Tele bhaja (Oil fries)

(Written on 24th August, 2017)

An evening walk through the narrow alleyways in North Kolkata is like a journey through time. You have spent your afternoon browsing through the numerous pages of artificial intelligence and the muscular robot dog who you think could have been cuter and more furry. At the end of the day, if there is a dog, you want to cuddle it. You are not at all pleased with the exoskeleton and so you decide you would breathe life into the design of your own personal, more realistic version of a dog. You fish out an old sketch book because the newer one has no pages left in it. The yellow pages have gathered dust and it has a very uniform coating of some light and dark shades of grey. You are very focused on the face initially because you are still deciding if the breed should be one from your fantasy or the ones that do exist as domesticated balls of fur. The liquid eyes would obviously bear the transperance and innocence of a true friend. As your fingers move swiftly and smoothly on the softer older amber paper, you feel the yearning for some evening cha (tea.) You throw on your purple velvet sweatshirt and with the blue and white Ajanta slippers on your feet you prance down the wooden creaky staircase that opens into the narrow alley. You estimate that it is around 5.30 in the evening, the sun dissolving its orange in the spectacular blue brine, beyond the horizon. The crows returning to their homes after a hard day's work of scavenging from the kitchen wastes of Khudiran lane, Rabindranagar, and Bose-Poddar lanes of the far east as they share their stories of success and failure to one another. Productive or not, the day has been done and they share to forget the events of the day as they nestle close to their family in their warm nest. You wish you could learn about their stories of peace, love and horror, but their language is too 'birdilious' for you, this is word you conjure out of thin air because your subconscious has picked up 'ious' from the 'delicious' wafts of the evening onion pakoras of Tuni da, sprinkled with rock salt. The dimly lit streets turns rapid sharp corners as you walk through the narrow streets carved out on the canvas of the Ganga-Brahmaputra Delta. In the distance you can now see the faint yellow sodium vapour lamp swaying in the 'thela gari' (literal meaning : push cart) of Tuni da. The wooden window of Rani is letting out her sargams through the cracks as she rhymes and strives on, "sa re, re ga, ga ma, pa dha..." and an abrupt halt in her recitation as the harmonium plays on, not giving company to her voice this once. Her little fingers still hovering above random keys as she doesn't let go, "ma pa" has slipped through her mind, those few seconds ticking away, you stop in anticipation, will she start from the beginning of the verse, or continue from the middle or give up altogether, but children don't give up so easy, especially not Rani, maybe her music teacher is strict. You know that it is perfectly understandable for a little girl to make mistakes in the process of learning and oh how she has improved since she started! Although the music and rhythm fails her most of the times, but she touches every antara and mukhra with her innocence even if they are only recited by her, still waiting for their turn to be sung. The crude gentleness, an otherwise oxymoron, excites you as you again feel the air being filled with her "sa re, re ga, ga ma, ma pa, pa dha, dha ni, ni saaaa" - yes she has made it this time. Your lips curve and your dimples sink deeper as you embrace your own ingenuousness. The soft evening breeze ruffles your already unkempt hair and the stronger smell of the evening bhaja (oil fried food) addles you. "Dada, kemon achho?" - you greet him as you reach his humble cart of fried goodies. The cha boils in his saucepan, the crisp and freshly fried onion pakoras lay in his jhuri, ( a bamboo basket) waiting to be taken away to the homes of Ganguly Para, Anwar Shah lane and the occassional Sarat Bose avenue, as he continues frying aloo chop ( aloo balls fryed in batter,) while the rectangular-cut pile of paper lies in wait to bask in the oil of fries that they will absorb soon. "Kemon achho, ma?" Tuni da beams as he packs your usual order, sprinkling some rock salt unevenly. "Ma" is a word which literally means mother, but the elders in Bengal call the younger with terms such as ma and baba to imply son or daughter. This is reciprocal love, using the literal reciprocal term, you ponder, endearing in its own unique way, inexplicable in any other language you are aware of. Tuni da knows exactly what his regular customers order, he greets Harihar dadu ( grandpa) as he pulls out the earthen tea cup to pour him and you cups of freshly made cha. More people gather to enliven the intersection of Ganguly Para and Anwar Shah lane, this beautiful evening. You greet everyone and leave the animated faces behind, their chortle gradually fading in the distance, Rani has moved on to practice "Aguner porosh Moni," a Rabindra Sangeet, the barking dogs sometimes drowning her attempts as she strives on. The alleyways turning darker and then suddenly turning brighter as the street lamps gather tiny winged friends around its neck, you feel your goosebumps being exposed at the thoughts of winged insects around your neck. The grey overcasts the barely exposed sky as the pale yellow buildings with green wooden windows obstructs what's beyond. But you end up concentrating on the stories that these concrete structures hold within themselves, joy and sorrow, excitement and frustration - carry you into a fathomless depth. You hear the wind chimes from a window sill, all too familiar, that holds parts of an old memory shared with an old friend who is at peace somewhere beyond these grey clouds above, his smile ingrained deep in your memory. You smile at the melodious tinkle and give in to the memory of a forgotten guileless naivete. You climb up the flight of stairs and leave your chappals at the door as you raise a virtual glass to your old friend, "to funny faces and tomfoolery," and a soft "I miss you " trailing your thoughts of this winsome evening walk.