“Aar?” The follow-up question was tinged with shock and disdain.
“Bhaat,” I would say, and then add, somewhat defensively, “raita aar achar o chilo”. (“Not just rice and rajma, there was raita and pickle as well.)
“Robbar din e bari te deke ontoto deem er dalna to dite parto. (“They invited you home, on a Sunday at that… they should have given you egg curry at least.”)
“Egg curry at least” is a refrain across homes in East India. Like the humble and ubiquitous potato, it has been the staple of our homes and diets, of our culture, memories and the small things that make up childhoods. And our Biryani. A boiled egg (and/or potato), mashed into rice, with a bit of mustard oil or ghee remains for us the simplest and most delightful of delicacies.
When guests arrive unannounced, or when the cha-ta and adda spill over into dinner and drinks, the egg curry comes to the rescue and completes the table — humbly, without the pretentiousness and fanfare of a nemontonno (literally, “invitation”, but the word expands to mean the fare served to those invited). Long before I knew of politics, I knew of “emergency curry”, which was whipped up so often at our home at an hour’s notice.
Then there are the specialist variations, and the greatest Michelin-Star chef has nothing on Dida when it comes to omelette au curry or a well-made deem er devil. In fact, it’s not chicken eggs alone that are consumed, and many an urban, probashi, deracinated Bengali has been told of the unparalleled flavour of haash er deem (duck eggs).
We did not know about protein intakes, and the value of eggs for our growing bodies as we grew to love that simplest of ingredients that straddles the line between the oh-so-Indian categories of “pure veg” and “non-veg”. The recently elected Suvendu Adhikari government in West Bengal, though, doesn’t have that excuse. And that’s only part of the reason that the move to remove eggs from mid-day meals for children in government schools came as a surprise – though, after some backlash, funds may be provided for schools that choose to, to purchase eggs.
In fact, like me, Dida, and so many others, the good people who form the state ministry likely enjoyed many a roadside omelette, a comforting egg curry at home and perhaps even a boiled egg with chopped onions and green chillies, which is the perfect accompaniment to an evening drink.
As the West Bengal government chooses to cease serving eggs from the state’s midday meal, perhaps a story about my deceased grandmother’s long-deceased maternal uncle can provide food for thought.
In the mid 1950s, Dida was young, and India was younger. She was studying in Calcutta, her “intermediate” or higher secondary education, and lived in a girls’ hostel. When she met him on a weekend, her Boro Mama asked her that all-too-familiar question: “Ki khele?” It turned out that the hostel mess had served egg curry, and the ration for each ward was a mere half-egg. Boro Mama was, to say the least, unimpressed. Just half an egg for growing girls? A travesty.
The next weekend, a man arrived at the hostel, carrying a large jhuri, or basket with about 80 eggs. Two each, for 40 girls, and a note instructing the warden to ensure that everyone got their fair share.
Dida always narrated that incident with pride, her uncle always the knight in shining armour. Soon after, she stopped studying and was married at an age most of us would now consider late adolescence. Her life was not an easy one. But she could always think back to that time, when someone put her and her compatriots first.
A middle-class Bengali man did for his niece what a government does not want to do for the children under its care.
P.S. — Dida enjoyed, and I still do, a hearty plate of rajma-chawal. Just not for guests on a Sunday lunch.
The writer is deputy associate editor, The Indian Express. aakash.joshi@expressindia.com
When guests arrive unannounced, or when the cha-ta and adda spill over into dinner and drinks, the egg curry comes to the rescue and completes the table. 
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