In the Nuanced Art
Lover’s Erratic Day
by Mandira Pattnaik
Before, customers braved sweltering heat and the mélange of people and e-rickshaws to catch a trick that only Arun could pull off. Immune to their common woes, they stood spellbound as Arun’s deft hands made art in partnership with the batter, and upon the smoldering oil, formed perfect knots, one upon the other, finally resulting in several crisp, lace-like discs. They waited when a hardy iron ladle periodically scooped the deep-fried-to-dark-red discs, and beat the edge of the flaming kadai exactly three times. Arun then dunked the discs into sugar syrup. Wasn’t their fault if their mouths watered when Arun lifted the jalebis out after a few minutes, juicy and dripping. Costing just five rupees, the jalebis were now ready to be delivered hot in lotus-leaf cups to the connoisseurs. Arun, proud sweet monger, personally served them with a lavish sweeping arm. Thus began a day in Paikpara Lane, old Kolkata.
Later in the day, Arun sat drying his sweaty belly with a hand-fan painted with tiny flowers on palmetto slates stacked and stitched together, and thought of his home in the Ganges delta, thought of a wife he never lived with for long enough, wondered if it was already the date on which he sent money by cable so she lived well.
The days of Arun’s life passed like this. Year after year. A chain of loving connoisseurs and an old cash-chest under his seat with the emblem of Lord Ganesh, full of currency.
The turning point in Arun’s career came when they decided to build a huge statue of the Lord on the exact same spot.
After his hole-in-the-wall shop was pulled down tarpaulin by tarpaulin, bamboo by bamboo, the great banyan tree under which it had fledged for years was chopped down by municipal workers wielding axes. Onlookers enjoyed the event like a free circus.
The chopping continued for a week, logs carried out in inter-state lorries, until the tree’s mammoth trunk was uprooted by an earthmover to the jeering of the rag-pickers and urchins because they hadn’t seen one before.
Arun observed the action from the sidelines, sulking in the evenings, and sliding into sleep only in the wee hours. The realization that he’d never done anything else, that he never knew another skill to earn his livelihood, haunted him even in sleep.
When the statue came up on a very auspicious day, festoons and garlands decorated the street, right up to the Rajbari, and even the tourists flocked to see what was happening.
Arun noted how many devotees flocked at once, like bees to spring blooms. God wasn’t an unapproachable figure in these parts of the world. He was a friend, a lover, a task-master, a naughty child, a married man, a co-conspirator, an angry son, a dutiful husband, a man of moods: each and every shade of human-ness in Him!
The numbers of worshippers doubled and tripled on auspicious days. They eventually erected a lofty staircase so believers could stand atop to bathe the Lord in milk.
Once the statue gained widespread popularity, a restaurant-cum-shopping complex came up nearby. Hawkers appeared out of nowhere, peddling everything that was imaginable.
Arun woke up on the pavement each day to sounds and sights of spectacular busy-ness. All morning, he wandered around aimlessly. The alms-seekers chanted In the name of the Lord, to which he smirked and turned away unlike the pilgrims who raved and, blinded by faith, dropped coins and behaved like elevated souls. Well-dressed men and women were dropped off in swanky cars; pickpockets and gamblers jostled to make a quick buck.
One day, someone said the Lord desired something special, craved the best sweetmeats. The rumor spread, and people brought offerings from their homes and from the best confectioneries in town.
They pushed the sweets under the Lord’s ornate proboscis. “O Mighty Lord, mine?”
A firm, clear voice cried, “Eek! Too sweet.”
“The Lord speaks!” There was a flurry of activity, and more devotees broke queues and thronged nearer to feed the Lord.
They offered a variety of delicacies, in shapes and colors Arun had never seen.
“No!” the Lord shouted.
Each failed attempt by a devotee in the queue was followed by that particular servant of the Lord making a long face and scrambling to get something else.
“Please have these?” A plate full of sandesh was offered.
“Arggh. Soggy!”
Hearing this, the devotee began to sob. There was a collective gasp. People gathered to console him even as more pilgrims queued up in the snaking line.
“The Lord has fine taste!” exclaimed the worshippers in unison when several people had been turned away.
“Try mine,” said Arun in a soft voice, when his turn came, humbly holding his plate with both hands and offering it under the Lord’s ornate proboscis. He’d made some jalebis at a friend’s home and carried them to the Lord hidden under a newspaper.
The firm, clear voice said, “Masterful! Perfect! Who serves me?”
Arun emerged. Devotees stood speechless and made space for him, backing away a step or two. Arun bowed to the Lord, the crowd generously applauded. They pleaded with him to set up shop at the Lord’s feet.
His new shop was grander, with wallpaper of bright patterns and a huge framed portrait of the Lord. The opening became an event in itself, cheered on by reverent customers. Brisk business followed.
This routine of Arun making the Lord’s favorite jalebis, and devotees carrying platefuls to the Lord as an offering, continued for decades. Arun became a legend in town and his lore reached his gushing wife in the village.
Arun did keep one little secret locked in his chest for the rest of his days though: proud sweet monger, once really broke, had trained as a ventriloquist who spoke perfectly for the Lord that day, and knew that revenge was even sweeter than his jalebis.
