Sunday, July 08, 2007

This happened several years ago, when I must've been around seven or eight. A relative had started a chinese restaurant 'neath her unnecessarily large house and we were all invited for the grand opening. It wasn't very grand, though - the sort of opening a patio-turned-chilli chicken fried rice place should have - tacky tuni bulbs hanging from a large tree in front of the house, decorator-hired white chairs with the plastic weave ripping off from the backrests, unreasonably overdressed women in their best kanjeevarams and the finest jewellery they own all the better to show whose husband earned the most for. And plenty of free food that was, and presumably remains to this day, unpalatable and unhygienic in equal measure.
I remember feeling tortured like I always did at these gala familial rendezvous, where gossip flew about in hushed whispers and rolled eyes - when a little boy in brown shorts came up the street, holding his father's hand. He stood, mesmerised, looking at the restaurant's cheap chinese lamps and the celebrations- it was as if he'd never seen something so marvellous before. They were the archetypal bangali middle-class. You meet so many of them during the Pujos, the fathers looking disinterested but happy (proud), the tiny boys with bright eyes, wearing silly paper hats and clutching onto a party whistle or a plastic toy, constantly being scolded or fussed over by their mothers who walked two paces behind the husbands.
As is the wont of all children, the boy was abrim with questions. "Ki hochhe ekhaane, baba? Eto shajano kyano?"
I remember the boy tugging at his father's hand and begging to be fed at the restaurant. He was very hungry, he said. The father gave in, after some coaxing, and they sat down. For an interminably long time nobody attended to them. The boy and his father sat on two rickety decorator-decrepit chairs in the middle of a footpath on a Kolkata residential alley, feeling underdressed and unwanted. They waited patiently without hollering for a waiter. Finally, the father got up and managed to get hold of a menu card. He pondered thoughtfully over it and furrowed his brow just a little bit while the little boy could hardly contain his excitement and wanted to know immediately what they were eating. While the boy rattled off "chicken chow mien" and "mixed fried rice", the father kept shaking his head but keeping quiet. Muted in his discomfort, while some gaudily made up eyes looked questioningly at him and turned away, disinterested. Eventually, a waiter went up to them, and I heard the man ordering a half-bowl of chicken soup, much to the son's dismay. When the child protested, the father simply said, "Na baba, eibarta otai khao." The boy's face fell, but he said nothing. When the soup arrived, he ate quietly, while his father watched and wiped the sweat off his son's forehead, refusing to share his meal. I took a look at the menu, it was the cheapest item on it. When the bill arrived, the man took out a note from his shirt pocket and didn't tip. They went on their way and I haven't seen them since. That's all.
I can't remember the last time I met my extended family, but I do remember, sixteen years ago, while I was stuffing my face with food I could have in plenty and didn't want, there was a young boy sitting across from me, understanding lack with dignity and silent endurance.


Rimi said...

Bhor shaare chhotai porlam. Dhur shala. Bhalo laage na.

Rapid I Movement said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Anonymous said...

One of the best posts so far.

All I could do was admire silently.

May God bless the both of them and all such people on this earth.

Dhruva said...


Unknown said...

I have been reading your blog for some time now. One of the best posts so far!

rainbeau_peep said...

bhor shaare chhotai jegey thaka'r jonyo uchit shikkha. bhorbela to aami Fugly chhara kichhu porina. beautiful start to the day, oitey :-p

Clearly you make no demands for quality of language. :-p thank you.
I've created a narrative in my head about them. In my head, the father lost his wallet and other such happy endings. We'll never know, and that's a good thing.

bah. self-portrait. :-p

ish. i am humbeled only.

Confused n Baffled said...

umm...this is about the wrongestest post to say this on. but i got my ipod back! yayness is me!

Lucifer said...

Thanks for the comment! Hope you do come again!

Anonymous said...

Yes, yes! poor will probably have to sell his kidney to pay for school fees.

See I'm true to form.

---- --- --- have a nice day

Anonymous said...

sod off!

Arundhati said...

Moreover, i am back. on a whim, but back nonetheless.

rainbeau_peep said...

whoa? how?!?! when?!?! why do good things happen to bad people? hullo?! [yea yea, i'm happy for u and all that. when ur getting jiggy widit, remember me, who has not even a stereo system any more, leave alone portable fancy schmancy]

hehe. well-learned politesse.

lord morpheus,
ooo. such biting wit.

past patishapta,
hmm. dekhlam. panshey *subversive prem er* blogposts.
khyak. baron korechhilam eto miss korte amaye. :-p

Hatturi Hanzo said...

The bicycle thief-er ekTi drishyer kotha mone poRe gelo. Jekhane baaba o chheleTi cycle khNuje klanto hoye ekTi restaurant-y dhukbe khabar jonye. :-)

Aar aager post-er comment-er uttore boli ami sadharonoto er thekeo khoTomoTo bhashay kotha boli. Aar Jibukobi-ke chena boRo duhsadhyo kaaj. Aapni socheshTo hoyechhen dekhe bhalo laagchhe. :-D

Hatturi Hanzo said...

Aar iye, ei odhom-i "Suddha" naam-e commentiyechhilo.

Sukhaloka said...

thank you.

March Hare said...


Apoplexy said...

tore blog o ache?