Everything old is not necessarily good, but some of it is. Lohia Matri Seva Sadan in Rabindra Sarani remains as stately as before, if not so well cared for. Yet its grandeur shines through; the lion still crouches on the top of the entrance, the magisterial columns supporting the imposing front can be glimpsed from the street. The former hospital now hosts film and TV series shoots. Opposite it stands another imposing, graceful old structure: “ghariwala” Mullick bari, called so for its famous clock, looking very weary.
One does not know what to look at in these Kolkata landmarks: their beauty or their weariness. So it is a relief to find, next to the ghariwala bari, a row of shops that sell another Kolkata classic: chhanch (moulds) for sandesh.
The sandesh, perhaps the centrepiece of Bengali sweetmeats, has undergone a revolution in the recent past. Chocolate, among other things, has become a major ingredient, disturbing the purist. They have been baked, steamed and garnished with blueberries. The fact that shapes of sandesh, or other mishtis, have not changed so much steadies you a little in the midst of this dizzying flux.
Or, almost.
These moulds, most of which come in standard mishti size, not more than 2 inches or so in diameter or length, lie in heaps in the fronts of these shops. They sell a mix of wooden and metal moulds, as well as everyday wood and metal items. Except for a narrow strip of a shop, called Modern Art Co.
In it, Ashim Das, 60, sits bent over his work. He makes the moulds himself. Wooden moulds are mostly used in the commercial production of sweets; previously, at homes, one saw the use of stone and clay moulds.
A fine mishti mould, with an intricate pattern, can be a work of art.
Ashim’s work requires only two things: wood and carving tools. You spot an elaborate set of chisels, with blades of varying length. There is hardly anything else in the shop.
The wood — segun — is cut into small strips, a particular shape of a sandesh is cut out and a design is carved in. In a mould the design, carved in relief, is in reverse. In case of words, the lettering is in reverse direction in addition. “Working in reverse takes some time to learn,” says Ashim, who learnt hiscraft from his father and brother.
Ashim has been working here for about 40 years. He could not study much. The shop, which belongs to him and his elder brother, Subhas Chandra Das, was started by their father. The family used to live close but eventually shifted to Belur, from where Ashim commutes every day, cycling to the railway station, then taking the train. He spends almost the entire day at the shop. Subhas Chandra, who is 66 now, was a master craftsman, but has been very ill for quite some time and works from home, when he can, says Ashim.
He takes great care to explain the designs displayed on a tray covered in blue plastic. Flower designs, or motifs resembling alpana patterns, are most common, but many influences are evident.
“This is the paan cake pattern,” says Ashim, pointing at a heart-shaped design, as he is shaving off bits of wood to create a design. “There is maachh (fish), golap (rose), dahlia (similar to rose, but bigger), aata (custard apple, with its protuberances that, like the fish scales, give the sandesh another dimension),” he says. The jol bhora mould comes in two parts. And there is biscuit (the shape of Glucose biscuits), manoranjan, aam (mango) and oval cake.
For weddings, sandesh with “gatraharidra” (the turmeric ceremony) or “phulsajya” (the first night the couple spends together) have always been popular, as have been large fish or butterfly sandesh.
He brings out larger moulds that have letters written on them.
“Now ‘Happy Birthday’ written on sandesh is very popular,” says Ashim. Also ‘best wishes’ for other occasions, office events. Organisations want their names marked on the sandesh for an event.”
Mould-making is very hard work and a struggle. But unlike many other businesses, Ashim’s has picked up in the last few years. “A lot more mishti is being made. Demand for moulds has increased. We supply moulds not only to Kolkata mishti shops, but also to other Indian cities.”
But the new moulds do not really look like the old ones. Earlier, in a maachh sandesh, not only could the fish’s scales be defined, but also the fins, upper and lower, and the tail, with fine lines. A Chandrapuli, a coconut sandesh called so because of its half-moon shape, was so intricately made that you would want to wear it if did not taste so good!
“They are not the same,” admits Ashim. “A mould takes time to make. At the most, one person can make four to five moulds a day.” A small mould costs Rs 100 or so, depending on the design.
“But now we have to rush.” Few are in the business now. It is unlikely that the next generation of his family will be interested in this work. Something will be lost.
He disappears into the deep end of the shop and comes back with a few wooden frames. These are not moulds.
One of them has a small, intricate teapot and tea cup carved on it, the word tea carved in small cursive writing and an oval shape with “ROSE” written in reverse. “This was a block made for an advertisement for a label by my brother. Please see the fineness of the work,” says Ashim.
They used to make blocks for printing on paper before computers took over.
The other two are not printing blocks. One has “Thakurmar Jhuli” (the name of the most famous Bengali fairy tale collection) carved in it in Bengali, and the other has the famous Cat Hypocrite, with the lobster hanging from his mouth, done in striking, bold lines in relief.
“My brother made these,” Ashim says proudly.
