Yellow!

The best friend sent me a link to the most amazing living bookmarks one could come across. I want to buy them, gift them to my father-in-law and see them grow into black and yellow flowers. (When I was a little girl, I used to call them tiger-flowers for their colour combination). Sunflowers always fascinate me. And what can be more fascinating if you see them grow out of bookmarks?

 

The instruction manual recommends that once you have finished your book, the ribbon must be removed and the bookmark soaked religiously after which they can be sown deep in fine soil. They can be planted in pots or in the garden, where sunshine basks for at least 4 hours a day. With sunshine, water and love, the bookmarks turn into a tuft of flowers.

Books do open doors to a world of magic, but here, a bookmark does the honours. Here is a bookmark that breathes. A bookmark that gives birth to a bunch of black and yellow happiness. (“Udein khule asmaan mein khawabon ke parindey” does a pop-up act while I write this post).

They are right when they said, “Just give back to the earth what your earth gave you (your book)”. Absolute truth.

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Time: Day before yesterday. 7.00pm

The best friend said that, like me, she too is awed by Sunflowers.

“Sunflower is one of my favourite flowers”.

Me: It is also my favourite perfume.

Her Whatssap message giggled. “Buy na.”

Me: It is out-of-market. For the past one year, I have tried every possible source I could.

Burnt every bit of kathh and khhor. No luck. : (

Time: Day before yesterday. 11.55pm

The brother in law handed over a brown paper package.

What I saw inside released a thousand butterflies in the digestive system….all restless and wanting to break free. A bottle of Elizabeth Arden perfume.

“Sunflowers”.

*almost faints in disbelief*

It had a quote written on the transparent casing: “A woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future” :D

And it also had a “Please see” note: “To the woman’s woman who is every bit the sunflower in our life. Here’s to you smelling like me.”

The voice choked. The cheeks turned salty and the heart missed a beat.

I have said it before. I shall say it again. Sriyanta Chatterjee, you reaffirm my belief that good things always happen to good people. You are surely one of those better things life has rewarded me with. (Disclaimer: This view is independent of the influence induced by the present gift).

P.S:  About the “here’s to you smelling like me” part, you not only smell of ‘Sunflowers’ but you also smell of happiness. You reek of peace and goodness. And above everything, you smell like family. Yes, I do want to smell like you.

P.P.S: I always thought that the advent of the would-be sister-in-law would make me terribly jealous and insecure, for all the attention I enjoyed will be shared majorly. Needless to say, you proved me wrong.

P.P.S: শেষ দুটো প্যারাগ্রাফের জন্য আজীবন আমার কর্তৃত্ব-ফলানো মুখ বুজে মেনে নিস। নইলে তোর ভগবান ভীষণ পাপ দেবেন কিন্তু! 

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I was flipping through “the rains…” folder on my computer. I saw this picture. It was clicked on a Saturday afternoon at the Park Circus crossing. The cloud burst held hands with the sunbeams. I had posted it on Facebook…. “Little Miss Sunshine decides to rain dance. Can’t wait to see the rainbow.” (I have a bad habit of naming and describing almost every picture I click.)

Today, the picture got a more appropriate narrative. Courtesy: Rekha Bharadwaj played on repeat.

“Kaisi teri khudgarzi, Na dhoop chune na chhaon…..“

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Mangoes and Kadam phool.

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The High Court para saw some just-for-the-day stalls selling Papor-bhaja in abundance. I observed and absorbed the process with the happiness of a five year old. Rathajatra just has this magic, you see. It pulls you into a time machine and with a ‘Whooosh’ sound it transports you to your childhood.

The papad dived into a pool of mustard oil. As it swam, its fragile body became strong and crispy. Jagadish did the rest. Packet full of papor-bhaja accompanied by Jilipi.

I too, took a dip into the sea of memories. Rathher mela at the Rashbehari junction, papod-jilipi-teeler kathi, plants for the terrace, pets (rabbits and birds) for the two of us (Bhai and I), aluminum miniature utensils for the doll’s house and wooden utensils for the kitchen with belun chaki (round wooden board and rolling pin) and bnoti (vegetable chopper) topping the list, tasting countless pickles with wooden ice cream spoons and ultimately buying one or two, digestive ajwain golis and dalimer hojmi from Jaina Shilpa Mandir, Fatafat, the black salt we called ‘Current’ (because of its electrifying effect on the tip of the tongue), Mouri-lozenges  (coloured, sugar-coated aniseed), clay models of Ganesh, Ramkrishna, Bibekananda, pigeons, fruits and vegetables (amongst them, the brinjal always looked closest to real).  

  

Today, while we were gorging on the papor-bhaja, a colleague said…”Ishh, er shonge jodi plastic er chutni thakto……..”

Some things just make your day. : )

The colour “Yellow” is one such. 

Sunday...

Mondays are generally mundane. Like a movie with a very sad ending. Mine followed the rule. It was draped in grey with generous helpings of cumulonimbus collected over its head. Throughout the day, it wore a sad smiley with a ‘C’ lip and not its usual bracketed frown. Like this. :C . (Isn’t sad smiley an oxymoron? I love oxymorons and have a long list full of them.)

Mondays are like the first day at school. Ma waving good bye and the teacher pulling you through the gate. The feeling of “how-could-Ma-do-this-to-me?” followed by torrents of salt-laden water. Mondays are such. And, on such days, all you want to embrace is the Sunday gone by. I tried. Stretched my mind and looked for the Sunday frantically. Below the sheets, on the top of the cupboard, in between the pages of the Jerry Pinto-book I was reading, under the bed, in the ceilings and cobwebs, in the trash folder of my mail, on the window sill. I ran my fingers through the dust collected on the floor from last night’s Norwester, trying to fathom if they had hidden my Sunday. Nah, the Sunday was nowhere. It was GONE. And for the first time in these 29 years, I realised I had let go what I have loved the most. You know the feeling, right? The happiest part of your existence has drifted away from you, packed its bags and bought tickets to Neverland.  (And “Niruddesh-shomporke ghoshona” just doesn’t work in this case).

Sunday was a best friend, the happiness of reading ‘Chnader Pahaar’ for the first time, a tuft of smiles and giggles, the smell of salt long before you actually reach the sea. Sunday was like slipping your tired feet into ice cold rubber slippers (affectionately, hawai choti) after a long day at work. Sunday was like paashbalish.

Sundays are meant to be held close to your lungs. The moment I realised that mine has alienated from me, I felt choked. I also felt helpless. The helplessness of experiencing a powercut on a Wednesday when Chitrahaar was been aired, the helplessness of getting 99 in Maths during Board exams, the helplessness of misspelling the password of your e-mail…..you can’t find out where exactly you went wrong.

When I was a child, Sunday belonged to me like a lost and found twin. Full of life, happy, uninhibited, lazy with dollops of madness. Sunday meant late mornings.…….mornings which would start with a half-folded bread dipped into my grandmother’s cup of tea. Sunday mornings felt like paradise when an 8-10 year old me got permissions for tea-dipped toasts. (I was also allowed to dip Marie thin arrowroot biscuits into tea and eat them. But it never worked. The biscuit would, at the wink of an eye, dive into the hot brown beverage and melt away. So I chose toasts instead). Speaking of the grand mom, I lost her last Thursday. The Sunday is long lost too.

If you have a grand mom whose world is the kitchen, Sunday breakfasts are bound to be finger-licking good. Luchi – ‘kalo jeere dewa aloor torkari’ tasted like magic potion.

Sunday also meant visits to the fish market with Baba. I felt ecstatic at the smell of fish, the smell of their blood and the spark of their shiny scales. I loved how the yellow bulb would shine throughout the day on their silver bodies. I loved fish markets. The smell of Sunday was smell of raw fish.

Sunday was Ramayana and Mahabharat on DD and art classes thereafter. The smell of crayons, water colours, thick art papers and the taste of the ends of blue HB pencils.

 Sunday also meant Mutton. The orange oil-dripping gravy with big slices of potato. And mutton meant gol-haar. Yes, I would drool over those cylindrical bones which were meant to be sucked so that the bone marrow would slip into the mouth. Moment of victory! But when the soft brown substance refused to come out from its long hibernation, the same grand mom would use her mortar and pestle to break the bone and take out the marrow. Heaven! Heaven that smelled mutton. Heaven that reeked Lal-doi. Yes, Baba would unfailingly bring sweet curd from shops which he considered Calcutta’s best. The bone-marrow-slobber stealthily crept in the earthen pot and hid itself in the topmost thick layer of the brownish curd.

We would also have haircuts on Sundays. Till the age of fourteen, I had my hair trimmed from the local barber (napit) who used to visit our house on Sundays. Baba, my brother and I would sit on the terrace and he would rob us of our hair. (And sometimes the nails too). It was utterly embarrassing for me to sit on an open terrace and have a haircut from a barber, when all my school friends were already visiting beauty parlours. But that was how haircut-Sundays were meant to be.

Old Bengali classics filled Sunday evenings. Saptapadi, Dewa Newa, Agnishwar on DD were like sundaes on Sundays.  

On Sundays, we would go to bed early.

I went to sleep. I woke up the next day and saw the Sunday gone. It’s been almost seven to eight years since Sunday is gone. And, it has refused to come back. Strangely the Hindu marriage laws say that if a woman does not hear from her husband for more than 7 years, she can assume her husband to be dead. Do I assume the same for the lost Sunday? Restless streams of tears flowed down my cheek. 

Then I stopped, gathered the broken pieces of my heart from all over the floor, stitched them together, took a deep breath and started the Sunday-search all over again. I needed my Sunday back…..more than it needed me. So I wouldn’t give up.

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courtesy: Internet (and my bad phone-camera)

I was going to office and had crossed the Majherhat Bridge. Do you know what I saw at one corner? A tree full of pink Frangipani flowers. I looked again. For all these years, I thought Frangipani flowers were egg-coloured. White petals with a yellow yolk in the middle. But pink!!! The colour of candy floss balls with patches of a darker shade of pink here and there (the same shade that they turn into when you salivate on them). They looked beautiful. But what was more beautiful was finding a new colour for an old object. I remember, when I was a little girl, on a full moon night, I was this amazed at the colour of the moon. Moon was supposed to be silver or white. But what I saw was a huge orange Tangerine hanging from the sky. I was this amazed. The pink Frangipani seemed to be like a lost piece of a big jigsaw puzzle. A slice of Sunday. I stored it on my cell phone. Cell phones are great safety vaults.

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I have been travelling through the Babughat stretch almost every day since the time I joined work. Six solid years. A few thousands of times. Now, every time you cross Princep Ghat from Hastings, the network goes off. There is no coverage for mobile phones or car radios. This is because of the Army camp bordering the banks of the river. Till you reach Babughat, you are ‘signal-free’. This is an unfailing phenomenon.

One evening, I was crossing the same stretch. I was talking to a friend over the phone. I crossed Babughat, the Scoop and then Prince Ghat. We kept on talking. When I reached Khidderpore, I realised that the conversation went uninterrupted! For moments I could not believe my ears. It was magic! Like a slice of a Sunday.

I have tried this several times later. No, it never happened again. Magic moments are rare. Rarer is the happiness it inflicts.  It stays for a long long time.

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A friend gifted me the entire set of “Diary of a wimpy kid”. For days, I would take the entire box to bed and go to sleep. I always woke up with a smile. It was not only the gift that made me so ecstatic, it was the thought of gifting someone a part of her childhood. Like crayon boxes and colouring books, lollipops and chocolate Eclairs. Like gifting someone a month long Summer holiday with no home work.

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I read this on one of my favourite blogs.

“Thoooooooooo.

F*** man.

There is an inherent beauty of “thuuu” which is hard to replicate in the English language. Nothing really has that mix of immaturity, derision and ha ha hee hee like the word “thuuu”.

Say it. You know you want to.

Okay, one, two, three.”

Thoooooo. 

Relief!

Also, wouldn’t you feel delighted if you discover a deep oneness of thoughts with an almost-stranger? I felt DELIGHTED. “Thoooo” is one of my favourite words too. The only thing is, I prefix it with “Wack” which makes it wacky.

I quickly made a mental list of all those names, places and things I wanted to say ‘thooooooo’ to. I felt so happy instantly!

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My mother in law has ‘kahan se aaye baadra’ for her caller tune.

Every time I call her I can hear “Athh Shree Mahabharata katha” playing somewhere. The title song of Mahabharat. @weirdness, DD-Sundays, goosebumps.

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Jagadish is our office peon. He gets food for us for lunch. 

One day I asked for something. He snapped at me. “Ekhon parbo na ami”, he said rudely and walked away. In these situations, I hardly get angry. I feel sad. I stopped calling for food. He would come and ask. I avoided him.

Then this started. Even without asking for food, I started getting something interesting or the other on my table every day. Chicken noodles topped with Chilly Chicken gravy, grilled sandwich, biryani, Moghlai paratha, khichuri-omelet and the like.   

I gave up and smiled at him gratefully. Next second he says: “Onek din eto teltele khabar kheyechen. Aj idlee khan.” (You’ve had enough oily food. Now stick to idlees.) Okay, I almost had a lump in the throat. Not because idlee tastes like horse-poop but because there was so much concern in his voice.

Yes, after that day I have never asked for anything specific. He has exercised his own discretion. He would research, go places, suggest food which he thinks is excellent and even get dessert without being asked for.

He won my heart.

I won several things which money can’t buy.

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 A friend clicked this photograph from his office window and posted it on Facebook. People work silently while the city walks past with all its hustles and bustles. I saw a comment below the picture: “Mouno mukhorota”.

Didn’t I tell you I love oxymorons? My list grew a centimeter longer. Yay!

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One day, I was browsing through someone’s blog. I saw something that I was least expecting. I found these lines “the vivacious lawyer who knows the nooks and corners of my city more than I do”.

How do you react when the person whom you consider your soul mate, so far as the love for this city is concerned, says these about you?

You realise that life is beautiful. And Sunday is scattered everywhere in pieces. You just have to find them, arrange them neatly and keep them in the safe. *doors locked*

And then, the C turns D. And I smile again.

:D

The murder

The father wept helplessly.

His child was taken away. They took her in their fierce clutch, twisted her body, ripped it apart and reduced her into a living corpse. He saw blood dripping down her chest as she throbbed in unbearable pain.

Once they had assaulted her enough, they pulled her body into a discotheque. He could see thousand hungry ears relishing her shriek and screech.

They carried her into a car. The tinted glass was all rolled up. He could not see what happened next.

The father wept helplessly. It’s been more than 60 years since he breathed last. And sadly, copyright laws could not come to his rescue.     

"This post is written for the 110 Creative Challenge Contest, hosted by Thewhitescape"

P.S: I won!! And, here it is….

Yay!!

Dear Readers,

The results are out! (http://thewhitescape.wordpress.com/2013/05/31/winners-of-2nd-edition-of-110-cc/)

And here it is.

  

Yaaaaaaaaay!!

This is what I won!

Thank you everyone!!! I am unbelievably happy and my Friday is made. : )

Double dose of love, rainbows and chocolates,

Parama.

P.S: Abhishek da, WE won!!! (And this is my Gurudokkhina to you) : )

Vote please?

Dear readers,

My last post was an entry for this context:

http://thewhitescape.wordpress.com/2013/05/23/lets-all-drabble-a-more-2nd-edition/

The theme was CHEATING and the catch was that every post had to be exactly of 110 words.

Context over. Now it is the time to vote.

Here is the link where you can vote: http://thewhitescape.wordpress.com/2013/05/28/voting-of-2nd-110-cc/

Also, readthe instructions below before you vote.

Thanks a ton in advance, all of you.

Love, rains, sunshine and chocolates…..

Parama.

The break up

“I ‘m sorry”, the Doctor surrendered.

Nurses started dismantling the life support. He waited breathlessly for the heartbeat graph to fall flat. Finally, she would be all his.

She saw her tall dark man. She had spent sleepless nights with him, crying, confronting, judging if their relationship would ever work out. It was hatred to begin with. But slowly, she started trusting him. She knew he could provide her with peace like none other.

Whilst she was preparing to move out of the hospital with him, she heard a deep male voice calling her name.

She started breathing again, while Death stood there watching their four years of courtship collapse.     

Thought for food, food for thought…

The man and I are true blue-blooded Bongs (yes, if you have no other striking attribute to boast about yourself, you resort to words like “blue blooded” for that extra glitter to your character.)

We live to eat and no meal is complete without fish. Speaking for myself, the love extends as generously to Mourola, Pnuti, Lotey and Shuntki as it does for Hilsa (Ilish), Salmon, Bhetki or Pomfret. Also, the two of us prefer fish to lambs, hens, ducks, pigs, cows, emus, pigeons, turtles…..any day. (Did I say turtles? Of course, that’s a lie; bunk it.) (Also, I am not claiming our unfaltering, untiring and voluntary subjugation in the hands/fins of the silver-bodied vertebrate on account of writing this post. We actually are fish-fanatics).

The basic point is, we are the perfect representatives of fish-indulgent, blue blooded quintessential Bongs. *thundering sounds of one’s own trumpets* (also, repeated use of glittery words make me feel as if I am not faking it; I actually belong to some royal Zamindari clan of Bengal).

So, you see, we visited this fishy little restaurant called “Fish Fish” (at 13/5 Swinhoe Street, Ballygunge) and that’s exactly what this post has to do with.

And, we were happy. Very happy.

The menu is stuffed with fish. Only fish. If you are looking for sweet corn soup for an appetizer, chicken drum sticks for starters, fraayed raice and chilly chicken for the main course, then “Fish Fish” is not the place you are looking for. Also, “Fish Fish” is not the place looking for people like you.

What delighted me most was, right from the salads and soups (which otherwise sore my eyes and taste buds) are non-pretentiously non-vegetarian. There is absolutely NOTHING vegetarian on 99.9% items on the menu. (0.1% concession for water, mocktails, desserts and mouth-fresheners. I mean it’s impossible to have prawn tooti fruity, bhetki firni or salmon in a blue lagoon, right?)

We tried Chitol Machher Sheik kebab for starters. In addition to that, they have a huge assortment of starters which includes Lotey Machher Bora, Fried Calamari with French mustard cocktail, Seafood pops with burnt garlic salsa, Topshe Machh fry, Ilish bhaja, Tuna Crosstini and the like. (I noted words like French mustard cocktail, garlic salsa and crosstini on the phone to use them at opportune moments like this! For this syndrome, there’s a word in Bengali: ‘Adekhla’!)

What arrived next on our table was Stuffed whole Bhetki and Sea food pasta with creamy garlic sauce (squid, bhetki and prawn embedded in dollops of cheesy sauce). (You mean minds, I know what you are thinking. My answer: Vidya Balan is my inspiration and ‘fat’ is the new hot.)  Anyways, food was delicious and while clicking these pictures, I had put Punjab to shame. I had a saliva flow mightier than its five rivers taken together.

Delightful combos: “Fish Fish” has an array of combo meals which include Khichuri with Ilish bhaja and ghee, Ghee bhaat with Topshe bhhaja and Chingri (prawn) Bhhapa/Malaikari, Mandarin Fish with Crab fried rice and many more. If you have a firang guest, just take him/her there for the Bengali combos. For naak-uchu (snob) Bengalis, Ilish Bhaja-Khichuri combo is strictly home food and trying it at a restaurant is as inexcusable as committing suicide on a Metro Rail track during ‘awpish-time’.

One tiny suggestion: Ilish Machher dim-bhaja (Fried Hilsa-eggs) would just be THE icing on the cake. Wish, they include it in their menu during the Kolkata monsoon.

One not-so-tiny suggestion: Introduce alcohol. Please. People, who haven’t tossed down Ilish Bhaja with Beer, have not lived life in a way it should have been. Same for whiskey and Mourola machh bhaja. (I just had a mini orgasm cum heart attack).

Precautionary note: The quantity is more than enough for two. By ordering separate dishes for each, we had to walk heads held high. Every time, we looked down, a shrimp or a squid would jump off the mouth. So, please don’t behave as if you just landed here straight from Somalia. Don’t order as if there’s no tomorrow. (My jokes may be bad, but my suggestions aren’t. Remember!)

One such unsolicited suggestion: The décor. They do have a glass-engraved fish-door, fish nets and wooden oars to go with the fish-theme but it could have been so much better. I remember a lunch at the ‘Ganges’ in Ballygunge (a break-away of Bibi’s Taaja). The theme got me spell bound. Instead of tables and chairs, each sitting area was an actual wooden boat! The ceilings were covered with fish net and fishermen-lanterns lit the walls. Another set of sitting arrangement was aquarium-tables. While you eat, you can see a swarm of colourful fish flocking below the plate.  The otherwise perfect “Fish Fish” can draw some inspirations or innovate new décor ideas.

A useless footnote: I feel, if smile is the best thing you can do with your mouth and kiss, the second best, then conversing would surely be the third. (Eating is a close fourth. Yes, a little strange that eating comes fourth! I am shocked myself). At “Fish Fish”, I had a conversation and a discovery of a fact which I didn’t know even after 15 years of knowing him. It may sound totally insignificant for anyone else, but for me, the simplest (and the stupidest) reasons of joy are the ever-lasting ones.

In the midst of a conversation relating to the best bikini bods of Bollywood,

Me: “Ei, janish chhotobelay ami bhabtam Parveen Babi aar Zeenat Aman eki lok.” (You know, as a little girl, I used to think that Parveen Babi and Zeenat Aman are the same person)

“Chotobelay?” (As a little girl?)

Me: “Na, mane onek boro boyesh obdio bhul hoto…” (I mean, even after I grew up, I did the same mistake several times)

“Same pinch!!” *making a shy kissable face*

“……………..”

“I have hardly told this to anyone.”

Me (to myself): I always thought that my human IMDB was flawless! I am so glad he isn't.

You know what? Discovering something new about your partner, whom you know since ages, is more fulfilling than the discovery of that last cube of sauce-soaked mutton inside the wrapper of a roll.

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My best friend was in town. We tried Mrs. Magpie (570, Lake Terrace Road, Near Southern Avenue) since their pictures on Facebook had made us Pavlov’s dog for quite some time.  

We are ice age people. We have grown up in an era where Jolojog and Kathleen were doorways to heaven. On birthdays, it was good old Nahoums (with pretty pink marzipan flowers…..slurp!). And, for lunch at school, Double Bite or Farrini cakes. (Strawberry-Chocolate Double Bite cake was my favourite, FYI)

With the advent of Monginis, we were introduced to muffins. Choco-chip studded muffins (also called tea cakes). However, we were alien to the concept of cupcakes for a very long time. It was something between a muffin and a tart was all that we knew. I was (and bet my life, she was too) happy with our favourites: Rum ball from Kathleen, Chocolate Éclairs and brownies from Nahoums, lemon and Macaroon tart from Kookie Jar (because they were comparatively expensive and hence, rare), Date-walnut brownies and butterscotch pastries from Monginis, Cream Roll from Priya/ Nandan/ New Empire and Barua Bakery cakes and Swiss Rolls from the local shops. Yes, we belong to that class of people who find Flury’s quite expensive and hence no favourites mentioned here. 

About Mrs. Magpie, all I can say is, it is a fairy tale cake shop. Personally, I am not very fond of pink as a colour, but this place awed me to no ends. The flowery walls, the décor, the vibgyor-ed glass windows, the little chairs, rose-printed paper napkins and precisely, the overall charm seemed straight from story books. We turned Alices in a wonderland….a wonderland that was so wonderful.

The cupcakes at Mrs. Magpie are a delight for the eyes and turned delightful for the mouth as well. They looked so cute that we wanted to eat all of them. Yes, we salivate at cute babies, cute cakes and the like. The mention of ‘cute babies’ reminds me of something. Have you seen the recent Shahrukh Khan-Frooti ad? Perfectly describes our condition when we see food, especially good looking ones.

We tried Lemon Surprise, Marshmallow, Toffee Coffee and After 8’ish. Priced at 35, they will melt into your mouth and all you would want to do is make “aaahhhh” expressions like Katrina Kaif in the Aamasutra-Rasiya advertisement.  Exaggerations apart, you surely would love them.

I was also amazed at the made-to-order cakes that adorned the show case. It seemed they were lifted straight from pages of a Hansel and Gretel story book. Infact, the entire store will remind you of that book too.

Other than the cupcakes, they have a yummy selection of sandwiches. They also provide for tea-scones-cupcakes, fruitcake combos which are priced at 400 to 500 and sufficient for two.

We bought raisin and oat buns. Four for 30. Value for the pocket and the tastebuds.

Caution/ Alert: The theme, the décor, the overall ambience is a little girly. Like, if I take the gentleman mentioned in the above note to this cupcake shop, chances are that he will faint on account of an overdose of ‘pink’ and ‘cute’. He is allergic to both the words. So, it’s better to choose the right company before you head to Mrs. Magpie.

Here are some pictures I clicked which I see whenever I am feel low or miss my best friend.  

   

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I visited Nahoums day before yesterday to buy a plumcake for my senior’s birthday and was filled with nostalgia that not only filled my body, my senses but also my eyes with drops of water. Their owner, Mr. David Elias Nahoum passed away on March 8^th. I had not visited them since. (there was a time when visiting Nahoum's at least once a week was a ritual)

Each and every person working at the Nahoums cake shop knows me atleast by my face. (There is no sense of pride involved in the statement, because I can vouch the same for 90% of shops in New Market). What was extremely special about Nahoums was their personal touch. “I adore the Easter eggs. How much are they for?”. The reply: “You mad girl, those are for kids. Chinir dela ogulo, rong kora. Khobordar kino na.” (Rough translation: the shopkeeper himself is asking me not to buy those sugary, artificially-coloured Easter eggs). They are so disturbingly honest. Can anyone not fall in love?

There’s another incident which I shall remember for a long time. I chose a chocolate cake for Ma and handed over to the Kaku who usually writes birthday messages on cakes. I told him to write “Happy Birthday Ma”. I was busy choosing other eatables from the shop while he wrote. When finished, I saw “Subho Janmodin, Ma” written in Bengali!!! I was in the verge of hugging him. He said, “You are a Bengali. Isn’t this better than an English Birthday wish?” (I don’t know about Ma, but Nahoum’s Confectionary Private Limited, you’ll remain my most favourite cake shop in the world for ages to come.)

At times, I have also been very lucky to receive the last cheese muffin or the last lemon tart on their tray for free with the pastries or patties I had bought. (Free is a wrong word. Affection can never be free.)

Here are two photographs: the former from my first birthday and the latter from my last. For all these 29 years, the most expensive thing I have boasted about for a birthday present was a Nahoum’s cake. It shall always be that way.

Dear Mr. David Nahoums, I give you all the smiles your shop has relentlessly given me for so many years. May they keep you happy. May the heaven, if there be any, smell like your cake shop. It is one of the best smells in the world, you know.  

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