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| Chicken Dakbungalow |
stashed deep inside his molars, doesn’t seem to escape me.Sometime back,
at one of the “footpath” Mach-Bhat Hotels near Deshapriya Park that I
happened to passby, this time it was a loud speaking, office goer having
his lunch.
His sleeves were rolled up, hands slickened with dollops of oil and moustache ends which were drizzled with the dal and jhol
that couldn’t enter his food system, as he chewed onto a Murgir thaeng with the ferocity of a lion shredding its prey. A plate of half finished rice and a bowl of the red and oily Murgir jhol
lay on the table. And underneath the table, what could be seen was a
leather shoe that probably hadnt seen a brush for the past month, his
overflowing belly that outshone his massive waistline, that in turn had
been pushed to his groin.
But his mood was vile, for someone had the guts to disturb his supreme concentration.
I discovered the reason later – his left hand was clutching onto a
mobile phone, into which he yelled, “Arey dada, bollam na je khacchi?
Ekhon phone ta rakhun”.
Bengalis afterall are known for gaining solace and satisfaction through the food they eat.We take eating super seriously!
“Bhai, ektu bhat debe?”, he asked the
greased sando-genji and bermuda cloaked boy meekly, for some “fou bhat”. And
the boy, dared not say no to him.
And after he had gutted the
thaeng and mopped up his plate, he licked his fingers with whatever bhat
and jhol had adhered to them, and then after washing his hands, arched
himself like a concave mirror, closed his eyes and said “Ohh, ki daroon
khelam!”
