When I used to live in Bombay and often visited a friend at his Opera House residence, I had to walk through a vegetable market of sorts. And I was always amazed at the variety and freshness of the vegetables available there.

I have been going to these markets since I was a child in Calcutta and was often sent to Lake Market with a shopping basket and a list. But the world of the bhindi (check the tips), the tomatoes, the aloos (look for the black spots), the pyaaz etc. is a distant memory now. Even the saagwaala who used to come on a bicycle to my house in Gagan Mahal is a leafy, colorful part of history.

Yes. Time has indeed passed and the digestive system has been subjected to several shades of appetite. Some I remember with a burp, and some I remember fondly with a taste I can still feel.

There is a Bengali vegetable called the Potol (parwal in Hindi) which is, to quote a friend ‘staple food for any bong’. And having lived for all my formative years in Calcutta one of my favourite dishes involved aloo (potatoes), potol and luchi (poori). Taught by my Bengali Landlord and his family, my mother had concocted this very jholie (thin gravy) dish and with hot pooris, the aloo-potol curry was a celebration.

So imagine my horror when we landed up in Hyderabad on transfer and Mom told us sadly that Hyderabad had not even heard of a vegetable called Potol.

I was shocked. Devastated. But soon came to terms with the loss as I began to sample the wares of Hyderabad…the biryani, the samosas, the lukmis, the haleem, the chai, the biscuits and so on.

Then one day, on a rare trip to Monda Market my mother found a treasure trove of Potol. Unable to bear the thought that she could be imagining things, she asked the vendor what these vegetables were. Parwal, said the vendor with the kind of disdain reserved for Kookka Godugu (Dog’s Umbrella) as Mushrooms are called in Telugu.

And he must have been surprised when my Mom picked up a lot of the offending vegetables and did not even bargain the price.

We were of course, dancing with joy. And over the years Mom not only made our favorite curry but also taught our cook the recipe.

The my Mom passed away and the cook became too old to work. And the potol became again, a crunch I yearned for.

Bengalis who have come to Hyderabad recently do not know the role people like us played in shaping this city for them. How people like my Mom and others must have labored…to convince some vegetable walla to stock exotic vegetables like Potol…

It is because of them that the fisheries chap knows a Bengali Cut and a whole generation of people know the delicacy of a Rossogolla. Not to mention the recent invasion of the city by Phuchkawallas who are giving a tough fight to panipuriwallas and the occasional golgappawalla.

From a time when a Bengali meal meant going to a friend’s house Hyderabad today has quite a few options when it comes to Bengali food…and poshto is part of the local lexicon now.

So it was but natural that my taste buds began to sing their yesteryears melody…Potol…

but the question was, who’ll cook it for me…without making a pulusu out of potol…and I was overwhelmed at the response my simple question evoked. As my friend Subhorup says…looks like my calendar is filled with potol meals for the next few months.

And what do I have to say to that?

Barkis is willing!!! What else…

and thank you Charles Dickens