Beetle-chewing fiery red lips, cherry size striking red bindi and blood red vermillion in the parting of her long luscious hair, carefully tied in a braid with a red band, a little over five foot tall, well endowed, Rajeswari draped her green and red cotton saree with a golden border, a tad higher than usual, almost an inch above her ankles. She pulled out her thick gold chain entangled in the hooks of her blouse and hummed a Krishna bhajan while adjusting her pallu to cover her hair. Looking into the mirror with her kohl-rimmed big dark brown eyes, she admired her curvaceous, wheatish waist, signifying her health and wealth. After spraying an expensive perfume, Rajeswari felt complete—a woman who knew how to wield her weapons proficiently.

Her regular rickshaw driver rang the ear-piercing horn, ‘Har Har Shambhu'.

Rajeswari rushed to the fridge to take out her secret ingredients. The light green paste was carefully ground on stone to a fine mixture and a dark brown masala with a distinctly sweet aroma.

She smiled, savouring the memories, “Govind bringing hemp instead of hemp seeds and getting delirious after consuming it, eureka moments after manoeuvring the mazes of tastebuds, quarrels and love making afterwards.”

Before leaving, Rajeswari pulled her pallu further to the forehead, close to her bindi to follow the regressive culture forced on her lest her father-in-law uttered obscenities. She touched the old man’s feet for his blessings.

He remarked, “Govind can manage. Why’re you going all decked up like a heroine?”

Every other day, Rajeshwari felt provoked to hit the old man, and she would do so. Punches, kicks, or even stabbing with her favourite kitchen knife delighted her, providing eternal peace to her heart in her imagination.

The pallu had a short life till the bylanes of her home. Once she reached Rajeshwari Sweets, the pallu would return from its pride position over the head to the left side, safely tucked into the skirt of her saree, next to a bunch of keys in silver keyring.

After crossing the main street and entering the narrow mazes of Banaras city, Rajeswari would keep bowing her head, joining the palms, and humming the prayers while crossing each temple. The early morning devotees, saints and tourists hailed Lord Kashi Viswanath, “Har Har Mahadev”.

She happily chanted the name, “Jai Mahadev” though her heart yearned to greet, “Radhe-Radhe”.

Rajeshwari was from Vrindavan. The tales of Krishna-Leela, the songs, the rituals to look after Bal-Gopal and the anecdotes of Krishna playing Raas every night at Nidhivan made her fall in love with Krishna. She would dress as a gopi during the Phalgun month, Holi, and Janmashtami for Krishna, like many other girls of the region, and sang and danced euphorically in the streets and the temples.

Her father warned his wife, “Rajeshwari is a high-spirited girl. Whatever she sets her heart to, she wholeheartedly devotes herself to it. Direct her energy to learn our legacy and household work, otherwise, her in-laws would trouble her.”

Rajeswari argued, “Who’s marrying? I’m born to love Krishna.”

“Everyone’s born for a reason. Even Krishna left Radha to serve his purpose. Find your worth.” Exhorted her father.

Before the corybantic state could consume Rajeshwari, her father married her to a fellow sweet shop owner’s son in Banaras.

Govind Gupta’s pumped-up chest, muscular arms and six-pack abs found their proud presence from the contours of his tight white T-shirt. His soft eyes, endearing smile, and sweet demeanour defied his formidable looks.

Rajeswari told her friend, “Govindji’s a kid at heart. I wish to complete his look by pinning a peacock feather on his head and making him hold a flute. But Govindji wants to hang a snake around his neck and dance on the roll of a damru.”

Her friend teased, “Govind’s name is a synonym of Krishna. Love your lord.”

Govind loved Rajeswari’s chubby cheeks, seductive smile and the twinkle in her eyes when she said, “Govindji, now you’re my Krishna. My precious life is in your hands. Take care.”

“I’m a Shaivite, Rajeshwariji. You're my queen.”

Loving is easy, but a blissful married life demands hard work.

Govind was a diligent bodybuilder and enjoyed social work but ignored family business. His shop, ‘Banaras Sweets’, failed. 

Govind lost interest after the division of property between the Gupta brothers. Govind’s father inherited the house and his astute elder brother inherited the family business, ‘Gupta Sweets’. He threatened dire consequences if Govind’s father used the same name to open his sweetshop and claimed the authenticity of their family’s legacy. The court cases followed, burning relationships and remaining wealth. Rajeshwari’s mother-in-law had depression and slipped from the boat while performing the rituals to revive their business. Her father-in-law became a bitter old man.

Rajeswari took the reins of the Gupta home and the dwindling business of ‘Banaras Sweets’. After all, her father was the head chef and owner of the most famous eatery in Vrindavan. She returned to learn the fine culinary delicacies and the intricacies of the business from her father. Meanwhile, Govind worked as an apprentice under a chef to learn the Banarasi cuisine. Rajeshwari stayed in Vrindavan for a year to master the traits. She was a natural. Her pleased father rewarded her with a substantial amount and an expert cook with one condition: that the new shop would be in the name of Rajeshwari.

The scent of incense sticks, rings of temple bells, and drumbeats in every street made her mornings blissful. She wished to stay and get deliriously happy with the chants and prayers praising Mahadev, but she had a business to run.

The rickshaw driver hurled abuses, "Hurrah! Get a side. Idiots and cows stand midway."

She pondered, "Everything was the same yet different."

Surprised? A change in Rajeswari's heart. Well, devotion is devotion. What’s in the name of God? Krishna left Vrindavan and betrayed Radha, whereas, Mahadev left his home at Kailasa and settled in Banaras for his beloved Parvati. Our Rajeswari married Govind of Banaras and left Vrindavan to follow in Krishna’s footsteps. Her soul was for Krishna like Krishna’s was for Radha, but her body was for Govind and his deity, Mahadev. 
How a girl transforms into a woman after marriage!

Rajeswari mused, “Yeah! It took years to innovate and blend the Ganga-Jamuni traditions in love, sweets, and savouries.”

Getting the kachoris, Jalebi and special rabri prepared in various flavours- paan, mango, strawberry and many more under her stern supervision was arduous. Yet her workers happily obliged, for they knew the compassionate woman behind the exigent main chef. Scorching heat, rain, or cold foggy Banaras mornings, Rajeshwari arrived religiously for the early morning preparations.

Once the basic Rabri and variety of kachori masalas were ready, she would announce, “All of you move out, close the door. I’ll pray to Mahadev to bless this food.”

She would loudly sing the Shiv aarti, and add the secret ingredients, the green paste to the huge cauldron of rabri and the dark brown powder to the roasted golden masala of the black gram dal kept for the filling of the kachoris. She would stir the rabri with a long, heavy brass ladle while singing and keep stirring until the green paste vanished without leaving a trace of green. She would then add crushed pista and quietly chant, “Radhe-Radhey!”

And then she would roar, “What’re you waiting for? An invitation? Govind Seth is about to arrive with the Gangajal offered to the lingam.”

The staff exclaimed, “Har har Mahadev, Jai Mahadev!” and began rolling out the puris to fill the blessed masala.

The customers waited, forming long lines at six am to relish the famous kachoris and jalebi-rabri. Govind would arrive at 6:30 adorning the three chandan lines with a red vermillion tikka on his dark-tanned oily forehead, a thick gold chain, a 108 Rudraksha string around his neck, and a ten kg drum filled up to the brim of Gangajal mix with milk, curd, honey and sandalwood. The Gangajal concoction was used to make lassi and thandai of two varieties; one with the hemp paste for ecstasy and the second, with the regular one.

Govind watched Rajeshwari interacting with the tourists, her soft bulging tummy playing peek-a-boo with her saree and giggling with her laughter.

Once a customer, always a customer of the Rajeswari Sweets. The rivals envied their success and tried to buy the workers but the staff denied any secret ingredient. Rajeshwari’s kachori, rabri and thandai enticed world-famous personalities to devotees from villages. The fame peaked when Nira Bambani visited and requested a stall of her specialities for her daughter’s wedding. People would take each bite and find themselves in a heavenly gastronomic world of delicacies.

The reporters asked, “What’s the secret?”

Rajeshwari acknowledged, “The unique taste is an amalgamation of the culinary heritage of Banaras, Mathura and infinite love.”

She greeted fervently, “Har Har Mahadev!”

Rajeshwari held Govind’s hand and thought, “Had it not been pumpkin and hemp seeds paste for rabri and roasted poppy seeds, whole spices, dried dates powder, and liberal use of asafoetida for kachori mixture, their delicacies would have been like any other shop of Banaras.”

Govind observed the delirious crowd relishing, asking for more, “Your passion made it possible. Thank you, my queen. I love you.”

She secretly spoke to Lord Krishna, “Thank you. I see you in him.”