The Vendor of Sweets by Siddharth Chowdhury
Volume 3 | Issue 4 [August 2023]

Siddharth Chowdhury

Volume 3 | Issue 4 [August 2023]

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About a month back I was travelling to Jamshedpur on the Bhubaneshwar Rajdhani for some official work. As the train stopped at the Koderma station in the early morning, I saw out of the window, a food cart with the legend ‘Anukul Misthan Bhandar’ printed at the top. That name, in a flash, took me 40 years back to my childhood in Patna. And then I saw the familiar figure of my childhood, in his off-white kurta shirt and dhoti, standing near the cart and I remembered everything. How utterly callous I had been as a child of seven.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, at 5.30 in the evening, our calling bell would ring without fail, and I would get up from my study desk and announce ‘Anukul.’ And when you opened the front door, it would invariably be Anukul Pal, in his uniform of off-white kurta –shirt and white dhoti. From his right shoulder hung a large cavernous grey cloth bag which I from the time I was four knew contained all the pleasures of the world. Invariably the first thing he would say to me would be ‘Apollo bandha aache?’ ‘Is Apollo securely tied up?’

Artwork – Manjima Gupta, 2023

Apollo was our double coated black, two years old Alsatian who doted on Anukul but was sad to discover twice every week that the reverse was not true. It was my duty to drag Apollo to the balcony of our second floor flat before letting Anukul enter. Anukul was terrified of dogs, well certainly ones as large as Apollo.

My mother would emerge from the kitchen with a glass of water in her hands. After Anukul had his drink, he would take the grey bag off his shoulder and place it delicately on the carpet. I would move forward and stand near the bag, as if guarding it.

‘Is the water from the new fridge?’

‘Yes, of course.’ My mother would reply sitting down on the sofa.

‘Delicious, what’s the name of the fridge Khuki?’

‘Kelvinator. I had told you the last time.’ My mother would reply somewhat embarrassed.

‘It’s the coolest one.’ I would remind Anukul then, unable to stop.

Anukul would look around the drawing room, taking in everything, noting everything in his mind, making sure everything was in place and if any new additions to the décor had been made.  My father for some strange reason called him a ‘raw’ agent. I couldn’t make head or tail of the statement then as Anukul in his 5 feet 4 inches pear shaped form looked fairly ‘ripe’ to me.

Anukul would now open the grey bag and from it delicately pull out four aluminium containers wrapped tightly in one piece of cream coloured muslin. He would then open the top knot on the muslin and take out the four containers and keep them on the carpet.

I knew what was there in all the containers: the first one stored small crisp Shingharas, still hot as if just fried. The second brown deep fried Gajas, the interior would be soft and juicy for a week. The third box would have Lavanga-latikas, the clove securely spiked to hold in all the juices. My father liked to eat one of those after dinner. Still does. And the last container would have small sturdy Rosogollas floating in their syrup. We rarely bought those.

My favorites were those small crisp Shingharas, the inside a mishmash of curried potatoes, cauliflower, and peas, along with a generous sprinkling of braised groundnuts. The taste of which like Protinex is the flavour of my childhood. One execrable and the other divine. Shingharas were still called Shingharas in Patna, but that would change from the 1990s onwards when more Punjabi and Bania sweet shops opened and they offered their more robust XL sized ‘Samosas’, with boiled potatoes and peas. Now these too I loved but that old Shinghara of my childhood can now be found in some small towns of Bihar and Jharkhand which still have the old school Misthan Bhandars.  In high school we would discover that they were unbeatable with Old Monk and Thums-up.

Artwork – Manjima Gupta, 2023

Then Anukul started on with his second profession, that of a mofussil stringer filing stories of national importance under great duress, all the while spreading the four aluminium containers on the carpet in an arc and taking off their lids one by one.

‘Mrs. Chatterjee’s bou-ma has passed her interview and has now got the job at St. Joseph’s convent, teaching Mathematics.’ Anukul passed on the first bit of news about mother’s old neighbourhood, Kadam Kuan. Mother’s ancestral house was there and my two elder Mamas lived there. As did my grandmother. I had been born in that house.

‘Aarti was always very bright. I hope she will get a bit of peace now, away from Mrs. Chatterjee, for couple of hours.’

‘Yes, that is true. Varma sahib has bought a new motorcycle. A Rajdoot 175.’

‘The printing press must be doing well.’

Anukul’s daily beat was about 10 km of old Patna from his home near St. Severin’s School in Buddha Murti locality. On Monday, it would be Kadam Kuan, old and new area and Bankipore. On Tuesday, it would be Khazanchi Road, Nala Road and Rajendra Nagar, where we stayed. Then on Wednesday again it would be Kadam Kuan and so on. He serviced about 100 families altogether, around 70 of which were Bengali. Many of those families had connection to the erstwhile Manbhum district of Bihar. Anukul himself was from Baghmara, near Dhanbad. My mother and Anukul usually conversed in Manbhuma, a rustic dialect of Bengali which I mostly understood but couldn’t speak. Sometimes there would be gaps between what I heard and what I understood.

It was a marvel that this short rotund man walked 10-15 kilometers every day on busy Patna streets with 8-10 kilos of weight hanging from his shoulders. The only bit of concession was the brown keds on his feet bought from the police surplus store on Exhibition Road.

As always mum would say ‘I will have 6 Shingharas, 4 Lavanga-latikas and 4 Gajas.’

‘No, 6 Gajas.’ I would stake my claim then. Mother would smile and nod at Anukul.

‘Rajib da is constructing a flat on the terrace. I saw the Raj Mistri taking measurements.’

Rajib Sen Sharma was my eldest Mama, about 5 years older than my mother. He was an advocate at Patna High Court, just like my maternal grandfather before him.

‘Are you sure? The terrace is mine.’

‘Yes, I am sure. That is why I am telling you.’ Anukul said to her in Manbhuma.

‘I am supposed to build a flat for myself on that terrace. My mother had promised me that.’

Anukul put the Shingharas and sweets into the two ceramic containers that mother had kept on the coffee table.

‘How much is it?’ Mother asked Anukul, somewhat distracted.

‘18 rupees.’ Anukul replied, tying up the aluminium in his muslin sling and then onto the grey bag.

Mother paid him with a 20 rupee note, and Anukul returned the 2-rupee balance amount. I was watching everything like a hawk.

‘Would you be going to Prof. Jha’s house today?’

‘Yes, on my return through Nala Road.’ Mother picked up the copy of Chatwin’s In Patagonia kept on the coffee table and gave it to Anukul.

‘Do return it to Shibani. I have told her; you would bring it back this week.’

Anukul nodded and kept the book carefully in his grey bag. I went to the balcony to release Apollo from his prison.

That evening mother and father had a massive fight when father came back from his bookshop on Ashok Rajpath, near Patna University. The fight as I could gather listening from my bedroom was about shifting from Rajendra Nagar back to the old house in Kadam Kuan, so that mother could construct her flat on the terrace. That old house, built at the end of nineteenth century by masons brought from Purulia was my mother’s most prized possession. Even after marriage to my father, my mother had insisted on staying at the old house, which my father hated, as his relations with my uncles was not good. They had been against the marriage as my father was a Bihari Bhumihar and mother, a Bengali Vaidya. Both castes, spectacularly clannish and insular.

The other reason was that father at that time was just a fledgling bookshop owner, who after his Masters in Literature from Patna University had taken a loan from his eldest brother, a government doctor, who stayed in Begusarai, to open the shop. My paternal grandfather too hadn’t approved of the marriage and had kept away from the ceremony. Later of course his anger thawed and at my birth, my annaprasan was conducted at the family home in Ghosi, about 60 miles from Patna. Only my tauji who was devoted to his younger brother and some friends of my father from Patna University had attended the marriage which had taken place at the old house in Kadam Kuan after my maternal grandmother reluctantly gave her assent.

My parents had met in Darbhanga House, in Patna University, where both were literature students. In two years, the bookshop started doing well, my father paid off the loan to my tauji and insisted they shift to someplace else in Patna. Very reluctantly my mother agreed and we moved to our present rented flat in Rajendra Nagar. It was a modern, spacious two-bedroom flat, with an ample balcony.  On the ground floor lived our landlord, Dr. Durrani, who was a professor of Ophthalmology at Patna Medical College Hospital. The neighbouring houses had all my friends living in them.  Nihal, Sanjay, Pankaj and Zakir. All of us studied at St. Michaels’s High School near Digha. While Kadam Kuan was old and feudal in its ways, with huge rundown aristocratic houses and seedy slums, Rajendra Nagar was more middle class and cosmopolitan and I too didn’t want to go back to the old house. My life was here.

The fight or the rather high-volume argument, in Hindi, between my parents continued into the night. I fell asleep soon. Beside me on the floor, Apollo snored.

The very next day mother drove me and my friends to our school in her red 1973 Standard Herald. Wednesday was her turn at the car pool. On the way back, she had informed father, she would stop at Kadam Kuan and have it out with Borda, for once and for all. That evening when father came home after closing his bookshop, mother informed us on the dinner table, that we would be shifting to Kadam Kuan in two weeks time. We would stay in her old room on the first floor and also the construction of our flat on the terrace would start. She had already spoken to the family Raj Mistri Ram Lagan and asked him to prepare an estimate.

‘We don’t have money for the construction of a flat, Shyama. I have to pay OUP for the 50 sets of Ali and Dillon Ripley next month. Also, Rupa and IBH.’ My father said in a matter-of-fact way.

I was aghast to see the total capitulation. I had been sure he would never go back to Kadam Kuan.

‘Maybe not for a flat but certainly for a large room and a bathroom for a start. Also, you should seriously start thinking about opening a publishing house for academic books in Patna. The real money is there and as yet no competition.’

Father nodded and picked up the Lavanga-latika that mother offered. I couldn’t believe my eyes and ears. My perfect life was crumbling down. Once I moved to Kadam Kuan, I would never be able to meet up with my friends in the evenings. My life as I knew it would be over.

Mother next picked up a Gaja from the bowl and offered it to me. I took the sweetmeat and threw it to the floor with much vehemence.

‘I hate Anukul’s sweets.’ I proclaimed dramatically in English and stormed off to my room. Apollo quickly ate the fallen Gaja and followed me to my room, the tail rhythmically thumping the floor in glee.

Artwork – Manjima Gupta, 2023

Now after all this drama, things in a year or two settled down to an even keel. We shifted to Kadam Kuan, back to mother’s large musty room with ceiling length windows. In a month and a half, a one room flat was constructed on the terrace. Boro Mama’s eldest son Jyoti da who had just started his intermediate at Science College moved into our old room. Two years later our one-bedroom flat got converted into a two bedroom one. I learnt cycling on Jyoti da’s red Hero bike and by bits and bobs settled down to the rhythms of Kadam Kuan. I made new friends as did Apollo among the native wily mongrels. Mother started work on her first novel.

As the train slowly pulled out of Koderma station, I looked at the Anukul Misthan Bhandar food cart for the last time and the taste of those small, crisp, crumbly with moin, Shingharas came back to me.

The next day when Anukul visited, a Thursday, I took Apollo to the balcony and mother opened the door. I waited for 5 minutes and then let Apollo go. Apollo bounded into the drawing room, intoxicated by the fragrance of Shingharas, Gajas and Lavanga-latikas. He leapt on Anukul, taking him down with a loud crash, the aluminium containers spilling open on the drawing room floor. By the time my mother got Apollo locked in the bedroom, he had eaten 5 Shingharas, 5 Gajas  and 3 Lavanga-latikas , apart from the couple of Rosogollas that made him sneeze. Everything was contaminated. Anukul had fainted meanwhile, frothing at the mouth. Needless to add, he never visited us again. Not at Rajendra Nagar, nor at Kadam Kuan Patna.