguments, she would go back to that scene.
‘I won’t. At least give me a chance.’
I knew my father. I knew where it hits the most.
‘At least give me a chance to take this legacy forward,’ I said, placing my hand on my heart.
‘Achaaaa. Three rasgullas from Ashoka Sweets. OK?’
Ashoka Sweets serves the juiciest rasgulla in the town. So if you are drifting through Lachit Nagar, this isn’t something you can afford to miss.
‘Done, re.’ I hugged him because it was he who had to convince my mother to allow me to make one.
Maa is very jovial when she cooks food. But she frowns when she makes pitha—a sign that simply means Do Not Disturb! There is a reason for this. If the powdered rice, soaked a night ago, loses its stickiness, the pitha would simply break like a sandcastle. A couple of years back, when this happened, my mother was completely distraught. She thinks the honour of this house, at least during Bihu, lies in the fine contours of these pithas. That year was the only time when we bought it from the market and served it to our guests. Since then, the ultimatum from her side is loud and clear: ‘Don’t bring old rice!’ Well, neither of us—Deuta and myself—are rice experts. But every year we try our best to reason with shopkeepers, or even a trip to the countryside to fetch the best variety of rice possible.
Finally, I got a go-ahead from Maa that I could be a part of this traditional preparation—but only on one condition. I wasn’t allowed to prepare any pitha from the available grounded rice; I had to do it from scratch. It was a sort of challenge that I rarely deny. What did I have to lose? Three rasgullas? Big deal, though. But if I could make one, my mother will immortalize me in every conversation she would choose to take part in, post-Bihu.
For the start, I took exactly 160g of Bora-saul. This is a variety of rice known for its stickiness. The more sticky, the better it binds. After washing it, I left the rice to soak overnight. The next day, I spread out the rice on a clean cotton cloth. Next, I took a handful of sesame seeds, washed and sun-dried already, warmed it over a tawa, and ground it in a mixture-grinder.
If my mind was a treadmill, ‘Am I doing it right?’ was the one running on it.
I then put the dried rice into our ancient iron mortar and pestle. This one was custom-made by my grandfather in the 1940s. The pestle was so heavy, every time I lifted it I would miss a couple of my heartbeats. After pounding the rice mound for an hour, which included a few calls from the petrified neighbour downstairs, I finally transferred the flour into a sieve. Once the larger granules were separated from the fine powder, I moved the latter into a utensil, pressed, and covered it with a wet cloth.
This was a crucial process, and yours truly messed up where he shouldn’t have. The pressing had to be even so that the sides had no visible gap where air could seep inside the grounded powder. In my case, there were gaps.
For the filling mixture, I put a proportionate amount of jaggery into the grounded sesame seeds. With a spoon, it was then mixed properly to a paste. Next, I put the tawa on the stove and let it warm up. One way you could be sure if the tawa was hot enough was by sprinkling some rice flour on it. If it’s hot, the powder would pop.
Roll up your sleeves, because this is where the magic happens. Maa had been doing this show since eternity; it’s my turn now.
With a deep breath, I took a handful of rice flour and evenly dispersed it over the tawa. Without pausing, I took a spoonful of the filling and place it in the centre. With the knife, I rolled one layer over another and let it remain in the heat. Once the pitha hardened, I moved it to the edge of tawa to avoid burning it. That was it. A long day’s hard work ended in a minute climax. Although the pithas I made looked more like cracked skin, I’m proud that I even tried making something like this—thanks to my parents.
There is an exquisite word in Assamese: Mosmosiya. The closest word in English would be crisp—but not exactly. To actually spell the word, you would need to bite a pitha right after you take it off from the stove. The soft coating has a certain warmness to it. And when your teeth would dig into the filling, as the crust crumbles and litters all over your lap, a certain word would leave your mouth: Ufff! Mosmosiya.