Rituparna Ghosh
Chapter 1: The Sweetest Soil
The story of Bengal’s mishti begins not in a city sweet shop or royal palace, but in the soft, fertile fields where rice and sugarcane sway under a golden sun. Here, in the flat floodplains of the Ganges delta, nature gifted Bengal with everything needed to create sweetness—abundant water, rich soil, and a climate generous enough to grow grains, fruits, and palms. And so, long before the arrival of refined sugar or dairy-based sweets, Bengal already knew the art of celebrating with what it had: jaggery, coconut, and milk.
In ancient Bengal, sweetness was not just a taste—it was a language. The preparation of sweets often coincided with harvests, seasons, and the cycles of life. During Poush Parbon, when the winter rice crop (nolen chaal) was harvested, households prepared a dazzling array of pithe: soft dumplings filled with coconut and jaggery, steamed in banana leaves or fried in mustard oil. In every village home, women gathered around the fire, their hands shaping the future into sweet forms—patishapta, dudh puli, chitai, each with a story of its own. This wasn’t merely cooking. It was ritual, rhythm, and remembrance passed down through grandmothers’ fingers.
The sweet offerings were not limited to homes. Temples played a vital role in shaping Bengal’s early mishti culture. Payesh, a rice pudding made with milk and jaggery, was and still is offered to deities on birthdays, especially during annaprashan, a child’s first feeding of rice. The act of sweetening food was sacred—meant to express gratitude, devotion, and the wish for good fortune. Sweetness, in this context, was a blessing from the gods, to be shared and passed along.
Interestingly, these early sweets had no chhana (curdled milk) in them. In fact, curdling milk was considered impure by orthodox Brahmins. The idea of using spoiled milk in a holy offering was unthinkable. Thus, Bengal’s earliest sweets were almost entirely based on rice, coconut, date palm jaggery, and the seasonal bounty of nature. Gur, especially notun gur made from khejur (date palm sap), was the crown jewel of Bengal’s sweetening agents—aromatic, golden-brown, and deeply nostalgic.
Each village had its signature mishti, shaped by its crops and customs. In the Sundarbans, where coconut was abundant, sweets leaned heavily on coconut and molasses. In the western districts, where date palms flourished, jaggery took center stage. Women used simple tools—grinding stones, clay ovens, bamboo steamers—but their creativity knew no limits. The sweets they created were ephemeral, meant to be eaten fresh and remembered until the next season. Unlike the polished perfection of modern sweets, these were rustic, heartfelt, and personal—flavored with care and community.
What made Bengal’s relationship with sweets truly unique was its intimacy with time. Every sweet had a season. Nolen gur came only in winter. Mango-infused sweets appeared in early summer. Even today, ask a Bengali when to eat sandesh, and you might hear, “Wait till the heat drops a little.” This deep awareness of rhythm—of matching food to mood, season to sentiment—is part of why mishti is more than food in Bengal. It is calendar and compass, an edible way of marking time.
Beyond ingredients and methods, sweets in Bengal also carried emotional meaning. A mother would send sweets when her daughter visited her in-laws. A student returned from college with a box of sweets for the family. During exams, mishti doi symbolized both reward and luck. And when someone passed away, neighbors brought sweets as consolation—as if to say, even in grief, life must go on with some sweetness.
In literature too, early Bengali poetry and folk songs brimmed with references to sweets. Vaishnava padabali, which sang of divine love, often described Krishna’s longing for sweets made by his devotees. Folk ballads from Mymensingh or Birbhum compared the sweetness of love or heartbreak to that of molasses. These weren’t mere metaphors. They reflected a world where mishti was the very measure of joy and loss.
As centuries passed, Bengal’s sweets evolved, but this earthy, seasonal, soulful foundation remained unchanged. Even today, a trip to a modern Kolkata mishti dokan (sweet shop) during Poush Sankranti will show glass shelves filled with pithe-inspired innovations. And if you ask any sweet-maker, they will tell you: the soul of Bengali sweets still lives in the soil—from the gur tapped at dawn, to the rice milled in quiet courtyards, to the hands that remember how their mothers made it, and their grandmothers before them.
The sweet story of Bengal begins with the earth. Everything else came later.
Chapter 2: Milk and Magic: The Birth of Chhana
In the long, fragrant corridor of Bengal’s mishti history, there is a doorway that changed everything—the moment when milk was broken, and sweetness was reborn. That doorway is chhana: the humble, soft, grainy curds of cow’s milk that now form the base of most Bengali sweets. But the journey to this transformation was neither quick nor easy. In fact, it was once taboo.
Before the 18th century, the curdling of milk was seen as pollution in Hindu orthodox circles. Milk, considered pure and sattvic, was sacred in both religious rituals and daily diet. To deliberately “spoil” it was considered a violation of custom. Temple kitchens and Brahmin households steered clear of anything involving lemon juice or vinegar. As a result, most early sweets were made from whole milk (kheer) or from non-dairy ingredients like jaggery, coconut, and rice.
Then came the Portuguese.
By the 16th century, Portuguese settlers had arrived on the eastern shores of India, establishing trading posts in places like Chittagong and Bandel. With them came cheese-making techniques—most importantly, the idea that curdled milk wasn’t bad. It was transformation. It was potential.
Local cooks, observing the soft farmer cheeses made by Portuguese households, began experimenting. Lemon juice, tamarind pulp, even sour whey—these were used to split the milk. The resulting curds were drained in muslin cloth, pressed under stones, and eventually shaped. This was chhana, soft and delicate, yet rich with flavor.
But it didn’t take off right away.
For many years, chhana remained outside the orthodox kitchens. It was cooked in private homes, especially in Portuguese-influenced towns like Bandel and Serampore, or in Muslim homes where dietary taboos were more flexible. Early sweets made from chhana were often coarse, crumbling, and inconsistent. The science of binding chhana into smooth, moist, spongy forms was still undeveloped.
The transformation came in the 19th century, with the rise of Bengal’s urban bhadralok culture. As cities like Calcutta grew into cosmopolitan centers, attitudes relaxed. The British, the Portuguese, the Armenians—all brought not only trade, but curiosity. Bengali sweet-makers, always innovative, began to adapt chhana into sweets that were new, delicate, and exciting.
Around this time, a few daring pioneers began experimenting with chhana as a serious base for sweets. Their names would later become legendary.
One of the earliest mentions of chhana being used successfully is in the story of Bhim Chandra Nag, whose sweet shop in Bowbazar became a destination for the finest sandesh. Bhim Nag’s experiments with dry chhana, kneaded and sweetened with sugar, led to the birth of kora pak sandesh—a dry, moldable sweet with incredible shelf life. Later, his descendants developed norom pak, the soft and moist version that melts in the mouth.
But perhaps the most dramatic moment in chhana history came with a man named Nobin Chandra Das, who would later be known as the Columbus of Rasogolla.
In his tiny workshop in Bagbazar, Nobin Chandra was determined to make something no one had before—a spongy, syrup-soaked ball made entirely from chhana. After many failed attempts (where the balls would disintegrate or turn rubbery), he perfected the science of balancing acidity, kneading pressure, and cooking temperature. The result was the iconic rasogolla—a sweet so soft and buoyant, it could float in syrup and yet hold its shape.
None of this would have been possible without chhana.
What makes Bengali chhana so unique is its moisture and texture. Unlike paneer, which is pressed and firm, chhana retains a soft, grainy structure. It is kneaded by hand, often for hours, to bring out its elasticity. Every sweet-maker has their own “secret” kneading technique—some use heels of their palms, others press in rhythmic circular motion. The goal is not just smoothness, but a certain pliability, like soft dough that responds to pressure but doesn’t break.
Chhana also reflects the regional diversity of Bengal. In Nadia and Murshidabad, where the milk is extra rich, the chhana yields dense sweets like chomchom and pantua. In Kolkata, lighter chhana is used for fluffy rasogollas. Across the border, in Bangladesh, variations of chhana led to sweets like kacha golla, where minimal cooking preserves its original form.
By the late 19th century, chhana was no longer a backdoor experiment. It was center stage.
Kolkata’s sweet shops boomed with chhana-based innovations—rasomalai, malai chomchom, sandesh in a hundred flavors. Elite Bengali households proudly served these sweets to British guests. Chhana had crossed not only culinary boundaries but social and spiritual ones. Even temples began accepting it—an unthinkable change just a century earlier.
And yet, despite all the science, there remains something mystical about chhana. Sweet-makers often describe it as a living thing—sensitive to humidity, heat, and mood. Some say it behaves differently depending on who touches it. This belief is not superstition; it is experience honed over generations. For Bengali mishti is not mass-produced—it is handcrafted emotion.
Today, chhana continues to evolve. It’s being whipped into soufflés, layered in fusion cakes, and molded into edible art. But the core remains unchanged: the magic of breaking milk and finding sweetness in what was once called spoiled.
In chhana, Bengal discovered not just an ingredient—but transformation. From taboo to tradition, from waste to wonder, from Portuguese kitchens to temple thalis, this soft white curd became the beating heart of Bengal’s sweetest creations.
Chapter 3: Sweets of the Nawabs and Maharajas
In the world of Bengali sweets, where village traditions and sacred rituals gave birth to pithe and payesh, there also existed another universe—a world of silk curtains, carved marble trays, and royal indulgence. This was the world of zamindars, nawabs, and maharajas, where mishti wasn’t just food. It was power, status, and artistry.
During the Mughal period, especially in Murshidabad, which was once the capital of Bengal Subah, the relationship between luxury and food flourished. Influenced by Persian and Central Asian culture, the royal courts embraced the idea that food could be ornamental. If pulao could be cooked with saffron and gold leaf, why not sweets with rose essence and silver foil?
The Nawabs of Bengal had a penchant for rich, aromatic desserts—and while many of their dishes were milk-based kheers and firnis, local Bengali cooks began to adapt these royal flavors into native sweets. One famous tale speaks of the Rosogolla being offered in ornate silver bowls at Nawabi functions to guests and courtiers, although it wouldn’t be perfected until the 19th century. What the nawabs truly elevated were kheer-based and chhana-rich delicacies that blended Mughal decadence with Bengali soul.
Beyond Murshidabad, in the princely estates of Krishnanagar, Burdwan, and Cossimbazar, the zamindars were in constant cultural competition. They didn’t just build palaces—they built kitchens that became laboratories for innovation. It was in Shaktigarh that the long, deep-fried and syrup-soaked sweet known as langcha was born—reportedly to impress a visiting dignitary. And in Burdwan, the invention of sitabhog and mihidana was directly linked to a royal order from the Maharaja, who wanted to offer Queen Victoria something unique when her son Prince Albert Edward visited India in 1876.
Sitabhog, which looks deceptively like rice and noodles, is actually a sweet made of fine rice flour and chhana, flavored with camphor and ghee. Mihidana, on the other hand, is a saffron-colored sweet that resembles miniature boondi. Together, they represented Bengal’s finest fusion of culinary imagination and royal opulence. The Maharaja of Burdwan was so proud of them that he had them served at every state banquet.
Royal kitchens were often manned by teams of chefs from various regions—Oriya, Mughlai, Bengali, even European. This exchange created a melting pot of flavors. For instance, some sandesh variations in zamindar households carried nutmeg, rose petals, and even sandalwood essence, inspired by Persian tastes. The sweets were shaped like shells, lotus buds, conch shells, and mangoes, often adorned with varak (silver leaf). Presentation was as important as taste.
The art of shilpo mishti, or artistic sweets, also took form here. In elite Bengali households during the Durga Puja season, sweet-makers were commissioned to create elaborate sandesh sculptures—Durga idols, swans, temples, palanquins—all made entirely out of chhana. These weren’t just edible; they were meant to be admired, a confluence of sculpture, devotion, and confectionery.
The competition among royal families to outdo each other through sweets was intense. The Maharaja of Krishnanagar once famously held a contest to design a new sweet for the royal wedding, leading to the creation of a saffron-tinged malai chomchom that still bears his crest in some local shops. Such contests weren’t rare. They encouraged creativity and led to countless variations—some still sold today, others lost in time.
During the British Raj, sweets also became a symbol of diplomatic finesse. Bengali elites would host lavish feasts for British officials, and sweets served at the end were both a culinary offering and a cultural assertion. It was a way of saying: “We may wear your coats, but we own our tastes.” Often, sweet-makers were instructed to combine Indian flavors with European styles. Thus emerged pudding-like sweets, baked doi, and flavored custards with chhana base—all early signs of Bengal’s future in fusion desserts.
But what truly set the zamindari sweets apart wasn’t just invention—it was patronage. The finest mishti-makers of Bengal weren’t random street vendors. They were court artisans, often given titles like “Moirar Raja” (King of Sweetmakers). Some families trace their sweet-making lineage back to these royal kitchens. To be appointed as the family’s mishti-karta was a badge of honor, often passed from father to son.
With the abolition of the zamindari system in the 1950s, many of these royal kitchens disbanded. Some of the mishti-makers opened shops in cities, bringing their royal recipes to the public. Others faded into obscurity, taking their secrets with them. But traces of that royal past still linger in the names and legends of Bengal’s sweets.
Today, when you step into an old sweet shop and see a tray of mihidana sparkling under the glass, or taste a soft, white rasogolla so delicate it trembles with each spoonful—you are, in a way, tasting the echo of that royal age.
For the Nawabs and Maharajas of Bengal, sweets were more than indulgence. They were legacy. And in every grain of sugar that melts on the tongue, that legacy still lives on.
In the world of Bengali sweets, where village traditions and sacred rituals gave birth to pithe and payesh, there also existed another universe—a world of silk curtains, carved marble trays, and royal indulgence. This was the world of zamindars, nawabs, and maharajas, where mishti wasn’t just food. It was power, status, and artistry.
During the Mughal period, especially in Murshidabad, which was once the capital of Bengal Subah, the relationship between luxury and food flourished. Influenced by Persian and Central Asian culture, the royal courts embraced the idea that food could be ornamental. If pulao could be cooked with saffron and gold leaf, why not sweets with rose essence and silver foil?
The Nawabs of Bengal had a penchant for rich, aromatic desserts—and while many of their dishes were milk-based kheers and firnis, local Bengali cooks began to adapt these royal flavors into native sweets. One famous tale speaks of the Rosogolla being offered in ornate silver bowls at Nawabi functions to guests and courtiers, although it wouldn’t be perfected until the 19th century. What the nawabs truly elevated were kheer-based and chhana-rich delicacies that blended Mughal decadence with Bengali soul.
Beyond Murshidabad, in the princely estates of Krishnanagar, Burdwan, and Cossimbazar, the zamindars were in constant cultural competition. They didn’t just build palaces—they built kitchens that became laboratories for innovation. It was in Shaktigarh that the long, deep-fried and syrup-soaked sweet known as langcha was born—reportedly to impress a visiting dignitary. And in Burdwan, the invention of sitabhog and mihidana was directly linked to a royal order from the Maharaja, who wanted to offer Queen Victoria something unique when her son Prince Albert Edward visited India in 1876.
Sitabhog, which looks deceptively like rice and noodles, is actually a sweet made of fine rice flour and chhana, flavored with camphor and ghee. Mihidana, on the other hand, is a saffron-colored sweet that resembles miniature boondi. Together, they represented Bengal’s finest fusion of culinary imagination and royal opulence. The Maharaja of Burdwan was so proud of them that he had them served at every state banquet.
Royal kitchens were often manned by teams of chefs from various regions—Oriya, Mughlai, Bengali, even European. This exchange created a melting pot of flavors. For instance, some sandesh variations in zamindar households carried nutmeg, rose petals, and even sandalwood essence, inspired by Persian tastes. The sweets were shaped like shells, lotus buds, conch shells, and mangoes, often adorned with varak (silver leaf). Presentation was as important as taste.
The art of shilpo mishti, or artistic sweets, also took form here. In elite Bengali households during the Durga Puja season, sweet-makers were commissioned to create elaborate sandesh sculptures—Durga idols, swans, temples, palanquins—all made entirely out of chhana. These weren’t just edible; they were meant to be admired, a confluence of sculpture, devotion, and confectionery.
The competition among royal families to outdo each other through sweets was intense. The Maharaja of Krishnanagar once famously held a contest to design a new sweet for the royal wedding, leading to the creation of a saffron-tinged malai chomchom that still bears his crest in some local shops. Such contests weren’t rare. They encouraged creativity and led to countless variations—some still sold today, others lost in time.
During the British Raj, sweets also became a symbol of diplomatic finesse. Bengali elites would host lavish feasts for British officials, and sweets served at the end were both a culinary offering and a cultural assertion. It was a way of saying: “We may wear your coats, but we own our tastes.” Often, sweet-makers were instructed to combine Indian flavors with European styles. Thus emerged pudding-like sweets, baked doi, and flavored custards with chhana base—all early signs of Bengal’s future in fusion desserts.
But what truly set the zamindari sweets apart wasn’t just invention—it was patronage. The finest mishti-makers of Bengal weren’t random street vendors. They were court artisans, often given titles like “Moirar Raja” (King of Sweetmakers). Some families trace their sweet-making lineage back to these royal kitchens. To be appointed as the family’s mishti-karta was a badge of honor, often passed from father to son.
With the abolition of the zamindari system in the 1950s, many of these royal kitchens disbanded. Some of the mishti-makers opened shops in cities, bringing their royal recipes to the public. Others faded into obscurity, taking their secrets with them. But traces of that royal past still linger in the names and legends of Bengal’s sweets.
Today, when you step into an old sweet shop and see a tray of mihidana sparkling under the glass, or taste a soft, white rasogolla so delicate it trembles with each spoonful—you are, in a way, tasting the echo of that royal age.
For the Nawabs and Maharajas of Bengal, sweets were more than indulgence. They were legacy. And in every grain of sugar that melts on the tongue, that legacy still lives on.
Chapter 4: The Rasogolla Revolution
In the vast landscape of Bengali mishti, few names shine as brightly as rasogolla. Soft, spongy, and soaked in syrup, it is more than a dessert—it is a symbol. Of invention. Of identity. Of pride. And of a culinary revolution that changed not just Bengal’s sweet culture, but the very idea of what Indian dessert could be.
The story begins in Bagbazar, Kolkata, in the small sweet shop of a man named Nobin Chandra Das. It was the late 1860s, and sweet-makers across Bengal were already experimenting with chhana-based recipes. But one major problem remained: chhana couldn’t hold shape in syrup. No matter how carefully they boiled the curds, the balls either crumbled or turned rubbery. Nobin Chandra, however, was not one to give up.
He was young, bold, and obsessed. Every day, he would knead chhana, shape it into balls, and drop them into boiling sugar syrup—only to watch them dissolve. For most sweet-makers, that would be the end. But for Nobin, it was the beginning. He began to experiment with acidity levels, kneading pressure, and the temperature of the syrup. He wanted to create something that was airy, juicy, yet firm. After countless failures, one day in 1868, the miracle happened.
A ball of chhana held its shape. It swelled into a smooth white orb, absorbed the syrup without collapsing, and remained light as a cloud. When tasted, it was soft, sweet, and irresistible.
The rasogolla was born.
It didn’t become a sensation overnight. At first, people were skeptical. This wasn’t like sandesh or chomchom. It was new. Wet. Round. Radical. But soon, the word spread. Nobin Chandra began selling it at fairs, most famously at the Kolkata Barowari Pujos, where people lined up to taste what they described as “a sweet that burst in the mouth like rain on parched land.” And just like that, the revolution took root.
The rasogolla did not remain confined to Nobin’s shop. His son, Krishna Chandra Das (K.C. Das), was as much a visionary as his father. A man of science and marketing instinct, K.C. Das introduced tinned rasogollas in the early 20th century, using technology to preserve them for months without refrigeration. For the first time, Bengalis living in distant lands—from London to Rangoon—could taste a bit of home. This was a historic shift. Bengali mishti, once fleeting and perishable, now traveled the world.
But the journey of rasogolla was not without conflict.
In 2017, the sweet became the center of a heated GI (Geographical Indication) dispute between West Bengal and Odisha. Odisha claimed the sweet originated in their temples centuries ago as “Khira Mohana,” offered as part of Jagannath Temple rituals. West Bengal countered with the historical account of Nobin Chandra’s invention. The debate lit up social media, with sweet-lovers from both states passionately defending their version of truth.
Eventually, West Bengal was granted the GI tag for “Banglar Rasogolla”—specifically recognizing the Kolkata-style spongy, syrupy version invented in the 19th century. Odisha later received a GI for its own distinct version—denser, less sweet, and often part of temple bhog.
What this debate proved, however, was something deeper: rasogolla had become cultural heritage. Not just a dessert, but a symbol of regional pride, history, and emotion.
But beyond the headlines, the rasogolla’s charm lies in its universal simplicity. It contains just milk, water, sugar, and air—yet when made well, it tastes like a cloud kissed by sugar. The making of rasogolla is also an art form. The chhana must be kneaded neither too little nor too much—just enough to create elasticity. The syrup must be thin but consistent, boiling at a specific stage so that the balls swell without hardening. The sweet-maker must have patience, precision, and intuition—much like a musician or a potter.
Across Bengal, sweet shops today still guard their rasogolla recipes like family heirlooms. Some use rose water, some cardamom. Some add a touch of lime. Some use cow milk only, others mix in buffalo milk for a firmer bite. In every corner of the state—from Shyambazar to Shantipur, from Siliguri to Sodepur—you will find rasogolla in some form, proudly displayed, glistening under glass counters.
There are regional variants too. Rajbhog, a bigger, stuffed version with dry fruits and khoya. Kamala bhog, infused with orange flavor. Rasmalai, where rasogollas are flattened and soaked in saffron milk. And then, of course, the now-trendy baked rasogolla, reinvented for the Instagram generation.
But perhaps the most beautiful aspect of rasogolla is its democracy. Unlike many elite sweets, it was born in a small shop, not a palace. It spread through pujo pandals, railway platforms, and wedding trays. It is a sweet that belongs equally to a child buying one piece with pocket money, and a diplomat gifting a tin at an international summit.
The rasogolla revolution wasn’t just about taste. It was about ambition, innovation, and identity. In it, Bengal found a way to balance tradition and modernity—to honor the past while embracing the future.
Today, the rasogolla continues to evolve. Michelin-star chefs use it in plated desserts. Scientists study its texture. Global chains feature it in their “desi fusion” menus. But its heart remains unchanged: a ball of joy, born from broken milk, held together by nothing but care and sugar.
And in every bite, one can still taste the quiet determination of a young man in Bagbazar who dared to dream of sweetness that floated.
Chapter 5: Shondesh: The Art in Every Bite
If rasogolla is Bengal’s revolution, shondesh is its refinement. Graceful, poised, and deeply artistic, shondesh is not just a sweet—it is an aesthetic. In its simplest form, it is just chhana and sugar. But in the hands of a Bengali mishti shilpi (sweet artist), it becomes sculpture, metaphor, even poetry.
The roots of shondesh stretch far back into Bengal’s past. References to “sandesh” appear in medieval Vaishnava poetry, where offerings to deities were described as milk-based sweets carried with love. However, these early shondesh varieties were more like kheer or peda, soft and grainy, often flavored with jaggery or cardamom, and lacked the elegance that would define the sweet in the centuries to come.
The transformation began in the 18th and 19th centuries, especially in Kolkata, where sweet-makers (moiras) began refining the process of chhana-making and sugar blending. By removing excess moisture and mastering the kneading technique, they created a chhana that was neither too wet like paneer nor too dry like khoya—a soft, pliable dough ready to be molded.
And mold it they did.
The great sweet houses of Kolkata—Bhim Chandra Nag, Balaram Mullick & Radharaman Mullick, Dwarik Ghosh, and others—became temples of shondesh innovation. They experimented with shape, flavor, and texture, turning the sweet into a canvas for creativity. The traditional shondesh was now reimagined in forms that mirrored lotuses, conch shells, fish, mangoes, peacocks, even miniature goddesses during pujas.
Each design carried symbolism. A lotus-shaped shondesh signified purity, a fish-shaped one wished prosperity, and a Durga idol molded from chhana was both offering and art. These designs were made using wooden or terracotta molds, many of which were family heirlooms passed down through generations. Some molds even had poems or names inscribed in reverse—so the imprint appeared in raised script on the sweet.
There are broadly two categories of shondesh: kora pak (dry) and norom pak (soft).
Kora pak shondesh is firm, shaped easily, and can be stored for days. Often gifted during festivals, weddings, or long train journeys, it includes varieties like kodapak narampak, narkel shondesh (with coconut), and kesar pista shondesh.
Norom pak, on the other hand, is tender, melt-in-the-mouth, and must be eaten fresh. The norom norom jolbhora—a soft shondesh with a burst of liquid jaggery at the center—is perhaps one of the most iconic innovations.
One of the earliest documented innovations was the jolbhora shondesh, believed to have been created by Bhim Chandra Nag in the 19th century to please a royal client who wanted “a sweet that surprises.” The outer shell is soft sandesh, while the inside contains a drop of notun gur or liquid sugar syrup. When bitten, it releases a delightful burst—an edible metaphor for sweetness hidden beneath simplicity.
Flavor was another frontier. Traditionally, shondesh was made with just sugar and milk. But moiras began adding flavors from Bengal’s seasonal palette—nolen gur in winter, mango in summer, rose, saffron, cardamom, even green chili or black pepper for adventurous palates. Over time, fusion shondesh appeared: chocolate shondesh, coffee shondesh, orange zest shondesh, each blending modern cravings with old textures.
In elite Bengali homes, shondesh became a mark of occasion. Births, marriages, even political alliances were announced with shondesh trays. When Rabindranath Tagore traveled to Europe, he carried boxes of shondesh for his hosts. During Durga Puja, the bhog was incomplete without naru and shondesh offerings. In many households, it was the final act of love—a soft shondesh placed beside a cup of tea for a tired father, or quietly slipped into a lunchbox for a child going to school.
What sets shondesh apart, perhaps, is its silence. Unlike the dramatic rasogolla or the syrup-soaked langcha, shondesh does not scream sweetness. It whispers. It offers restraint. In a way, it reflects the bhadralok culture of Bengal—quiet pride, understated elegance, refinement over flamboyance.
Even its name is lyrical. “Shondesh” (or “sandesh”) literally means message. Traditionally, when someone brought news—good or bad—they were welcomed with sweets. Over time, the word and the sweet became inseparable. A new job? Shondesh. A baby born? Shondesh. A daughter’s engagement? A box of shondesh carried to the groom’s house.
In modern times, the tradition of shondesh continues with both reverence and reinvention. Sweet shops like Mithai, Balaram, and Sen Mahasay have introduced baked shondesh, shondesh tarts, and even shondesh cheesecakes. Chefs abroad are experimenting with shondesh as the base for plated desserts, pairing it with citrus syrups or serving it frozen like semifreddo. And yet, in the narrow lanes of North Kolkata, you can still find old mishti dokans kneading chhana by hand and molding the same shondesh their ancestors did.
In every piece of shondesh, there is lineage—of artistry, of devotion, and of craftsmanship passed down through generations. It teaches us that sweets are not just about sugar. They are about memory, meaning, and message.
To eat shondesh is to experience Bengal’s soul in a single bite—soft, rich, cultured, and quietly proud.
Chapter 6: Town to Tongue – Regional Mishtis of Bengal
Bengal is not one land. It is a mosaic—of dialects, rivers, fields, and towns that stretch from the mangroves of the Sundarbans to the red soil of Birbhum, from the rain-washed hills of Jalpaiguri to the old zamindari houses of Burdwan. And in each of these places, mishti has evolved with a character of its own—rooted in the land, shaped by local tastes, and often fiercely protected by its people.
To understand Bengal’s sweets, one must leave the grand shops of Kolkata and travel. Because in the towns and villages, mishti is not just made—it is born.
Let us begin in Burdwan, often called the kingdom of sweets. This town gifted the world two iconic creations: Sitabhog and Mihidana. At first glance, Sitabhog looks like pulao—thin white strands of sweet, fried rice flour mixed with tiny gulab jamun-like balls. Mihidana, its golden sibling, resembles grains of saffron boondi. Both were invented in the late 19th century by Khettranath Nag, a sweet-maker commissioned by the Maharaja of Burdwan to create something extraordinary for the visit of Prince Albert Edward. The sweets were a hit, and the legacy lives on. Even today, locals proudly declare, “Ei mishti shudhu Burdwan’er” (These sweets belong to Burdwan alone).
From Burdwan, we travel to Shaktigarh, home of the legendary Langcha. A deep-fried, oblong sweet made of khoya and flour, soaked in sugar syrup, Langcha has a rustic charm. Its origin story is simple: a hungry traveler, a local sweet-maker, and a rolled-up version of the gulab jamun. But Langcha’s fame spread fast, and now entire stretches of Shaktigarh are lined with shops claiming to sell the “original.” Each bite carries a hint of pride and a lot of sugar.
In Krishnanagar, the artistry of mishti reaches new heights. Known for its skilled clay doll makers and even more skilled moiras, Krishnanagar gave the world some of the most intricately shaped shondesh—miniature swans, lotus flowers, and idols of Durga, all made from chhana. The sweets here are light, aromatic, and delicate, often flavored with rosewater or camphor. And during Jagadhatri Puja, the entire town becomes a sweet-scented celebration.
Further north, in Nabadwip, the city of Vaishnav saints and Sanskrit scholars, you’ll find sarbhaja and sarpuria—two sweets born from milk that has been boiled, thickened, and caramelized. Sarbhaja has a flaky, layered texture, while sarpuria is smooth, creamy, and rich. Both are rare and labor-intensive, made by only a few remaining families using recipes that go back at least two centuries. It is said that Sri Chaitanya himself once tasted something like sarpuria—and ever since, devotees have kept the recipe alive like a sacred hymn.
Move west to Bakreshwar, and you’ll be welcomed with dudh puli, soft rice dumplings filled with coconut and jaggery, swimming in thickened milk. In Birbhum, the sweets often carry a smoky, earthy note—thanks to traditional wood-fired ovens and the use of date palm jaggery. The winter delicacy patali gur er sandesh is especially famous here, where the sweetness is not loud, but deep and lasting.
In Jaynagar, near Kolkata, there is one sweet that arrives only for a few precious weeks in winter: the Jaynagarer Moa. Made from kanakchur khoi (a rare, fragrant puffed rice), nolen gur, and khoya, this sweet is hand-shaped into balls and wrapped in tenderness. Its seasonality makes it even more special. Bengalis wait all year for it, and once it’s gone, you must wait for the next cold wind to blow in December.
In the Sundarbans and parts of South 24 Parganas, sweets reflect the coastal geography. Here, narkel naru (coconut laddoos) and gurer pithe reign supreme. The use of coconut, often grated fresh and mixed with date palm jaggery, creates sweets that are humble yet hauntingly flavorful. These are not sweets of the bazaar. They are the sweets of grandmother’s lap, of smoky kitchens, and moonlit terraces.
In Malda, known for its mangoes, local sweet-makers have begun experimenting with aam sandesh, mango doi, and mango-flavored chomchom—a lovely example of tradition adapting to local harvest. Meanwhile, in Murshidabad, once a capital of Nawabi culture, the sweets bear Mughal influence. Here, dry fruit sandesh, rose-laced kheer, and firni still echo the grand feasts of the past.
Every region of Bengal has its signature mishti, a creation so rooted in the soil and spirit of the place that it resists migration. Try as one might, sitabhog tastes best in Burdwan, langcha in Shaktigarh, and moa only when the winter sun warms your hands as you eat it on a train ride home.
But what connects them all is a shared philosophy: mishti should carry memory. It should remind you of a place, a season, a face, or a festival. It is never just about taste. It is about where you had it, who made it, and what it meant at the time.
Today, with improved logistics and packaging, many of these regional mishtis are available in urban sweet shops. But connoisseurs know—true taste lies in context. In the smell of woodsmoke at a rural fair. In the quiet pride of a local sweet-maker who doesn’t advertise but has customers who’ve come to him for fifty years.
Bengal’s regional sweets are like its dialects: diverse, musical, and deeply personal. To know them is to know Bengal—not as a state on the map, but as a living, breathing culture, where every town whispers its own sweet story.
Chapter 7: Sweet for Every Season – Festivals and Mishti
In Bengal, time is not measured merely by clocks or calendars. It is measured in flavours. In the steam of freshly made pithe rising from an earthen pot in winter, in the cool curve of mishti doi served during summer weddings, in the silent arrival of moa marking the harvest, and in the shondesh delicately shaped for Durga’s return. Sweets are Bengal’s unofficial timekeepers, its edible almanacs.
Every season brings not just weather, but a different kind of sweetness.
Winter, especially Poush and Magh, is a sacred season in Bengali culinary culture. It is the time of notun gur—freshly tapped date palm jaggery, golden and smoky, soft and fragrant. Entire villages wake before dawn to collect the khejur ras, boil it into thick jaggery, and sell it at local haats. This is the season of Poush Parbon, the harvest festival, and with it comes an entire family of sweets:
Pithe: steamed, fried, or roasted rice cakes stuffed with coconut and jaggery.
Dudh puli: dumplings cooked in milk.
Patishapta: thin rice flour crepes rolled around coconut-jaggery filling.
Gokul pithe, bhapa pithe, and more.
Every household has its own variation, passed down through generations, often made by grandmothers whose hands know the proportions by heart. These are not sweets bought—they are made, shared, gifted. Pithe is emotion.
As spring approaches and Saraswati Puja arrives, the yellow of mustard fields is echoed in the sweets. Students pray for wisdom, and no celebration is complete without khichuri, labra, and of course, shondesh—often made softer and molded with the goddess’s image. A certain purity of flavor is preferred, with subtle notes of cardamom and kheer.
With the blazing heat of summer comes a demand for cool, soothing sweets. Mishti doi reigns supreme. Served chilled in clay pots, its slight sourness balanced by sweetness, it is both dessert and relief. Sweet-makers prepare baked yogurt, fruit-flavored sandesh, and aam doi (mango yogurt). Weddings held during this season feature trays of norom shondesh, rasmalai, and payesh chilled with ice chips underneath.
Then arrives monsoon, a season soaked in nostalgia. Rain tapping against window panes, power cuts, muddy lanes, and cravings. Cravings for jalebi, hot pantua, and sweets that warm the fingers and the heart. In small towns, street corners fill with smells of syrup and ghee, and sweet-makers roll out golden spirals of jalebi, sometimes dunking them into milk.
But it is during autumn, with the arrival of Durga Puja, that Bengal’s sweet culture reaches its peak. For five days, the entire state becomes a celebration of ritual, rhythm, and rasa. Homes, temples, pandals—every space is filled with food, and sweets are central to it all.
On Saptami, the goddess is offered naru and chaler payesh.
On Ashtami, children line up with trays of sweets for the anjali.
On Nabami, families visit one another with boxes of sandesh.
On Dashami, married women exchange sweets smeared in vermilion—a gesture of both blessing and farewell.
Some shops unveil limited-edition sweets during this time—shondesh shaped like Durga’s face, or sweets layered with saffron and silver leaf. Crowds queue for hours for their favourites. Sweet-makers speak of this week as their “exam”—where taste, speed, and stamina are all tested.
Then comes Lokkhi Puja, Kali Puja, Bhai Phonta—each festival with its own sweet traditions. During Lokkhi Puja, only white sweets are offered—symbolizing purity. Kali Puja includes khoya-based delicacies, darker and more intense. Bhai Phonta involves the sister feeding her brother sweets after placing a tikka on his forehead—a moment of affection sweetened by food.
In Bengali weddings, sweets are central—not an afterthought but a language in themselves.
Tattwo mishti refers to the ornate trays of sweets sent to the groom’s family, often shaped like birds, flowers, or symbols of prosperity.
Biye barir sandesh is expected to be flawless, soft but not soggy, beautiful yet traditional.
And of course, rasogolla, rajbhog, and chomchom are served in abundance, often the last memory a guest takes home.
Even in sorrow, sweets appear—not in excess, but in gestures. After funerals, a bowl of payesh or a tray of narkel naru is served. In moments of grief, Bengalis still believe in the power of a little sweetness—to balance the salt of tears.
And when a new baby is born, or a student passes an exam, or someone returns home after years—it is sweets that speak first, before any words. A bowl of payesh. A box of sandesh. A spoonful of mishti doi. These are not desserts. These are offerings of joy.
In this way, Bengal’s seasons and celebrations are mirrored by its mishti. The sweets change with the wind, with the rice, with the flowers that bloom. They mark beginnings, endings, and everything in between.
Mishti in Bengal is not seasonal only in taste. It is seasonal in meaning. In memory. And every season brings with it a fresh reason to be sweet.
Chapter 8: Partition, Pain, and Sweet Migration
In the summer of 1947, Bengal was torn in two. Lines drawn hastily on maps cleaved not just land, but language, family, memory, and home. Amid the chaos of the Partition, when people were fleeing with what little they could carry, many took only one real possession—their recipes.
This chapter in Bengal’s sweet history is not written in joy but in loss. Yet from that loss came reinvention.
When East Bengal (now Bangladesh) was separated from West Bengal (India), thousands of families crossed the newly formed border. Among them were sweet-makers—humble moiras from Faridpur, Dhaka, Comilla, Barisal, and Mymensingh—whose livelihoods had been rooted in local towns, festivals, and patrons. They had no business cards, no storefronts—only the knowledge in their hands and the tradition in their hearts.
Many settled in the refugee colonies of North and South Kolkata, in places like Garia, Jadavpur, Dum Dum, and Behala. With them came a whole new wave of mishti-making, one that mixed grief with grit.
These migrant sweet-makers brought regional flavours that had never been part of urban Kolkata.
From Dhaka came soft chhana-based sweets that were denser and more intense.
From Barisal and Khulna, sweets rich in coconut and patali gur.
From Faridpur, a version of kacha golla so delicate that it had to be eaten within hours.
From Comilla, a kind of monda—dry and compact, designed to last on journeys.
Their early shops were often nothing more than bamboo stalls, cloth-covered counters, or corners of someone else’s home. But the sweets? Unforgettable. Locals soon began calling them “Bangal moira”—a phrase that carried both affection and identity. These men, with their distinct accents and stories of homes they could never return to, began to reshape Kolkata’s mishti map.
Some of the most iconic sweet shops of post-independence Bengal were founded by Partition survivors.
Mithai, near Gariahat, began as a tiny stall run by a family from Bikrampur.
Amrita Sweets in Lake Market was opened by a moira from Jessore.
Many branches of K.C. Das began employing sweet-makers from East Bengal, blending traditional Kolkata sweets with Eastern finesse.
But this migration didn’t just bring new sweets. It brought new emotions to the making of sweets.
For these moiras, mishti was no longer just a trade—it was a way to rebuild life.
Every chhana kneaded was a memory honored. Every sandesh molded was a promise to the future.
The fusion began soon after.
The kacha golla of East Bengal was adapted with Kolkata’s softer chhana.
Coconut sweets were reworked with Western presentation.
Even mishti doi gained variation, with flavored versions appearing—mango, saffron, and rose—thanks to experiments by younger members of these refugee families.
In time, Kolkata mishti became what it is today: a blend of both Bengals. The ghoti (West Bengali) preference for light, sculpted sweets met the bangal (East Bengali) love for dense, rich mishti. This marriage of tastes created a range that was as emotional as it was edible.
But the trauma of Partition remained.
For many, sweets were now ghosts of the past—a taste of a kitchen left behind.
“I have never tasted sweets like those from Mymensingh,” an elderly refugee once said. “I remember the smell more than the taste now.”
To others, sweets became a language to remember what could no longer be said aloud—the names of towns that no longer belonged to them, the festivals that now felt distant, and the neighbors who had once shared their plates.
And yet, amidst all this, mishti remained a source of resilience.
In refugee weddings, sweets were made with borrowed vessels. During festivals, neighbors pooled their rations to make pithe. A single langcha bought from a Behala shop was shared by an entire family as a reminder that life, though broken, could still be sweet.
Over decades, these migrant families established themselves. Their shops grew. Their sons studied business. Their granddaughters learned to make sandesh with both love and branding strategy. And their sweets entered the bloodstream of Bengal’s identity.
Today, few who buy a kacha golla in a South Kolkata shop know that its recipe crossed a border in 1947. But its taste carries that history.
It carries the whispers of rivers left behind.
The trains filled with silence.
The faces remembered in the smell of nolen gur.
And the strange truth that even in exile, sweetness could survive.
Partition may have divided the land. But mishti crossed the border, unbroken.
Chapter 9: Mishti Goes Modern – Fusion, Trends, and Global Reach
If tradition is the soul of Bengali mishti, then innovation is its beating heart. And nowhere is this more evident than in the last three decades, as Bengal’s sweets have stepped out of clay pots and glass counters into global menus, Michelin-starred kitchens, and Instagram feeds. The journey from the pithe of the paddy field to the plated desserts of Paris is a story of bold reimagining—where mishti embraces the future without forgetting its past.
It began subtly in the late 20th century, as urban Bengal modernized. Sweet-makers, once content with a few beloved recipes, noticed a change in customer demands. New generations wanted variety, novelty, aesthetics. They were curious about chocolate, cheese, and international trends—but still longed for the comfort of mishti.
The answer? Fusion.
Kolkata’s elite sweet shops led the way.
Balaram Mullick & Radharaman Mullick introduced chocolate sandesh, blending Belgian cocoa with soft chhana, dusted with gold foil.
Ganguram’s offered orange sandesh and mango doi, infused with seasonal fruits.
Mithai began experimenting with cheesecake-inspired sandesh, offering slices layered with cream, nuts, and syrup.
The real turning point came with the birth of the baked rasogolla—a sweet that defied centuries of syrup-soaking tradition. Baked in ovens, often with a coat of nolen gur or saffron cream, this version was dense, caramelized, and rich. What began as an experimental twist soon became a signature modern classic, available across Bengal and beyond.
Parallel to these innovations, presentation also changed. No longer limited to trays or boxes, sweets were now served in mini glass jars, edible cups, terracotta spoons, and tasting platters. Boutique mishti shops emerged, offering curated selections with clean packaging, brand storytelling, and even QR codes to track origin and freshness. Bengal’s sweets had entered the age of branding.
Meanwhile, diaspora communities began creating their own interpretations abroad. In cities like London, Toronto, and Dubai, Bengali sweets found space in South Asian restaurants and gourmet stores.
Chefs introduced rasogolla tiramisu,
shondesh mousse,
and mishti doi ice cream.
In some restaurants, chhana was used as a filling for crepes or served with stewed fruits.
Mishti was becoming global cuisine.
Celebrity chefs and food critics took notice.
In 2018, the rasogolla was featured on a BBC food documentary.
Top chefs like Gaggan Anand and Asma Khan spoke about the subtlety of Bengali sweets—their texture, restraint, and potential for reimagination. Food bloggers began rating Kolkata’s mishti trail as a must-do culinary pilgrimage.
And the world listened.
Even airlines and embassies began serving packaged rasogolla and sandesh on special occasions. At Indian weddings in New York and London, the dessert counters began showcasing fusion mishti shots, where classic sweets were served in martini glasses with gourmet twists.
This global reach was boosted by one critical factor: technology and shelf-life improvement.
Thanks to vacuum packaging, temperature-controlled logistics, and preservative-free canning, sweets that were once confined to a single town could now cross oceans. The K.C. Das tinned rasogolla remains a legacy product. But newer brands have emerged, using clean ingredients, artisan labeling, and eco-conscious packaging.
Back in Bengal, the evolution wasn’t just about innovation—it was also about preservation through adaptation. Young chefs and culinary entrepreneurs started mishti-focused cafes in Kolkata, Siliguri, and Santiniketan. These cafes served everything from pithe platters to chai with naru. The goal was clear: attract a younger audience by making mishti cool again.
At the same time, social media transformed the way mishti was consumed—not just by the mouth, but by the eyes.
Photos of sandesh towers, jolbhora with edible flowers, and chocolate-dipped langcha flooded Instagram. Food stylists began using mishti in fashion shoots, luxury wedding campaigns, and cultural branding projects.
But this modernization has also sparked debate.
Some purists ask: “Where is the line between innovation and dilution?”
When sandesh is made with tiramisu or blue cheese, is it still a Bengali sweet?
Can a rasogolla in saffron vodka syrup still carry the memory of Bagbazar?
These are valid questions. But perhaps the answer lies not in ingredients, but in intention. What makes a sweet Bengali is not just the recipe—it is the emotion, the respect for craft, and the connection to memory.
The best modern mishti doesn’t erase history. It extends it.
A chocolate sandesh that still uses hand-kneaded chhana.
A baked rasogolla that tastes of gur and nostalgia.
A mango doi that brings back summer vacations in Malda.
Today, mishti is not static. It is a living tradition. It travels, transforms, adapts.
It enters homes through delivery apps. It stars in Netflix food shows.
It’s gifted in wooden boxes lined with silk.
And it’s still made, quietly, by a moira in a town you’ve never heard of—kneading chhana the way his father did, and his grandfather before him.
This is the future of mishti: not forgetting where it came from, and always open to where it might go.
Chapter 10: More Than a Dessert – The Soul of a People
What is mishti, really?
At first glance, it is simple: sugar, milk, a little cardamom, some flour, a drop of rosewater. But to a Bengali, mishti is never just about ingredients. It is about belonging. It is the soft language of emotion, the quiet assertion of identity, the shared comfort that bridges distances and dissolves differences. It is not an accessory to a meal—it is the essence of memory.
In Bengal, mishti lives everywhere:
In the laughter of a grandmother’s kitchen.
In the trembling hands of a bride offering shondesh to her new family.
In the sticky fingers of a child stealing naru before dinner.
In the trembling voice of a man returning home after years abroad, holding a box of rasogolla like a passport to his past.
Sweetness is not just a taste. It is a feeling.
There is no occasion too small for mishti. Pass an exam? Buy a rasogolla. Got a new job? Take shondesh to the office. A friend is upset? Mishti doi in an earthen pot does more than words can. Even in conflict, a box of sweets is the first white flag. In Bengali culture, you do not visit a home empty-handed, and you never leave a home without being offered something sweet. To refuse it is to decline affection.
Sweet-making, too, is sacred. The moira is not merely a vendor—he is a custodian of legacy. His hands do not just cook; they carry centuries of muscle memory, shaped by riverside festivals, temple rituals, zamindari grandeur, Partition journeys, and city celebrations. Many of them still do not use written recipes. “Chhokh-e shikhechi,” they say. “I’ve learned by watching.”
This is why even the same sweet can taste different in two shops, two homes, or two districts. Because mishti carries with it the air of the place, the hand that made it, and the heart that offered it.
There are sweets that taste like seasons.
Patali-gurer pithe tastes like January mornings.
Aam sandesh like May afternoons.
Mishti doi like weddings, kacha golla like grandparents.
Langcha tastes like long journeys and railway platforms.
Shondesh tastes like rituals, respect, and the quiet elegance of Durga’s feet returning home.
In Bengali literature, sweets appear as metaphors for everything—love, betrayal, simplicity, excess. In Satyajit Ray’s films, they sit quietly in the background, anchoring scenes. In Tagore’s poems, they sneak into verses with a wink. Even modern music, from folk to fusion, finds sweetness in the rhythm of names like jolbhora and rosomalai.
But perhaps what makes mishti truly eternal is its accessibility. You don’t need to be rich to taste Bengal’s soul.
A five-rupee pantua from a roadside stall in Barasat, a naru made by a maid’s mother in Barisal, a slice of doi from a tea-stained shop in Cooch Behar—each carries the same weight of culture, care, and continuity.
And then, there is the way mishti connects generations.
A grandmother makes patishapta with her granddaughter in December.
A son carries shondesh to his mother’s hospital bed.
Two sisters, separated by continents, eat the same brand of canned rasogolla on a video call.
A Bengali child in Boston tastes his first jolbhora at a Durga Puja potluck, and understands—without being told—what home feels like.
In that moment, mishti becomes more than food. It becomes language.
The language of longing.
The language of love.
The language of life, sweetened.
In a world that is always rushing, flattening cultures, blending borders, and digitizing emotion, mishti holds ground. It insists on hand-made, slow-cooked, locally rooted experiences. It tells stories without needing words. It reminds a Bengali who they are—even when they forget.
And that is why mishti is not just dessert. It is the soul of a people.
A soft, sweet, generous soul—served warm, in a clay bowl, with a smile.
