I have been cooking a lot of Bengali food of late, shaping British produce into familiar forms that remind me of home. I have dunked summer courgettes in milk and spices, cooked aubergines with mustard and yoghurt, and braised chunks of tender spring lamb to make a gorgeous kosha mangsho. Every time, the kitchen has filled up with the smells of home, stirring up memories of a land five thousand miles away.

Smell is often looked down upon as the basest of our five senses. It is, after all, processed by one of the oldest parts of our brain from an evolutionary perspective, and while many “lesser” beings still rely on it immensely as they go about their lives; we humans, far more evolved and refined, rely on our nuanced vision and pre-frontal traits of intelligence and empathy, qualities that set us apart, even elevate us, some might say. But smell can evoke memories and stir up our emotions like few things can. 

Think of how deeply smells can impact our emotions. The smell of the wet earth after the first showers that brings relief from a scorching summer. The crisp smell of a book freshly plucked from the shelf of your favourite bookstore. The cologne donned by your favourite person. “I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,/ Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, /But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet/ Wherewith the seasonable month endows”, says Keats in his Ode to a Nightingale, before going on to list a number of flowers whose fragrances intermingle into a heady summertime potpourri that tantalises the poet in the dark of the night.

But the sense of smell is at its most intense, closest to the heart, when it emanates from the kitchens of our childhood. The smells which emanate from a Bengali kitchen are a delicious mix of aromas that can get your heart racing. The sinus-clearing heat of mustard oil as it shimmers in a pan like the surface of an enchanted golden lake. the subtle warmth of ginger and radhuni (wild celery seed) that heralds the creation of a milky, slightly bitter shukto. The brown butter-esque nuttiness of ghee as it languidly disappears into a steaming mound of rice. Every kitchen has its own smells, each encapsulating a wealth of positive emotions and sweet memories.

While it is tempting to romanticize cooking, it is worth reminding ourselves every now and then that its end-result, food, sits somewhere at the bottom of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, that iconic pyramid and reaches higher and higher to that elusive state of self-actualization, which feels like an eternity away when you have only recently moved into a different country. The first piece from Robert Schumann’s iconic “Scenes from Childhood”, titled “Of Foreign Lands and Strange People” has played a lot in my head since I moved, a gentle lilting melody in the right hand of the piano offset with slightly dissonant chords that perfectly capture the juxtaposition of comfort and unfamiliarity.

 

One of the things that people complain about when moving to or even visiting a new country, is the food. “So, how are you liking the food here?” is one of the inevitable follow-ups to “how are you settling in?” in the “small-talk for people who have moved abroad” starter pack. The French complain about how flimsy the British white loaves are, while Brits look down upon the French baguette as an elongated rock with an impenetrable crust. Food from different parts of India is perceived as “too spicy”, the fermented delicacies of the Far East as “too funky”, while the overload of sugar in some savoury dishes of Bengal could feel almost dessert-like to those who haven’t grown up with it.

But it is the smells which really highlight the differences, be it the caramelised porkiness of bacon sizzling in a pan, heady aroma of ginger, garlic and green chillies as they hit hot oil, the tempting lure of rosewater and orange blossom that hearkens back to Keats and the nightingale all over again. The stronger the smell, the more polarising it will be: the irresistible funk of a good Roquefort, or the briny bite of bacalhau (salt cod). It is also often the simple dishes which are most fondly reminisced, be it the sambar and rice which my colleagues from Bangalore consume with relish, or the pasta with zucchini and Provolone cheese which a friend of mine claims is his favourite.

Which is why cooking Bengali food at home feels special, almost grounding. The moment the panch phoron (a Bengali mix of five whole seeds namely cumin, nigella, fennel, fenugreek and wild celery) hits the mustard oil, the kitchen gets imbued with the flavour of home five thousand miles away. There’s the mix of ginger, cumin and turmeric that accents Bengali vegetarian dishes, the yin-yang of mustard and yoghurt, the sharp bite of raw mango sprinkled with black salt and red chilli. I could go on. While the exact components change, the appeal of foods that you have eaten growing up is universal. 

The smells and tastes of your childhood open up a portal like nothing else can. Music comes close, very close indeed, but the primal nature of smell and taste makes them also the most emotionally acute. I have seen people swoon when they eat food that reminds them home. I have also seen a twinge of disappointment when people go to try their own cuisine in a restaurant away from home. While it may be delicious, especially to someone trying it for the first time, it fails to tick a certain inexplicable box in the heads of people who have grown up with it.

And the box of experiences grows with time. My time spent in different parts of India over the years has widened my palate. I fondly remember the late night dhaba visits in the dead of winter with friends, the butter-drenched parathas warming our bodies as well as our souls. I remember the crunch of the vadas, the pillowy softness and gentle tang of the idlis I had almost every day when I was in Bangalore. And I am accruing new flavour memories now in London : the comforting hug of an apple crumble in the dead of winter for example, the soft apple laced with a whisper of cinnamon, and the crunchy, toasty topping laden with chopped nuts, brought together by a cool, velvety vanilla custard. It is a glorious, never-ending journey.

Although it may be nestled at the bottom of Maslow’s pyramid, food is paradoxical in the way it can reach far beyond its role of satisfying our hunger. While filling our stomachs, food from our childhood inexorably creeps up the rungs of the ladder and reaches higher levels. It generates a feeling of safety, makes you feel at home even in a foreign land, and connects you with memories of loved ones. And before you know it, it has taken you to the summit, the hearty dinner on your plate providing what could almost be called a sense of identity. You proudly describe the intricacies of your cuisine to people, even introduce them to it. Your eyes light up as you see them relish it with glee.

And that is why I have been cooking a lot of Bengali food of late, shaping British produce into familiar forms that remind me of home. And it has further bolstered an opinion I have held on to for years now: food is so much more than mere sustenance. Like the Tardis, it can transport you to a different time and place, remind you of people and events you haven’t thought of in a very long time.