Nouvelle Cuisine- A Short Story in 2 parts

Nouvelle Cuisine Part I
Bholanath Biswas was very morose. His restaurant was not doing well at all. He had put up his roadside restaurant cum stall on the station approach road. The train station was just 100 metres away and just beyond a bend in the road; and right across the street from the No. 76B bus depot. Granted the depot was just an euphemism for a stretch of the road by the garbage dump, that the bus operator had occupied by force, but still people clustered there in the hopes of getting a seat on that bus route. Travellers who got off the train and came to catch the bus, would have to walk right past his 'Joy Shib Snacks'. The smell of the oily 'telebhaja' the popular vegetables fried in a batter, would draw the hungry in, if they had a few moments to spare. Sometimes, they would run with the telebhaja in their hands, if the bus was seen to be lurching forwards, without paying him. Then little Ramu, the Bihari boy would run after them, shouting, 'Poisha! Poisha!', between washing the glasses in the restaurant. The bus conductors would, if Bholanath had obliged them with free snacks, stop the bus until Ramu got paid. It was a small world. All were trying to eke out a living. But then disaster struck one day. A big drain running below the road, right in front of Bholanath's stall became blocked.It took several days for the civic authorities to take notice of every body's complaints about the stench. And that too because Sri Rathindra Nath Ghosh, a noted 'business man' had won the seat in the Lok Sabha from this very town! And his noble presence along with a sizable entourage was to grace the town shortly. He was expected to alight from the train and address a gathering there.So a crew of workmen were despatched to clean the drain. Unfortunately, the obstruction proved to be beyond tha reach of this crew. An 'emergency decision' was taken by the engineer in charge of the works department, to dig up the drain, when a group of Rathin Babu's supporters came to 'persuade' the engineer to do so.
The road was dug up. The passengers now crossed the road and walked on the other side. The prospect of negotiating the big ditch was extremely daunting, despite the alluring smells of the telebhaja. They would gaze longingly at Bholanath, but would not venture forth.Bholanath's savings had gone into this restaurant since he had been retrenched from his jute mill job.And now a blocked drain was causing him to be retrenched again.The business dwindled before his very eyes.He had to get the customers over. After the drain had been dug, the engineer apparently had a nervous breakdown, and had gone on leave, so the work got stalled. Deeply concerned, Bholanath talked the problem over with his jyotishi. Pandit Chandra Shekhar Gunaratna was always helpful. He heard about the problem with great care. Mercury was retrograde; always a time fraught with problems and delays, he opined. Yet he would think of a solution.The solution, amazingly, came the next day. Pandit Babu had dreamed of a bridge. He came over to 'Joy Shib Snacks' to tell Bholanath about it. He stood beyond the ditch, and loudly told Bholanath, with much waving of his umbrella.So, Bholanath ha two planks installed over the ditch right away. Even so, the customers seemed nervous about crossing over to his restaurant. One or two desperately hungry ones did come.Bholanath gave them extra special service and made sure they sat where they could be easily seen by those across the street.His luck was poor it seemed, going downhill on account of two persons. One customer was hit by a stone thrown by an urchin, who protested a bit too loudly perhaps; the other was the drunken Bishnupada, who decided to stand on the fragile bridge and give his famous 'Bangali, Gorje otho!' speech. Before the speech ended, Bishnu had fallen into the ditch.Bholanath could not find a way out of the problem.Shakti Bhushan Sen, his old 'jute mill days' friend suggested something. Invite the politician to his restaurant.
One day there was a fire in the garbage dump that had grown into a small landfill, beside the 'bus depot'. No doubt, someone waiting for the bus, had tossed a lighted cigarette stub carelessly into the the pile of rubbish, setting some paper scraps and bits of plastic aflame. Thick acrid smoke filled the neighbourhood and poor Bholanath's restaurant was not spared either. The fire tenders could not come close to the fire on account of the big ditch. So the firemen stood a distance away, spraying water from a weak jet. The big city newspaper had sent a very junior journalist to cover the almost non existent story. But, when there was not enough big news, and not enough advertisements to fill the copy, these news snippets would have to do. The journalist was an earnest young man on the threshold of a great career of investigative journalism, except for the fact that his editors and sub editors were not of the same opinion. He had been sent to cover the happenings at the city's morgue and had written some interesting reports, that were too detailed and candid. A few readers had protested about the overtly morbid reports, leading to the young man being yanked from the assignment. The only persons who seemed to be somewhat sad to see him go , were the Coroner and Police Surgeon, who occasionally made an appearance. Rare to find an interested individual in matters so macabre. Oh well! they shrugged.Ashim Maitra came to the scene of the fire that had sent several people to the hospital with respiratory illnesses; and many more that stayed at home, sickened by the fumes. The station road was unusually deserted at 3 p.m. He made notes as quickly as possible and asking a few passers by about the fire arrived at Bholanath's stretch of road. The bus depot had informally shifted a few hundred yards away, just as informally as it had set its roots down by the rubbish dump.Bholanath surveyed the scene and checked out the young journalist. 'Cha khaben Babu?' he invited him to have some tea.
Ashim felt as though anything was better at this time than the acrid smell of the smouldering fire. Luckily it had not spread to the nearby shanty town or else the results would have been dreadful. He crossed the planks forming the bridge and sat down on a bench at 'Joy Shib Snacks'. The drain did smell awful, he thought. bholanath made him some tea and served up some Beguni- eggplant slices fried in a crisp batter. Avik was nauseated by a sudden wave of the smell from the drain. The glass of tea remained poised in mid air in his hands. He was suddenly reminded of something by this smell. 'What is happening here?', he asked Bholanath, pointing to the drain.'Oh', said Bholanath, nonchalantly, 'Something caused the drain to become blocked.''What was it?' the journalist asked.'Who knows! They haven't even got to it!', replied Bholanath, 'Look at all this mess- it has been like this for weeks now. The smell was even worse previously. Now it is less, Sir. Maybe we have become more accustomed to it. My business has almost died because of all this..' Bholanath went on.Bholanath's last sentence was like a little jolt to the visitor. Maybe something else has died as well, he thought, as he remembered his stint at the morgue.Well, the young journalist was very persistent. he returned several times to this place. He made a few phone calls to the newly elected politician- who had deferred his visit following advice from his local supporters. Television crews should not be taking pictures of an inconveniently untidy place of his own domicile.Ashim would not let up. The investigative journalist in him felt that there was a story to uncover here.Finally, the drain was dug up and cleared.Bholanath had become quite friendly with Ashim by now. He patiently answered all of Ashim's questions. No, he had not heard of any missing persons or any kidnapped children. Of course, there were so many people coming and going at the station, who knew.Then they found a human hand in the drain, decomposed.
There was an unbelievable stir in the neighbourhood. A crowd gathered rapidly and began to watch. It was a very hot day in August, humid and uncomfortable. The crowd was undeterred. They armed themselves with umbrellas, newspapers and plastic shopping bags; anything to shield themselves. The municipal labourers toiled for a few minutes at a stretch and took cover for a few. A police constable stayed behind when his sub inspector left. Naturally, he sat at Bholanath's stall. Surprisingly he would not drink tea. But did drink several glasses of water. Those in the crowd, who could, came in as well. Business was the best Bholanath had had in a long time. Silently he thanked the owner of the hand, while sympathizing with the deceased's plight. It was indeed an interesting point of karma. Perhaps the deceased owed him a debt in the past life and had had come to pay it, he mused, even in death. Some people, he mused further, never have time to do needful things when they are alive.And of course, there was Ashim. He was parked in Bholanath's restaurant, watching from a vantage point. Afternoons were a slow time. Every one needed a nap after lunch- even the bystanders. The labourers and some local rickshaw operators had joined together and eaten a paste of Chhatu, a roasted chick pea flour, with some sliced onions and a few green chillies. Then they rested under the big banyan tree near the Hanuman temple.Even the constable left. 'Babu, why dont you rest at my home?', offered Bholanath, 'I live close by'.It was an enticing offer. He informed his office via his mobile phone of his whereabouts and accompanied Bholanath to the small barracks like cottages that had once belonged to the jute mills. Bholanath's wife, a warm smiling woman, took an interest in the young man very quickly. There was a certain vulnerabilty about the young man- that is very attractive to motherly ladies.