Ma made mangsho. The meat was from the front leg and shoulder, cut expertly and cooked with minimum spices into a jhol, with long green chillies added just before the meat was taken off the flame, the peppery smell mingling with the aroma of the meat. I had it with hot, white rice, a couple of large green chillies, and a few slices of onion. Before putting my fingers into the rice, I segregated a segment, doused it with drops of Gawa Ghee, and sprinkled a tiny bit of salt on top. I then mashed a single, long, angry red chilli into it, and ate it, bite after bite, in a state of unholy bliss. The meat followed – I had picked off my favourite pieces – bits of meat which would have a layer of Pardah in between, and a piece from the liver, because offal rules my world. The tender potato melted into the warm rice, bonded with the oil which i had skimmed off from the top of the gravy, and added a touch of salt and body to the rice. The meat was left for the end – hunks of meat which held their shape until touched, then, fell apart at the first touch of my fingers.

Ma made mangsho.