“If prepared correctly, a fruitcake can have a shelf life of more than twenty-five years,” chuckled the toothless betel leaf chomping Chand Ali as he mixed perfectly calculated portions of assorted nuts and dried fruits into a massive copper plate. Twelve-year-old Rani and her five-year-old brother Riju peered over the master baker’s shoulders to ask questions and intricately observe the seventy-year-old in his elements. They were engaged in the annual winter ritual of traditional fruitcake making of the Pyne family in the central courtyard of their palatial residence in North Calcutta’s Maniktala Bazar area of the Indian subcontinent.
“F-L-O-U-R mane (meaning) Maida, E-G-G mane Anda, S-U-G-A-R mane Chini, M-I-L-K mane Dudh, S-A-L-T mane Namak,” went on the old baker spelling out the English names of the cake ingredients from a copy beside him, on which he had been practising writing English in a crooked and shaky cursive font. Over the past few years, every winter, when the old man came to their house, little Rani would tutor him to read and write English, and he would teach her to bake the perfect fruitcake.
“O-L-D M-O-N-K,” slowly read aloud Riju as he moved the little index finger of his right hand across the label of a stout glass bottle with tiny dimples on the surface. “Will you mix daddy’s not-to-touch brown juice in the cake as well, Chand Dadu (grandpa),” enquired the ever-curious Rani as soon as his little brother finished reading the alphabets on the bottle?
“Rum is what kills any bacteria in the cake. You have seen your mother soaking the dry fruits in it for months. This bottle I will add to the dough. It makes sure that you can eat this cake even after many years from today,” smiled and replied Chand Ali, always delighted to interact with the children.
For the next few hours, the old man took great care to precisely measure and prepare a dough of all-purpose flour, white butter, brown sugar, separated egg whites and yellows, baking soda, milk, salt, grounded cinnamon, and un-sulfured molasses. He put in the nuts, dry fruits and the rum in the end and kept on churning the dough with an antique Palash-wood ladle. Chand Ali did not stop till the massive mouth-watering wobbly lump reached a desired texture and satisfaction level.
At the end, when the dough was settled, Chand Ali brought out a secret powder blend from an antique wooden box and sprinkled it all over the cake mix. “What is this that you just added to the cake Chand Dadu,” quickly enquired the ever-observant Rani. “This is my secret cake-mix-spice little one. It is what makes my cake different from everyone else’s,” replied the toothless baker as droplets of betel juice flew from his red-stained lips.
“When I grow up, I want to be a master baker like you, Chand Dadu,” said Rani innocently as the old baker continued with his business.
The earliest recipe for a fruitcake can be traced back to the ancient Roman days, when pomegranate seeds, pine nuts, and raisins were mixed into barley mashes and baked in wood-fired clay ovens. Later on, during the Middle Ages, honey, spices, and preserved fruits started being added. Gradually, fruitcakes proliferated all over Europe, with recipes varying from region to region throughout the ages, depending on the availability of ingredients. During the colonial days, the British introduced this culinary art to the Indian palate.
After finishing his work with the dough, Chand Ali rose and opened his legendary black tin trunk and pulled out several small and rectangular aluminium containers and placed them one beside the other on a blanket of newspapers. Mom now came with a giant roll of butter paper and sat beside the tin boxes, cutting out rectangular sheets with her trusted pair of scissors. Rani and Riju exactly knew what to do next. They helped Chand Dadu apply oil inside the little tin boxes and neatly lay the inner walls with the cut sheets of butter papers.
The master baker scrapped the last ounce of dough from the massive pot with his stout fingers and transferred the contents in the last of the little tin boxes. “Sixty pounds this year Mrs Pyne,” announced the old man, looking at mother, who nodded in approval and went to the drawing-room to share the news with father, who was enjoying a goblet of not-to-touch brown juice while reading one of his favourite novels.
Chand Ali was the last tradesman of his breed. He was the sole surviving cakeman of his kind. His profession took him to the houses of a very select Christian clientele in the city of Calcutta. The master baker would help his clients mix and prepare the dough for fruitcakes and then take it to be baked in a wood-fired clay oven in one of the bakeries in Taltal and get the finished cakes back to his customers’ houses.
This was an old and traditional way of baking huge quantities of cakes by Christians in Calcutta. With the changing times, this way of making cakes was fast disappearing. The year was 2001, and now the global market was more open. Many cake shops had sprung all over the city. Within the next decade by 2013, not only could one buy a cake from a shop but order it online from any corner of the world as well. This old way of cake making was in the last of its dying phase and would soon only remain to be a nostalgic memory of bygone days.
Two days after preparing the dough in the courtyard of the Pyne residence, Chand Ali brought back the rectangular loaves of half and one pound freshly baked cakes. Rani and Riju could not contain their excitement. They had to be the first to taste this year’s fruitcake. No doubt no other fruitcake could beat that which Chand Ali had made.
While the two siblings gobbled lumps of sweetness, father handed over the payment to the old baker saying, “Chand Ali, we are sorry, but this is the last year we will be making cakes this way. The process is too costly and cumbersome. Further, our relatives and friends now seem to prefer the fancier off-the-shelf cakes. They come with fancy packaging and all the bells and whistles. No doubt that no one can bring out the taste that you create, but we simply cannot do this anymore for various reasons. Hope you understand old friend.”
Rani had just heard what her father said and cried loudly as Chand Ali slowly rode away, with the empty black tin trunk tied on the carrier of his trusted bicycle.
Two days later, on Christmas day, when the spirit of festivity was at its height in the Pyne residence, there was an unexpected knock on the door. The ever-attentive Rani dashed to find the old baker at their doorstep. “Hello, little one, I won’t be staying today. I have become too old to bake cakes going door-to-door. I have finally decided to pack my business. As a parting gift, I would like to give you this unique cake that I have specially baked for you. It will last you forever, but you should eat it soon as it has the power to make your dreams come true,” after saying these words, the old man left before Rani could react or thank Chand Dadu in any way.
As the years passed by, Rani did not eat the cake. Knowing it was the last of its kind, she could not muster the courage to eat it. She kept it safe, thinking that one day when she would bake a cake similar to what the old baker had made, she would eat the last cake that Chand Dadu had baked.
Time flew, and Rani grew. Calcutta became Kolkata. Many of the nostalgic charms vanished as the old city evolved with new and charismatic things. Rani was now thirty-two and at a crucial juncture of her life. It is the month of Christmas in 2021. She had graduated from the Indian Institute of Hotel Management (IIHM), with a specialisation in baking cakes. For the past few years, she had been working hard to give fruition to her childhood dream. Finally, she had saved enough money to open her own business. Now she was about to open her very own bakery from the Pyne Residence. All the formalities for her new business were in place.
It was a special month not only professionally but personally too. Rani was to get married to Shekhar, her sweetheart from the IIHM, a fellow student who shared her passion for baking, and together they dreamt of opening their bakery in the ‘City of Joy.’ There was, however, a problem.
“The wedding is just in seven days. Our bakery is also scheduled to open on the same day. Both the things have to be on the auspicious day of Christmas. I will simply not have just any other cake for the wedding, and neither will our bakery roll out its first batch of just any other fruitcake. I have to crack Chand Dadu’s recipe,” said Rani with much frustration as she banged her fists on the kitchen table of her yet-to-open bakery at the Pyne residence.
Hours went by as Rani and her fiance dug their heads to bake several small batches of various ingredients and spice mixes, trying to recreate Chand Ali’s legendary fruitcake. At 4:00 AM, when all their efforts had failed, Shekhar said, “Rani, if I could only eat a piece of Chand Ali’s cake, perhaps I could provide better input in breaking the recipe.”
Rani stood up from her chair saying, “what the hell.” She walked out of the kitchen and came back after ten minutes with Chand Ali’s twenty-year-old fruitcake wrapped in an embroidered cloth, which she had safely stored all these years in a tin box in her closet. Carefully unwrapping the cloth, she delicately placed the cake at the centre of the table.
“Well, Shekhar, since you stood by my side during these last few years, fuelling my dream, you at least deserve a slice of Chand Dadu’s legend,” saying these words, Rani drove her knife across the surface on one corner of her treasured loaf, which she had for so long safely kept. She handed over a slice to Shekhar, and her fiance chewed it without a word, savouring every last morsel of the fabled fruitcake.
“I have never tasted anything like this in my whole life. Why don’t you have a slice too,” Shekhar said to his fiance. As Rani drew the knife on the cake to carve out a piece for herself, she felt something hard scrape on the blade’s edge.
“Wait a minute, there is something inside this cake,” said Rani while carefully pealing the antique desert to find a little wooden box hidden inside the belly of the cake. As Rani broke open the small wooden box, tears rolled down her cheeks. Inside it was a folded parchment paper and on it was written in a crooked and shaky English cursive font the detailed process, the recipe, and the formula of the secret-spice-mix of Chand Ali’s legendary fruitcake.
Copyright © 2021 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA
This work of fiction, written by Trishikh Dasgupta is the author’s sole intellectual property. Some characters, incidents, places, and facts may be real while some fictitious. All rights are reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, send an email to the author at trishikh@gmail.com or get in touch with Trishikh on the CONTACT page of this website.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trishikh Dasgupta
Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
Il y a un temps spécial
pour dire quelque chose de spéciale
à une personne spéciale
d’une manière spéciale
aux heures spéciales
étant spéciale pour moi
je te dis spécialement avec tant de spécialité:
BONJOUR,BON WEEK END BERNARD
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Thanks Bernard.
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That was a beautiful story.
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Thank you so much Tina. I am thankful to you for appreciating.
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Good one. Nice punch line.
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Thank you so much Ravindra’ji. So happy that you liked the story and specially the title.
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Wow 🍀 extremely amazing expression in each line. I went deep in to the story and enjoyed old Bengal Christmas days and cakes.
Way back in 90s I enjoyed one such Christmas fruit cake slice with a friend’s family and listened to many old stories of cake making, literally forgotten about it and now I am dreaming imagine back the old days again. I simply loved your language and expression. I will sure read every post of yours as it’s having such attraction. One word to say Delighted 🙏 thanks for bringing me to those days dream world once again. 🌷🍀🍁
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Reading your comment at the start of the day brings tears of joy. It gives me confidence that writing these stories are having it impact of humanity, stirring emotions and bringing joy.
Am so glad that my story was able to rekindle an old memory of yours, and you could relate to the tale. What more can a writer ask for.
I treasure your comment and an eternally grateful for it. Do visit again, I try to write and publish one story every weekend. There are many stories here, some of which I am sure you would live to read.
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Hi , Good day.
Glad to read from you. Thank you. I will certainly read your post so I follow your blog and alert notification on posts. I am here on wp for few years and I read my fav writers posts how ever busy I am I still make time for the same.
Chand Ali the old man baker still in my mind and I love to go back to the old streets of Kolkotta and walk again. I am sure there will be many stories in each old buildings.
I am extremely delighted the way of writing it’s smooth and perfect and I am sure rating your posts as best ones .
I am lazy to write for sure and I only posted pictures that talks about the places I visited. As the covid hit my work travels I am spending more time reading from the friends around. I love to cheer the post and comment to express this made my day.
I have told this story to a friend in your own expressions while having coffee and share the link of your post as well. I love to tell stories of my own experiences with my friends and now I got a new story to share. Thank you. It’s a pleasing week end and happy time for us here.
Wishing you more smiles of the day with nice week end greetings and I will buzz you if I get a chance to visit Kolkatta again.
Have a cheerful writing time and looking forward to read again soon.
🍀🌷🙏
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I cannot express my joy in words, reading your sincere comment. I treasure each and every little like and tiny comments on my stories, all of them are very precious to me. It shows that someone took the time to appreciate, and you have taken so much time to write to me, for which I am ever grateful. My stories are my contribution to humanity, I hope that they will resonate in this world, even long after I am gone. They are my footprints on the sands of time, not eternal, but I certainly wish for them to have a long life.
I am so glad that you are talking about my stories with your friends. That’s something I treasure very much. I am much honoured that you find my writing smooth and perfect.
Look forward to you visiting my blog again to read more of my stories.
With kind regards,
Trishikh.
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You are most welcome. The best writings will stay smiling always. It’s ideal copy right warnings on all posts. Only for reading and not for stealing.
Make sure you publish the book on your own sounds great and make it limited edition series. Not to reach out on line sharks like Amazon or big publishers. They will misuse by all means it’s our own experience of past.
Wish you more success and more power to make new posts in coming days.
Cheers. Victor.
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Your suggestions on publishing are very valid. Have to work hard on publishing, though I must confess that till now I have made no efforts on that front. Have only been concentrating on writing, amidst a hectic job and the rigmarole of family life.
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I wish you more and looking forward to read more on going. Cheers. 🍀🌺
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Thank you so much. I treasure your best wishes. Health and safety to you and your family as well.
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🌺🍀🌷🍁🙏
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Interesting
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Thank you so much Anand. So glad that you find my story interesting.
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A very Interesting indeed! Created a nostalgic feeling about Christmas.
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So happy that you liked it. Appreciation really makes my day.
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Thank you so much for reblogging this story of mine
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What an incredibly beautiful story, and written with such emotion and love. You are an amazing writer and story teller, and I look forward to reading each of your stories! Thank you so much for sharing them with us 💟
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Reading your comment at the start of the day give me so much joy and encouragement to continue writing these short stories. I am so happy that you liked my story. Please visit my blog agin and do read my other stories, when you get the time. I am sure that you would greatly enjoy them.
Trishikh
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Wow love it
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Thank you so much Rochelle. It really makes my day when someone appreciates one of my stories. So happy that you liked this little tale of mine.
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Yes absolutely keep up and godbless stay blessed 🙏
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Blessings and best wishes to you too. Have a great day.
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Is a bite of that awesome cake still available?
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Now, that is a good question.
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I would love to bake but I need a Chand Ali to teach me the trick. Either it is under or over baked.
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I am sure that you would succeed with a little bit of practice. We can be good at anything if we love to do it and are dedicated to it.
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Loved it
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Thank you Titus. It really gives me great joy when someone appreciates one of my stories.
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I truly enjoyed this story. As a young boy I had a great aunt whom I lived with as a youngest. She cooked apple pies for me She had a fruitcake that was over 30 years old. It seemed to have been wrapped in a heavy oiled piece of linen.
She took the cake out of the storage cellar once a year, and sliced off two pieces, one for her and one for me. That story brought back wonderful childhood moments of my Great-Aunt Emma.
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Dear Newt, nothing makes my day better than when someone can relate to one of my stories, and when one of my stories brings back some memory. Your comment really made my day. The stories we share helps us communicate better and know more about each other. Now I know that Newt Livesay has a great aunt who had a 30-year-old fruit cake in the cellar, and one day she and Newt shared a piece…
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GRAZIE
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I identify with this all the way to the end grew up on fruit cake even now fruits are being “soaked in rum and wine” tradition from.family .Thanks again .Got busy .I take time out read these articles. Blessings.
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So glad that you got to read this story, relate to it, and also enjoy it. Making cakes in this way is slowly disappearing from the city of Kolkata.
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UN ABBRACCIO DALL’ITALIA
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A hug from India to you too.
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GRAZIE
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Greetings, Trishik,
Health. Hope. Happiness, always.
I hope you are fine.
Absolutely magical and nostalgic story by you. I was immediately reminded of Kabuliwalla.
In your lucid, exemplary, and simple style your story spoke volumes about beautiful bonds that are as fresh as your awe-inspiring cakes. Their presence lingers forever. Cakes and adoring associations that are built on the multi-hued silken threads of empathy, kindness, gentleness, compassion, etc.
Upwards and onwards, always. 🌄
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Comment 2/2
A) Many thanks for sharing, Trishik.
B) Typo error in my earlier response. Please read exemplary. I am not able to edit and hence the second response.
Please stay blessed always. 🏞
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Well noted, will make the change in the comment.
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🌿 🕊🕊 🕊🕊 🌿
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Dear friend, I must confess that this story is inspired by Kabuliwalla.
I am really thankful to you for liking the story so much, and understanding the depth of things in it.
So glad that you found my short stories. Do read some more of them whenever you get the time. I am sure that you would love many of them.
With kind regards,
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Greetings of a bright and inspiring day, Trishik,
Thank you very much for your kind response.
I will surely read your stories that are empathetic, informative, and purpose-driven.
I truly appreciate your writing style.
🏞 Health. Hope. Happiness, always. 🌄
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It is such a blessing for one’s work to be enjoyed and appreciated. I am really thankful to you.
Lots of blessings to you.
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🌿🌿 🏞 🕊🕊 🌄 🐦🦢 🌌 🐦⬛🦜 🌿🌿
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🙏
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🕊🕊🌿 🌌 🦜🐦⬛ 🌄 🦢🐦 🏞 🐎 🐘 🌿 🕊🕊
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🙏
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Thank you so much, Trishikh, for the wonderfully nostalgic tale with the happy ending we did not expect. I love the history of the fruitcake making and the special recipe, which, with care, we could follow. As always, your writing is exceptional and visual.
Joanna
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Dear Joanna, so happy that you found this old story of mine. Nothing gives me greater joy, than when someone finds one of my old stories and enjoys the same. This one is very precious to me, I really liked the way it turned out.
Glad that you liked the recipe. Happy reading to you.
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Thank you, Trishikh, for your kind reply. I didn’t realise that it was an old one. Lucky me! I hope to read more of the older tales!
Joanna
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Dear Joanna, that would give me much happiness. Do read some of the old ones that you have missed.
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wow this was a culinary masterpiece…. first ive heard of a cake lasting over 20 years, not if im in the room lol.
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Dear William, Sorry, that somehow this message of your’s landed in my spam folder, so the late approval and reply. So happy that you liked this story of mine. Yes, if made in the correct manner, fruit cakes can really last long.
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