Musings on Mysore pak

Of the triumvirates of their genre, Mysore pak, laddu and burfi, Mysore pak would be declared arguably as the first among equals. This crumbly confectionery wonder was first put together by the Mysore Palace innovator-cook Mandappa, with besan, sugar syrup and ghee. The pleased maharaja ordered Mandappa to run a kiosk outside the palace grounds so the commoners could relish the newly invented sweet.

Among the yardsticks deployed by finicky men to rate a lady’s culinary mastery in the kitchen, the quality of her Mysore pak would rank next only to the piping hot filter coffee. The algorithm would be deemed so crucial that many ladies would have to pray for the benediction of Lord Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, before lighting the oven.

A good Mysore pak worth its salt (rather sugar) should not be granite-hard, but semi-hard — solid enough to remain together but soft enough to be bitten without breaking any tooth underpinned with costly root-canal dentistry.

Fierce battles have been fought during weddings in good old days, the cause célèbre being the quality of Mysore pak served. In one such skirmish, angry words having escalated into rash deeds; the grumpy uncle of the bridegroom picked up the brick-hard pieces from the nearby basin, and with oodles of aggression pelted them one by one at the bride’s father and the head cook (the prime accused), who cringed together. In as much as the uncle’s intention was bad, his aim was worse, and so the misguided missiles missed their target by miles and hit innocent bystanders and tube lights. Eventually, the wedding was called off by the bride’s father. He declared that their Mysore pak may be hard but the hearts of the bridegroom’s clan were harder!

Niggling husbands given to a wry sense of humour made no bones about their disapproval by finding silently an alternate use for the wife’s Mysore paks. They used them as paperweights, or wedges to steady shaky wooden tables.

On the eve of Deepavali, my tetchy uncle, whose wife had gone to babysit in America, invited me over to judge the Mysore pak prepared by the lady cook appointed on a trial basis. The wispy lady nervously brought two anaemic-looking pieces on two plates, and tactfully withdrew. With his strong fingers, he tried to break a small bit to sample, as his orthodoxy deemed direct biting a sacrilege. In the struggle that ensued, the rock-hard solid remained unbroken, providing concrete evidence of the cook’s lack of expertise. In a fit of pique, he growled, “This is not a Mysore pak. This is an eyesore pak!”