A magical sweet is the Goja

It has a peculiar moja

Often it’s crumbed,

Its layers gummed,

It may be tyaara, byaka or shoja.

Last week in Birbhum’s Siuri,

To which I drove in fury,

I had one that was shoja

Its middle soft, its outer bhaja

It was floating on syrupy puree.

The fury I will explain

Now that we’ve got some rain:

Hot was the matha

After some booker byatha

But now we’ve gone past the pain.

Then there is the local shop

Its goja is on top

They’re piled next to jilipi

Makes the heart go flippy

And costs just a rupee a pop.

At another end of Calcutta city

To which a friend dragged – he had no pity,

And here was the cause of the booker-byatha

Here a girlfriend rejected, chhatar-matha,

Now she’s ended up in a ditty.

The Goja there

Was round and fair

It was still fried

The syrup had dried.

We had just a pair.

Near Gariahat in Calcutta’s south

By the flyover and Golpark’s roundabout

There is a Goja that is posh

It has too little rosh

The price leaves the mouth in a pout.

I love the Goja that’s crusty

Its outers brittle and innards trusty

The rosh should be just enough

Through the tosh and the puff

Never mind the shape, straight or busty.

A good Goja can go with doi

I’ll put it in writing, with my shoi.

On mornings after a walk,

The doi may be mishti, I prefer it tok,

And come back feeling top of a moi.

You’ll keep licking fingers

For the taste that lingers.

It could be sticky

But it’s not icky,

Like love that’s been through the wringers.