Nuchi Nebu Nonka

I didn’t grow up eating copious amounts of kumro shedhho.

In fact, in our house, it was almost a non-entity—a dish that existed only in theory, spoken of with mild disdain. “Kumro shedhho? Eto nishpran jinish keu khay?” my mother would say, half-laughing, half-genuinely confused why anyone would voluntarily eat something so bland. My father didn’t care for it either. The elders brushed past it as though it were too plain to even acknowledge. My mother still makes a face every time I mention Kumro sheddho for lunch. 

In a Bengali household rich with flavour—jhols, jhal, bhajas, torkaris bursting with life and spice—this quiet, mashed pumpkin never got a seat at the table. It was too simple, too colourless in personality, too unambitious. If it ever appeared at all, it was never the dish anyone remembered.

And perhaps because I never had much of it as a child, kumro shedhho entered my adulthood without any nostalgia dragging behind it. No inherited tenderness. No “Ma used to make it this way.” No memory softened by time. It came into my life quietly, almost by accident, the way some comforts do—unannounced, unglamorous, yet immediately grounding.

These days, my kitchen carries a very different energy from the one I grew up in. It’s my space now—my chaos, my solace, my battlefield, my sanctuary. Some mornings are ruthless: back-to-back calls, negotiations, decisions that need a sharper mind than I have at 9 AM. Some afternoons are tender: laundry humming, sunlight on the counter, my body reminding me I’ve been too hard on it. And evening? Well, evenings are their own kind of negotiation—between wanting rest and wanting to be productive, between showing up for others and showing up for myself. In this life—this constantly shifting life—I have grown into someone who seeks softness in the smallest of places. And kumro shedhho became one of them. I didn’t expect to love it.

But the first time I made it—alone, in my first kitchen of a rented apartment, no opinions hovering above me—I understood why my adult self craved it. The act of peeling the pumpkin itself is strangely calming, almost meditative. There is something grounding about cutting through that bright greeninsh-orange flesh, knowing it will soon soften into something malleable. I let it boil until it’s tender, until the house fills with that subtly sweet, warm smell that feels like a slow afternoon.

Then comes the mash—unhurried, gentle, rhythmic. It’s the kind of cooking that doesn’t require precision, just presence. A pinch of salt. A slit green chilli—always one, never two. And that final drizzle of raw mustard oil, sharp and assertive, cutting through the mush like a memory you didn’t know you had. You must be aware of a Bengali’s obsession with shorsher tel. 

What surprises me even now is how deeply it comforts me despite not being rooted in childhood. Perhaps that’s exactly why it comforts me. Every bite reminds me that I am allowed to create my own rituals. That I am allowed to craft my own version of home. That comfort doesn’t always need a past to be legitimate. Sometimes it can grow in the present, slowly, quietly, entirely on its own terms. On difficult days—days when I feel stretched thin, when responsibilities pile up, when adulthood feels like walking on shifting ground—I come back to kumro shedhho. Not because it’s nostalgic, but because it’s safe. Because it’s mine. It’s a small rebellion against a life that constantly asks me to be more—more capable, more efficient, more available, more resilient. In this one bowl, I allow myself to be less—to be soft, human, tired, hungry for something uncomplicated.

And maybe that’s the true magic of it. You must be wondering about the name ( I am sure not all of you but) – Kumropotash. I have stolen it from my all time favourite Sukumar Roy. I think my love for Roy’s work deserves a series of its own! Hopefully sometime soon.

A dish that was once dismissed as “bleh” has become the still point in my spinning world. A warm, mustard-scented reminder that I can create comfort whenever I need it. That I can build safety in the present, without waiting for memories to catch up. Kumro shedhho is not the taste of my childhood. It is the taste of my becoming.

A quiet, non-pretentious bowl that holds me steady as I navigate the storms, the successes, the stillness, and the tsunamis of my adult life.

A comfort crafted not by tradition or inheritance— but by choice, by need, and by me.