“Last time you lied. I knew you were not well and you were looking frail.” Today you are gone. The city’s rhythm—once punctuated by the fold of sal leaf plates and the gentle ladling of curd-soaked Dahibara—is missing a beat. Raghunath Sasmal aka Raghu Mausa is gone.
Raghu was born to hold fort. Thirty-eight years my senior, yet a friend for forty-three. He was in the middle of fast vanishing legacy of Cuttack, standing tall in his humility, his blue kurta slowly turning white with time—like a flag weathered but proud.
In the 1980s, at his personal peak, Raghu’s spartan dekchis of Dahibara and Aloodum pulled entire households to Stadium Padia. No marketing, no menu boards, no gimmicks. Just consistency, purity, and love. Every afternoon, every evening, the same treat. No monotony. No health scares. Just Raghu.
For seventy unbroken years, he was a living monument, a custodian of Cuttack’s soul, and a friend to generations. His passing isn’t merely the end of a culinary era—it’s the fading of a city’s heartbeat.
As Dahibara evolved—adding guguni, seu, and becoming chaat-like—Raghu remained unchanged, undiminished, unrepentant. His recipe was a time capsule, a refusal to bend to trends. Watery curd, delicately arranged Dahibara, a sprinkle of salt and chilli, Aludam on top—all served in a neatly folded sal leaf. No plastic. No pretense.
He left Stadium chaak, I left the place. Now I will leave Nai Kula, Bidanasi too.
He was a master of product standardisation, a hygiene evangelist without ever entering a mall or supermart. He would delicately arrange the Dahibara in the neatly folded sal leaf, and put Alu dam on top with sprinkle of salt, chilli powder, dunked in watery curd. This was the everlasting magic for seven decades. A product standardisation and hygiene unmatched by the heavily mechanised KFCs, McDonalds. The magic bullet was his love for feeding us.
In three hours, he’d sell out. Then, with folded hands and a sigh, he’d turn away hopeful latecomers. That was his style. His panache.
Raghu wasn’t just Dahibara Aloodum. He was repose. A safe house. An 18–20 minute interaction that could last me months. Going to him was returning to the secure hug of Cuttack—where nothing mattered, no judgments, no partitions. Plain warmth.
I was initiated – “ଚାରୁ ବାବୁ ତୁ କୁଆଡେ ଯାଉଛୁ?” “କଉ ଦିଲ୍ଲୀ ମୁମ୍ବାଇ ରେ ରହୁଚୁ?” and I would respond କଣ କରିବି କହ ? ପେଟ ଚିନ୍ତା ? Raghu’s quick repartee would be, “ଖାଲି ଏମିତି କଥା କହିକି ଠକୁ ଥା ମୋତେ”. ଆଉ ଘରେ ମା ବାବୁ କେମିତି ଅଛନ୍ତି ? ମୋ ନମସ୍କାର କହି ଦବୁ (meaning my parents).
He was family, he always remembered my parents. He asked about their wellbeing. He offered more than food—he offered belonging.
Raghu Babu never had a covered shop. Never wanted one. He was the original MSME—a micro enterprise that built macro memories. A creative economy pioneer before the term existed. From Stadium Chhak to Bidanasi, from AIR to Doordarshan, from Barrister Ranjit Mohanty to NLU—he travelled with Cuttack’s evolution, never losing his essence.
Now, he’s gone.
This afternoon, you won’t be there.
And so, I won’t go either.
Oh, Cuttack one more brick from the citadel has fallen. Brace for the new, yet unknown Raghu.
But there will never be another quite like you.
You were not just a vendor. No way. You were Cuttack’s conscience, its culinary poet, its ever tasteful, ambassador.
Yes. But you’ll live on Raghu Babu—in every sal leaf, every curd-soaked bite, and every memory that tastes like home.
ହେଇଚି ଅନା, ରଘୁ ବାବୁ, ରହିଲି ..
