Nuchi Nebu Nonka

The Dish That Reminds Me Who I Am

There are days when I want to cook something that tastes like honesty. Not sweetness, not comfort, not nostalgia—just the truth. The kind that clears your head (and your nose), makes you think through, and leaves an everlasting impression. On those days, I reach for mustard. I know for certain when I want both fire and softness; when I want something that wakes me up and holds me close in the same breath. And mustard, stubborn as it is, always reaches back.

Shorshe parshe is famous, infamous, adored, feared, and often misunderstood. It’s the culinary equivalent of someone whose perfume announces their presence before they step into the room—bold, unapologetic, but when you know them well enough, strangely comforting.

There is something grounding about bending over my shil nora – a thing so ordinary in most Bengali homes that we forget how sacred it is.  I take a mix of yellow and black mustard – like two sides of my personality that are always arguing – and scatter them over the stone. Then I start grinding. Slowly. Firmly. With that rhythm of hand and wrist that you don’t learn, you inherit. While I have mostly seen my mother use either the mixer grinder for making her shorshe bata, and more recently Sunrise shorshe powder, I still prefer the rolling sound of my Shil Nora. My childhood days in our ancestral home resonated with the noise of shil nora in the wee hours of the morning when Buri Pishi used to prepare the spices for the day. There’s a quietness that comes over me then—like the kind that comes during dusk, or after crying. Grinding mustard has that effect. It makes you listen to yourself. When the paste reaches that fine-ish, mellow texture I like, I strain it. I don’t enjoy the coarseness of mustard shells in my gravy; life gives me enough coarse edges, I don’t need them in my food. The leftover shells go to my plants – because even in my kitchen, nothing is ever entirely wasted.

Parshe is a tender fish – small, humble, somehow always comforting. I heat the oil till it smells like winter afternoons in old Kolkata – sharp, warm, unmistakably mustardy – then I slide the salt-smeared fish in. But not for long. The fish must be fried only to a medium state – the bengali version of a medium-rare steak. Not shallow fried, not crispy fried. Just kissed by the heat, firmed up enough to hold shape, soft enough to absorb story. I fry them and gently set them aside, like holding your breath before the final act.

Whatever oil remains in the kadhai carries the memories of the fish, and into that I add the strained mustard paste. It splutters like a secret escaping, and I let it. It hisses like it knows it home. A pinch of turmeric. Two slit green chillies. Turmeric for warmth, chillies for character. No hurry. Mustard doesn’t like rush. Neither do I, if I’m being honest. I let it simmer until oil separates – that tiny golden border that says its ready. I like the gravy thick and slightly runny – much like my emotions: always trying to hold shape, always on the verge of spilling and just about enough to be had with gorom bhaat. Salt goes in only when the gravy is 80% done. Mustard turns bitter if judged too soon—like a lot of us. So I wait. I let the flavours settle into themselves before I ask anything of them.

Once the gravy looks like it has something to say, I slide the fish back in. One after the other. They sit in the thick, warm mustard like they’ve come home after a long journey and finally found their place. A drizzle of raw mustard oil on top—because every Bengali dish needs that last note of defiance.

In the colder months, I sometimes sprinkle finely chopped coriander on top (not always, as I am one of those who find coriander taste like soap), along with the constant – a single slit green chilli.  Not because tradition says so, but because it looks like tiny hope scattered on mustard-yellow days. The green sits on the mustard-yellow like a small celebration, but honestly—shorshe parshe needs no applause. It stands tall on its own. It always has.

Serve warm, serve slowly, serve to people who understand the language of bold flavours and soft hearts. Because shorshe parshe is not merely cooked. It is revealed.