Sweet perils and mysteries

My “cha chi’s” childhood confidante from the community of Cane Grove made that finest of Indian milk sweets, the silky smooth “perah,” that she sold each Saturday, outside Stabroek Market.

In the cool darkness, Auntie Meena travelled with other vendors by taxi to “town,” bearing her twin woven baskets of delicacies, in an exhausting, bumpy ride across many muddy miles from their rural farming settlement of lush, green squares, set neatly away from the winding and moody Mahaica River.

The dawn would find her perched on a low wooden bench or “peerah” below the rusting roofline along the northern flank of the bustling market designed and built by the American firm Edgemoor Iron Company, in 1880-1881.

We did not wait for infrequent events such as weddings, or annual festivities like the upcoming Hindu celebration of lights, Deeepavali, but sought her out nearly every week, safely pushing through the crowds, for the diminutive, quiet figure lost among taller, boisterous sellers. They hawked everything from bundles of crisp vegetables, heaps of fresh fruits the perfume hanging heavy in the air, to a variety of gleaming metal ware such as kitchen graters and measuring cups, hammered from recycled tins with the painted milk labels visible on the pierced undersides.

Unlike now with the daily robberies and public assaults that mar the “Big Market,” Auntie Meena had no need to scream and shout, especially about the specialities she displayed. The superior quality of the coveted desserts meant this cook was sought after and her sweets sold out well before the scorching midday heat. If we were early, she would smile, and lift off the spotless white ironed cotton covers, to display the neat arrangements of joy she had prepared most of the previous day and night.

Like Nora/Ramratti Mangar, my older “cha chi” or the wife of my father’s brother or “cha cha” who I grew up with and I also called “Mom,” Auntie Meena was the daughter of indentured immigrants who migrated to British Guiana to work on the area’s sugar estate in the late 19th/early 20th centuries living in “logies” or wooden barracks. She came from a long line of traditional sweet makers most likely of the associated Halwai caste, that left the vast Ganges plain in search of a better life.

The Mangars/Mangroos had fled religious persecution as members of the young but popular Arya Samaj, Sanskrit for the “Noble Movement,” the monotheistic Hindu reform group founded by the “sannyasi” or ascetic, Dayanand Saraswati in 1875. Teaching values based on the 3000-year-old scriptures of the Vedas, the Samaj practised equality in a rigid, stratified society that classified and confined people to castes be it Kurmis to gardening, and the land, the Kahaurs and Kumars to clay and pottery, the Lohars to the blacksmith’s forge, the Dom to basket weaving,  the Koiris to saffron cultivation, the Noniya to salt production and the Nai to barbering.

Mom related stories of her early life, including the destructive floods when the trio of powerful nearby rivers overflowed. After the main colonial employer, the plantation and its acres of sweet grasses waved goodbye in the 1940s, my adopted mom left Cane Grove, while most of the remaining villagers, survived as farmers, growing crops of rice and vegetables, and raising livestock. Others like Auntie Meena resorted to their traditional dessert skills, protecting culinary confidences and keeping expertise, to within immediate family only.

I would gaze at the pale white discs of dairy delights, also known as “pedas,” each no bigger than a 25 cent-piece and costing as much, consisting of a royal melody spun from plain cow’s milk and Demerara sugar. Observant Auntie Meena would put me out of my misery by offering a single creamy sample. If my mother was watching, I dared take only gentle nibbles of the firm “perah,” savouring the slight sweetness as it melted slowly on the warm tongue. If she looked busy, catching up with the Cane Grove news and gossip, I quickly finished it, thinking of how soon I could seek another of the batch destined for home.

The fragrant, dense balls of brown “laddus” created by Auntie Meena from ground, roasted or fried peas were most favoured by mom. These spheres are done in a variety of grains, legumes and seeds, among them “besan” or channa, coconut, semolina or rava, urad or black dhal, oatmeal and even gum Arabic or “babhul.”

However, my “cha chi” also liked the sour taste of fermented batter dripped from a bag and deep fried into crunchy, syrup-soaked sun swirls named “jalebis,” derived from the Arabic word “zulabiya,” brought by Persian-speaking Turkic invaders.

My “cha chi,” and Auntie Meena would eventually pass away, and her daughter carried on for a few years before emigrating to Canada, leaving me with a still unfulfilled quest decades later, to find an equal to that beloved “perah.” My sister’s delicious fudge came close, but it was created quickly from tinned milk and finished golden in caramelised colour, bearing fat raisins, vanilla and peanuts. In India, I searched in vain for a worthy match to Auntie Meena’s, testing a range of confectionery, but they were all inadequate, proving too grainy, dark, wet, sickeningly sweet, or hard and dry. My first and last bite of the Trinidadian “perah” left me sputtering in disgust, since flour was added to powdered milk.

Consulting with my Netherlands-based sister Leila, who is older and wiser by ten years, she remembers the massive “karahi” or “kadai” a wide curving iron pot of fresh milk slowly simmering on Auntie Meena’s fireside, as the sweet maker prepared the essential base “khoya,” “khoa” or “mawa” which is milk solids with nearly all of the water removed. Through this extended boiling, it achieves a thick, malleable dough-like consistency. Not for the faint-hearted, “khoya” and “perah” require continuous turning and absolute attention to the lowest fire, over many hours. We still marvel how she managed to keep the “perah” pearly white when such sugar was unavailable on local shelves. 

Culinary mysteries, secret recipes and unintended consequences surged to the fore, as I recently scrutinised a report about my health risks as determined by genetic analysis. While I knew that my extended family has long struggled with type two diabetes, I confirmed an increased likelihood of developing it based on data, showing people of similar South Asian descent have an estimated 49% chance of getting the disease late in life. Yet, this also depends on manageable factors like weight, diet, and exercise, all of which I am careful with given that my independent laboratory screening figures are good. In type 2 diabetes, sugar builds up in the blood, which can lead to complications including heart disease and stroke.

In 2017, the Caricom Health Commission warned that Guyana and Trinidad and Tobago have the highest mortality for premature cardiovascular disease and diabetes in the Americas, with these diseases proving major public health challenges.

I seem doomed to suffer from unrequited love, at least, in the cultural dessert department. The genomic testing company found that I have one of two genetic variants they tested, and therefore a slightly increased risk for celiac disease, an autoimmune condition in which the consumption of gluten, found in wheat, barley, and rye, can damage the small intestine. To add insult to injury, I appear to have lost my early ability to digest milk and is almost certain to be lactose intolerant, which explains certain after-effects of all those precious “perahs.” 

 ID now “steups” whenever she hears Lord Kitchener asking, “Audrey, where you get that sugar? Darling there is nothing sweeter.” She wants to scream and bawl that he is just a jumping “sugar bum.”