A Bitter War for a Sweet Dish

For many a foreigner’s taste, the syrupy ball known as rasgulla (or roshogolla) contains enough sugar for at least two populous regions. Yet since 2015 the governments of two states within the Republic of India – West Bengal and Odisha (once Orissa) –  have been embroiled in a debate over the origins of this sweetmeat.

In Bengal and North India rasgulla is most commonly associated with Bengal, where it remains one of the most popular dessert choices. It is often claimed that its inventor was a 19th century Kolkata-based confectioner, Nabin Chandra Das. Others suggest that the sweet was produced at the same time by other shopkeepers. As far as Bengal is concerned, this is not as important as the counterclaim from a neighboring state, Odisha. There it is believed that the same sweet had in fact been for centuries offered at the famous temple of god Jagannath in the holy city of Puri. Alternatively, some are of the opinion that it was first prepared in the milk-rich village of Pahala, then located just outside the current capital of Odisha, Bhubaneshwar (and hence the variety of rasgulla known in Odisha is called pahala).

The bitter controversy erupted in the middle of 2015. While the inhabitants of Odisha mounted a brisk Twitter campaign in which they claimed their state as the motherland of rasgulla, the chief minister of West Bengal, Mamata Banerjee, had prepared what we can term a Dessert Strike operation. The Science and Technology Department of her government reportedly applied for rasgulla’s Geographical Indication (GI) patent. On hearing this, the chief minister of Odisha, Navin Patnaik, geared himself for a sweat-filled (rather than sweet-filled) battle. By the fall of 2015 the Indian media was reporting that his government had also applied for rasgulla’s GI. A committee was also set up to prove that the dessert has originated from Odisha (according to other sources three different committees or “panels” were formed). This year, the committee reportedly found a 1699-written poem in the Odiya language (spoken in Odisha) that mentions the same sweetmeat. This is where things stand now, but it is unlikely that Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee or Bengalis in general will give up in the face of these claims. Indeed, the struggle will probably continue for some time.

It is not for this author to judge the evidence offered by both sides, and The Diplomat has no intention of taking sides. Rather, our interest in the bitter war over the sweet rasgulla derives from the fact that it is yet another instance of how the growth of traditions and customs can cut across (rather than overlap with) political borders, creating confusion, debates and identity-based or trade-driven controversies over issues and products that otherwise might normally be considered entirely uncontroversial.

Poland and Slovakia, for example, have been locked in a fight over a smoked, sheep milk-based cheese called oštiepok in Slovakian and oscypek in Polish. This is a case of a lack of overlap with current political borders. The cheese in fact originated in the Tatras, the mountains that span both Poland and Slovakia (although they mostly lie in the latter country). From this perspective it can be said that oštiepok/oscypek “belongs” neither to Poland nor Slovakia as modern states, but to the people of the Tatras, whatever their nationality. 

Similarly, Indonesia and Malaysia have often argued about the inheritance of their region, such as the kris knife. While it should be possible to track most traditions back to a more narrowly understood area (for instance, the Java island), Indonesia and Malaysia nowadays obviously share many customs and much more. In an alternative but conceivable world they could have been one state (or many states). Whatever form their political borders took (and will take), some traditions would stubbornly cross them. In another words, would there be any conflict over rasgulla nowadays if due to different historical circumstances West Bengal and Odisha were currently one state within the Indian Union, with one chief minister and one government?

There are globally followed (if not universally recognized) markers such as the Geographical Indication patents or UNESCO definitions that pinpoint the origins of a product or tradition. These markers tend to make the issue even more intensely contested, for both commercial and political reasons. In the European context, this tension is additionally fuelled by the possibility of certifying a product at the EU level. The economic aspect is obvious (as is the fight with non-certified or plainly fake products) but it can lead to logical absurdities: We can imagine one valley growing an indigenous plant but with two halves of it belonging to two separate countries, both striving to register the GI patent for the same plant-based product.

Or, to put it in a simple, non-political, non-legal and non-commercial perspective: Things have no nationality and borders, and good things know no limits to their popularity. Some products have gained a global standing and a nearly all-accessible status. Nobody denies that in light of our present knowledge tea originated from China, yet nobody forces us to call it “Chinese” all the time.

The regions of Odisha and Bengal are neighbors and at times – for example, during certain periods of British colonial rule – parts or even all their territory formed one political entity. They are still obviously two different areas, yet they have been in close contact for centuries, and their cultures and languages remain similar on a comparative all-Indian scale. Whatever the true historical origins of rasgulla, it has been popular in both regions, and nowadays it is in fact very often consumed in many other parts of India and beyond.

This, of course, does not mean that we should abandon the search for exact historical origins. Such knowledge, if not abused by politicians, is important. Of course, political involvement in these issues (as in the committees in Odisha) tends to mean more resources for historians to study a selected subject, albeit with the downside that they are usually are expected to reach pre-ordained conclusions.

Yet, while it is understandable that a Bengali can’t see a roshogolla as anything other than a traditional Bengali sweetmeat, while a person from Odisha would claim it with equal certainty for his state, for somebody outside these territories, and especially for somebody outside India, it might simply be regarded as part of the national cuisine. Perhaps we can be forgiven, therefore, for calling rasgulla an Indian sweet?