Book Excerpt: Calcutta Jhalmuri by Probal J Bhattacharyya

An exclusive excerpt from Calcutta Jhalmuri by Probal J Bhattacharya (Published by Om Books International, 2024).

He was having the same nightmare once again; it never left him. He could see nothing but darkness. Desperate cries for help to the Almighty, the roaring Mayurakshi river wreaking havoc all around, the torrential rain beating down on his shivering back as he sat hugging Nishikanto Mama atop a tree. Darkness—that beast was not new to him. He was born with it. But in his ten years of existence on earth, he had never heard such hostile noises—the storm grew louder, almost to a menacing pitch.

Nishikanto Mama’s helpless pleas to Goddess Kali—‘Ma Kali, have mercy on us!’—only fanned the flames of apprehension in his heart. He couldn’t fully comprehend what was happening around him, but the word ‘bonna’ was being tossed around with great dread in the village.

‘No other calamity can ever be as bad as bonna,’ his mother would whisper with quivering lips every year as the monsoon arrived. He had no memory of previous floods, which had affected the whole Birbhum district, including their village. After all, he was just three years old at the time. Ma had told the story in bits and scraps, worried that the gods might hear her grievances and send down another wave of devastation. Thankfully, the family had found shelter in the town, narrowly escaping death.

But this time things were different—the river had risen overnight without any prior warning coming from the government’s end. He remembered Ma jolting him and his siblings out of sleep as they all ran for their lives. He heard his father’s voice urging his mother to run straight towards higher grounds while he collected some foodstuffs, intending to follow them just minutes later.

People were running around—desperate to get away from the rising water—stumbling against each other—their bodies clashing amidst a cacophony of screams and prayers. His younger brother was wailing loudly when, in a split second, his mother lost her grip on their hands. Left alone in the growing commotion, he found himself being stepped on and kicked until someone stumbled upon him—it was Nishikanto Mama, a neighbour his mother adored like a brother. He remembered being picked up right that second before a sudden, complete silence enveloped him. He had lost consciousness.

‘Uncle, where is my mother?’ he asked Nishikanto Mama in a faint voice when he had recovered a bit. They were sitting in a tree.

‘Be quiet, Keshto. Everything will be alright.’ Nishikanto Mama’s voice shook with fear.

This is how the nightmare would end each time. His question remained unanswered—where was Ma?

Dazed and sweaty, Keshto yawned and turned on his back. Every night, as he drifted off to sleep, the thundering storm and the roaring Mayurakshi river drew him into a vision of horrors, both vying with each other in a game of destruction.

It was three or four days after the night on the treetop, Nishikanto would tell Keshto later, that they were rescued and brought to a relief camp in Bishnupur. The camps were set up all over the district’s major towns—Bankura, Onda, Patrasayer, Sonamukhi and so on. But no one knew where his mother had been taken. Keshto remembered Nishikanto plucking leaves from the tree they were sitting in and forcing them into his mouth until help arrived. What did they taste like? His memory was foggy. Perhaps they were tasteless—not particularly remarkable. The rainwater, however, was not insipid; it was clean and fresh,

restoring life to his parched throat.

But the taste that still lingered in Keshto’s mouth, all these months later, was that of his mother’s payesh—a rice-and-milk dessert—which she cooked once every year after the harvest. His mouth still watered as he rolled his tongue trying to imagine the texture of the dish.

‘Look at Keshto’s smile! His happiness knows no bounds,’ his mother would remark jovially as he wiped his fingers dry with his tongue, savouring the last bits of the payesh.

Months later, he could still hear her sweet voice, intoxicated as he was with cherished memories of tastes, textures, sensations and sounds. He wished he could be near Ma again. Perhaps even see her smile. What did that look like? He had never known. Blinking away his tears, he opened his eyes. As always, there was only darkness around.

‘Huh?’ Keshto murmured as Durga tapped her fingers on his forehead. Dawn was beginning to set in.

Taking the hint, Keshto got up with the help of his bamboo stick that he used to navigate his way around the city. He wrapped up the tattered tarpaulin on which he slept every night and passed it on to Durga. The two then proceeded to different corners of the riverbank to wash and relieve themselves.

Excerpted with permission from the author and publishers of Calcutta Jhalmuri by Probal J Bhattacharya (Published by Om Books International, 2024).

About the Book

‘Calcutta is remarkable! It is a world where everything except a remedy for death is available. Every task is easy for its talented people, its market has an abundance of everything except the commodity of good fortune.’ – Mirza Ghalib

Those who lived in Calcutta during the 1960s–1980s—before it became the Kolkata of malls and neons and flyovers—swear by the ‘city enchantress’, its ambience and ethos. Calcutta Jhalmuri is Probal J. Bhattacharyya’s ode to a bygone era. In evocative prose, these stories evoke the sounds and sights of a city now irrevocably lost in the sands of time. The myriad characters offer an insight into the whole social and economic spectrum—from a freedom fighter to a college playboy, a nautch girl, and a battered housewife—as they leap out of the pages to paint an irresistible portrait of an extraordinary city. Wistful and elegiac, this is one unforgettable ride down memory lane.

About the Author

An alumnus of St Xavier’s School and Kalyani University, West Bengal, Probal J. Bhattacharyya earned his undergraduate degree in economics.

Born and brought up in Calcutta, he spent a major part of his life in the city between the 1960s and the ’80s, forming a lifelong attachment that endured despite his nearly three-decade-long stay abroad. Influenced by his mother, Probal wrote sporadically as he was busy in the corporate world building brands.

He now lives far from the madding crowd in a small town near Shimla, nestled amidst apple orchards, majestic hills and forests with cedar and pine trees, pursuing his passion for writing.