Tightening the drawstring of his pants and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Bhombol heads groggily towards the sweet shop and grocery store at the corner of the street. Despite the sweltering heat, he'd had a nice nap in the early hours but he still has to go.
He’ll have to sit at his father's shop for two hours. Once his father and the helper uncle arrive, thirteen-year-old Bhombol is free. Then it’s bath, breakfast, and off to school.
Grumbling to himself, he reaches the sweet shop early in the morning and lifts the shop’s tin shutter only to freeze in shock. The shop’s lock is already open, and there’s a strange bubbling sound coming from inside. As he pushes the half-closed door, he sees a pair of dusty blackened legs, smeared in ash and oil, stretched out flat on the ground along with a rhythmic bhoror, pho, bhoror, pho sound, like water boiling in a kettle. That early in the morning, it all feels terrifying.
To his left is Kesto uncle’s salon. On the right, Maku uncle’s paan and bidi shop both still closed.
What now? A random thief? Or a robber?
Should he pick up a loose brick from the road and throw it from a distance?
The figure looks intimidating. And sleeping so fearlessly too? This suspense is unbearable.
But what if the man wakes up with a growl and grabs him? What will Bhombol do? Should he call his father?
Bhombol feels a strong urge to relieve himself out of anxiety.
“Hey! You there! Can’t you hear me? What a sleep, man! Are you Kumbhakarna or what?”
The man just keeps snoring away.
“We need to open the shop! How did you even get inside?”
Soon, Father will be here. The man lies there in a short dhoti, shirtless, hairy, arms and legs spread wide. Bhombol tiptoes into the room.
Munia often acts strange in the summer. Once the monsoon sets in, he returns to normal.
The shop’s door was slightly ajar. At first, it did seem like someone was inside. After waiting a while, he had stepped in softly.
Bhombol, now very hungry, enters through the side of their Mahakali Sweet Shop, into the adjoining grocery store. The sweet shop and the grocery store stand side by side, one run by father, the other by son.
Annoyed by Bhombol’s polite calls, Munia opens his eyes. A spark lights up in his brain: What should I do now?
“You’ve broken in to steal? Just wait, I’m calling people!”
Standing defiantly with arms stretched wide, Munia says,
“You need to understand what theft means. Taking someone else's goods without permission is theft. Isn’t that right? And what have I done?”
Bhombol retorts angrily. “You’re sleeping in my father’s shop. Who knows what you’ve eaten? Wait, I’m calling my father.”
“Oh my!” Munia, parting his hair with his fingers neatly, says,
“I just had a bit of flattened rice and curd. Is that something to get this worked up over, little brother?”
“Can you prove I ate curd and flattened rice?”
Spreading his legs slightly and tightening his vest, he lets out a mischievous laugh, “You can’t. Because yesterday, before you left for home, no one had weighed how much curd and flattened rice were left. Am I right?”
Startled, Bhombol tries to change the subject.
“Why did you enter the shop? That alone could get you a week in jail.”
Munia regains a bit of courage now. Picking his ear and giggling, he lowers his voice and says, “If the back door wasn’t properly shut, is that my fault? Or should I tell your father that you forgot to lock it yesterday?”
What is this guy even saying?
“What do they say something about a thief’s mother?” he backpedals slightly.
“But that doesn’t mean you barge into someone else’s shop and eat their stuff! Is there no law or justice in this country? What else should I call you but a thief?”
Then the two begin arguing again.
“I’m calling my father.” Bhombol steps out of the shop.
“Look at this! Look how angry he is. Brother, brother,” Munia calls after him and grabs his hand.
“Don’t be silly. When I’m in trouble, I tend to lose my mind a bit. I’ll just say the shop was already open and I went in to check if someone was inside. And you do know I can’t resist sweets.”
Seeing Bhombol sulking, head lowered like a scolded child, Munia softens a little.
“Alright, then. I won’t tell, and you won’t either. Understood, Natobar?”
“What? Who’s Natobar?”
Looking around in confusion, Bhombol asks, “Who’s Natobar? Where is he?”
“I was joking! But yes, yes he exists. He’s my guruji. It was he who led the sweet revolution in Bengal in the 21st century.”
Trying to save herself, Munia spins the tale further.
“He’s a brilliant man. Actually, I was just tasting your sweets to see how much worse they are compared to his.”
“What are you saying?”
“You should know his name! Even if you don’t, your father surely does. He’s this state’s King of Sweets.
Oh, what golden hands! Just one bite of his sweets and you’ll never forget the taste.”
“Where does this Natobar live?”
“Oh, he lives in so many places, who can say? But at the moment, he’s in Pakur, at his own shop. A zamindar from Paschim Bardhaman has ordered some jumbo Rosh Ghonok from him, and he’s there to make them.”
“Rosh Ghonok? Is that a sweet? Made of kheer? Or chhena? Or flour?”
Hand on cheek, eyes wide, Munia says, “What! You haven’t heard of Rosh Ghonok? Then you’re not just village bumpkins, you’re totally outdated too! Tell me—
You’ve seen roshogolla, right?”
“Of course, every day.”
And what does it look like?”
“Why? Like a ball. Don’t you know that?”
“Well, Rosh Ghonok is cubes of white chhena. In short—not balls, cubes.”
Bhombol’s eyes nearly pop out.
“You’re saying there are sweet cubes?”
“Yes! That’s it.”
“Can we meet him?”
“Very difficult. He’s constantly running all over Bengal.”
Just then Bhombol’s father, Digombor, appears: “What’s this? No school today? Haven’t you gone home yet?”
Bhombol runs up to him, “Dad! Do you know Natobar Moyra?”
“Who’s this?” Digombor frowns at the odd-looking stranger outside the shop.
“He’s here with news of the latest sweets. About Natobar Moyra. He’s a sweets representative.
We could make them too. If we take the agency, your shop’s name will spread across the district.”
The mention of fame catches Digombor’s attention.
“What specials does he make?”
Counting on her fingers, Munia begins: “Rosh Ghonok, Rosh Paench, Rosh Lipi, Vegan Roshogolla...”
“Wait, what did you say? Vegan! Made from soy milk.
Let’s say someone’s lactose intolerant. But they still can’t live without the taste of roshogolla. Then onto the plate comes Vegan Roshogolla. Ah! It soothes your soul.”
Digombor’s face sags. He blurts out, “Absolutely right.”
“Then there’s Rosh Paench—a jilipi, but made of soft chhena. It’s all fluffy. Melts in your mouth.
And in the festive season, Natobar-da brought out a new sweet: Rosh Tribhuj.”
“What? What’s that like?”
Munia bursts into a laugh, showing her patchy teeth, “It’s a knockout! Triangular white chhena soaked in syrup. If you think you’ll eat it later, forget it. It disappears in your mouth before you know it.”
“Then bring us a few to taste. Let’s see.”
“That can be arranged,” Munia said. But then, running a hand through her hair, blushing with embarrassment, she added, “Sir, if I had money in my pocket, would I really be wandering around like this? I’d have said no? I could’ve brought a couple of pieces and fed you just yesterday. Times are hard. There’s no money in the pocket. You understand, sir.”
Bhombol starts pleading in whispers: “Dad, can we eat some? Please, Dad... Dad…”
Seizing the opportunity, Munia delivers her final blow: “By the way, have you tasted Natobar’s Gangajoli? It’s deadly stuff. Just the thought makes your mouth water.”
Now Digombor finds some footing, “What, I haven’t had it? Every time I go to Kolkata, I take a dip at least once. I bring back two or three bottles before boarding the train. But to be honest, I didn’t find it all that tasty. Sometimes I ended up with hay and straw in my mouth after drinking it.”
“Ugh! Disgusting!” Munia shakes her head violently, “No sir, that was Gangajal—holy water. I’m talking about Gangajoli! Once you taste it, even someone in their funeral procession would spring back to life!”
“What’s it like? Does your face puff up like a steamed bun after eating it? Is it made from chhena?”
Bhombol, now excited, blurts out, “Then is it made from kheer?”
Munia shakes her head, “Nope.”
A disappointed Digombor says, “Then you tell us what it is.”
“It’s made entirely of coconut.”
“What are you saying?!”
“Yes! Fresh coconut is grated, lightly roasted, and the milk is extracted.
Then other ingredients are added too. But once you put it in your mouth it melts instantly, like powder. Incredibly delicate, as they say.”
“Well then, go get some quickly! Don’t delay!”
Munia blushes. She has no money.
Digombor responds immediately, “Here, take this,” and opens a small cashbox to pull out several hundred rupees.
Bhombol is startled, “No, no, Dad! Don’t give her money!”
But an entranced Digombor pays no heed.
“Boy, how will she bring it without advance payment? Look and learn! It’s not just medicine reps anymore now sweets have representatives too. See how the country is progressing?”
He completely ignores Bhombol and turns to Munia, “So when will you bring it?”
Bhombol mutters again, “Dad, please don’t give her money. Please don’t…”
Digombor shuts him up with a scolding, “You’re too naive when it comes to business!”
Munia says, “I’ll be back before you know it. Actually, Natobar Moyra was thinking of opening a branch here. So should I tell him you’re interested?”
“Yes, yes! Go, quickly,” says Digombor, practically drooling in anticipation.
“When will you come tomorrow, dear?”
Counting the money, Munia says, “Let’s say I zip over there today. I’ll bring the sweets from his shop and zoom back here tomorrow morning. Then there’s plenty to do after that.”
“Alright, go on then,” says Digombor.
Munia walks off, whistling and grinning.
Exactly two days later, under the blazing sun, a middle-aged man in a dhoti and fatua gets down in front of Digombor’s shop and asks, “Are you Digombor Gayan?”
Digombor replies, “Yes… and you are?”
“I’m Natobar Moyra.”
He was just about to exclaim, “Oh, welcome, what luck!” when Natobar said, in a sad tone, “Brother, I’ve already sent sweets worth several thousand rupees—Rosh Ghonok and Rosh Tribhuj.
Your employee, Munia, gave me your address and said you’d personally come to deliver the payment.
It’s been two days and you didn’t show up. So I had to come myself to collect the money.”
Now Bhombol’s father is truly feeling like a fool.
He’s going around beating his chest—a true Digombor indeed.
(Digombor = humiliated like a fool)