THE BELLY WORSHIPPER OF 63, KARAYA ROAD, CALCUTTA (Memoir series – Story 3)

Saturday Strolls, Delicacy Calls

Yay, we’re all done with praying. And it’s time to leave the Church. 

I instinctively follow Mummy toward the offering box. And swiftly dig into my shorts’ pocket for the shiny coin Mummy had entrusted me with. Huge relief! It’s still safely ensconced in the corner of my pocket’s seam.

My coin clinks when it joins the other coins in the offering box.

So, that’s done. And I turn to seek Mummy’s smile of approval.

Mummy is already at the door. Beaming at me with pride.

Mummy ties my shoelaces so well. Never too tight. My feet feel snug and cozy.

So now we stride towards the parish priest. He’s sitting in his wicker chair on the grassy green patch facing the parsonage in the Church compound. 

He rises and welcomes us with an infectious charismatic smile. Dignity and grace writ large all over his clean-shaven face.

I pull myself up into an empty wicker chair next to him.

“I am four years old”, I tell him with much aplomb. It’s my favourite opening line nowadays. The world needs to realise that they’re dealing with a grown-up guy now.

“Yes, that’s great”, he confirms. I’m revelling in his undivided attention. And gladly answering all his courtesy questions with the intention of impressing Mummy.

Mummy is smiling appreciatively.  So I’m on the right track.

As we speak, I can’t help but notice the enticing smell of food wafting toward us. 

All that aroma of street food we encountered on our way to Church, has juiced up a ravenous appetite in me. And the tantalising whiff wafting from the mess hall is not making life easier.

My head is uncontrollably tilting towards the entrance to the mess hall. And I’m practically salivating. My good manners and patience are crumbling to fragments. 

And Mummy seems to know exactly what’s happening. She begins to rise from her chair asking for permission to leave. And my hopes of having food from there starts to crack like eggshells.

But God intervenes. And makes the priest insist that we stay for a little while more.  And guides me toward the mess hall. And I’m feeling like I’m being led into heaven. 

Mummy is politely trying her best to decline this offer. But her best isn’t good enough. 

I know better than to look at Mummy’s face now. So I hold on tight to my saviour’s hand and focus on what’s important.

Focus, Hocus, Pocus!

In a few minutes, I’m diving into the world’s fluffiest and yummiest omelette.

On the way back home, we’re on a different route. Mummy wants to meet a friend on the way.

I’m holding tight to the sides of the rickshaw as it swerves to avoid a stray dog. I must ask Mummy if I can be a rickshaw driver when I grow a little taller. Someday I too shall wield this pedal-powered chariot through these streets. And jostle past fruit carts, and zip through tiny gaps between cars.

We reach Mummy’s friend’s house while I’m still enjoying the thrill of the ride. A cheerful lady greets us. She seems more like my friend than my Mom’s. And is eager to feed me everything she has in the house. My profile apparently makes it easy to guess that I have an inclination toward food.

Succulent Rosogollas keep coming. And I keep digging into these spongy white delights, oblivious of space and time. When I’m past a couple of servings, Mummy nudges me out of my sugar-induced stupor.

Mummy is sitting on the chair’s edge, spine straight as a pencil. And staring into my face.

Clearly, she’s not falling for my feigned innocence and sugar-syrup smile.

She retains her smile while her friend keeps assuring me in affectionate Bengali that she’s got more of those in the kitchen. And she’s patting my head in reassurance. But the air is heavy with Mummy’s glare making it hard for me to breathe with a swollen belly.

Once back home at 63, Karaya Road, I’m longing for the next Saturday to come. Who knows what kinds of delicacies await us along the way!