Setting: A charming Bengali kitchen with flickering fairy lights and the aroma of mustard oil in the air.
[Scene opens inside an old yet cozy Bengali kitchen. A golden-brown Fish Fry lies gracefully on a porcelain plate, steaming slightly. Enter: Kashundi, in a dainty glass jar with a feisty yellow glow.]
Fish Fry: (stretching slightly)
Ah, just out of the pan! That sizzle-pure poetry. I must say, I smell irresistible today.
Kashundi: (swirling dramatically inside the jar)
Oh, please, don’t flatter yourself. It’s the mustard oil. That aroma does all the heavy lifting-you’re just… breaded protein.
Fish Fry:
Oof! Straight to the bones, huh? You know, some people consider me the crown jewel of Bengali starters!
Kashundi:
Haha! And yet, without me, you would be a dry affair at best. I bring the punch, the zing, the jhal! Generations of Bengalis have paired me with you, and you still act like a lone ranger.
Fish Fry:
Touché, Kashu. I must admit, you complete me. Like Rabindra Sangeet on a monsoon evening
Kashundi: (blushing)
Now you’re just being poetic. That mustard crust of yours must be making you sentimental.
Fish Fry:
Only around you. (goes closer to the bottle) Remember our first date? North Kolkata, early 1910s. I was a young fillet in my first coat of breadcrumbs. You? Bold as ever, fresh from a Shil Nora (stone grinder).
Kashundi:
Ah yes! The bhadralok household, Durga Pujo evening. The madam of the house had just discovered a recipe from the British Club. You were her tribute to cutlets and chops.
Fish Fry:
And you-her grandmother’s secret recipe. Ground black mustard, yellow mustard, green chilies, raw mango, and a hint of garlic. You were fire… simply irresistible!
Kashundi: (smirking)
Still am. I’ve always been the rebel condiment. No patience for tomato ketchups or tandoori chutneys. Too sweet, too… predictable.
Fish Fry:
While I walk the fine line-half anglicized, half rooted. Born out of Bengal’s love for fish and British-style cutlets. I owe a lot to colonial confusion.
Kashundi:
So dramatic. But darling, confusion made us legendary. You got the crunch; I got the punch. Together, we’re the stuff of culinary legends.
Fish Fry: (playfully)
You think we’ll ever go out of style?
Kashundi:
Please. Bengali aunties hoard me in reused Horlicks jars. NRI Bengalis smuggle me abroad wrapped in socks. And you? You’re the first thing they order at Bhojohori Manna.
Fish Fry:
Or Oh! Calcutta. Or 6 Ballygunge Place. We’ve gone places, love.
Kashundi:
But never apart.
Fish Fry: (sincerely)
True. Even when people try pairing me with mayo-shudders, I wait. For you.
Kashundi: (softly)
And I, for you. You know, my ancestors date back to the Vedic era. Mustard seeds were crushed with ghee and offered in rituals. I was born with legacy in my veins.
Fish Fry:
And I, from humble fish-bhetki mostly-schooled in marination and golden breadcrumbs, fried to perfection. A street food star, a wedding hero.
Kashundi:
So dramatic again. But fine, I admit it-I might be bold and sharp, but without someone to temper me, I overwhelm. You balance me. Like shorshe in Ilish.
Fish Fry:
Like gondhoraj with daal. Or kosha mangsho with luchi.
Kashundi: (smiling)
Say it, you flirt.
Fish Fry:
I love you, Kashu. You are the jhal to my juicy crunch. The mustard to my madness.
Kashundi:
And you’re the only one I ever let dip into me, over and over again.
[Suddenly, footsteps echo. The kitchen door creaks open.]
Voice (offscreen):
“Ma! Where’s the Fish Fry? I kept it for Baba!”
Kashundi: (panicking)
Oh no. She’s back. She’ll devour you in seconds!
Fish Fry: (heroically)
Let her. If I must go, let it be in your embrace.
Kashundi: (tearing up mustardy tears)
I’ll be waiting. In her fingers, on her plate. Until we meet again.
Fish Fry:
Every bite will be our memory.
[Hand swoops in. Plate is lifted. A dollop of Kashundi is generously spooned beside the Fish Fry. Exit scene.]
[Voice fades with satisfied munching sounds.]
Kashundi (Voice-over):
They say mustard burns-but love, my dear, burns longer. I’ll be here, waiting for the next fillet with that same golden crust… and that same old charm.
[Fade out. The kitchen light flickers softly. Jar of Kashundi gleams under the moonlight.]
THE END
By Sampurna Majumdar
Sampurna Majumder is a communications professional born and raised in Kolkata. Fascinated by creativity from a young age, she has a deep love for music, literature, and world cinema. An avid reader and traveler, she holds a Master’s degree in Literature from the University of Delhi.
