Special Lassi

by Amrita Chatterjee

  Published by Jaico Publishing House

  A-2 Jash Chambers, 7-A Sir Phirozshah Mehta Road

  Fort, Mumbai - 400 001

  jaicopub@jaicobooks.com

  www.jaicobooks.com

  © Amrita Chatterjee

  SPECIAL LASSI

  ISBN 978-81-8495-649-8

  First Jaico Impression: 2015

  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.

  Page design and layout: Inosoft Systems, Delhi

  Every day, once a day, give yourself a present. Don’t plan it. Don’t wait for it. Just let it happen. It could be a new shirt at the men’s store, a catnap in your office chair, or two cups of good, hot black coffee.

  — Dale Cooper, FBI Special Agent

  Twin Peaks

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty one

  Chapter Twenty two

  Chapter Twenty three

  Chapter Twenty four

  Chapter Twenty five

  Chapter Twenty six

  Chapter Twenty seven

  Chapter Twenty eight

  Chapter Twenty nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty one

  Chapter Thirty two

  Chapter Thirty three

  Chapter Thirty four

  Chapter Thirty five

  Chapter Thirty six

  Prologue: From Norway to New Jalpaiguri

  It was May 2011: the summer of boredom, work and celibacy. An entire year had passed since I’d moved back in with my parents and abandoned the debaucheries of student life. Looking ahead, everything was going well. I had a semi-decent job, some money in the bank, no prison sentences and the afternoon heat hadn’t been nearly as toxic as the forecasts predicted. But a furtive glance over the shoulder was enough to indicate that my threshold of sobriety was fast approaching. Something had to be done, something sufficiently cracked up and insane. So I mulled over River’s idea of backpacking with him around the Himalayas for the next two months.

  “Listen woman, we’ll be hanging out at monasteries, drinking the finest teas, getting stoned and abusing philosophy. What more could you possibly want from a holiday?”

  He was right. It was an impressive itinerary and I couldn’t help but say yes.

  Since River was already in India volunteering at a mental health facility near Kolkata, all I had to do was beg for a sabbatical and book a train ticket. So, at the end of the month, I set off towards the city of joy, tucked away in the familiar snot-coloured interiors of an Indian railway carriage, with the smell of food and piss emanating from all sides. The chai wallahs paraded up and down the aisle, speaking entirely in twangs rather than syllables. “Chnaaaaaai, Dip chnaaaai…" their nostrils flared with each call. Soon the high-rise buildings, ugly city traffic, malls and McDonalds gave way to leafy suburbs, quiet streets and kids on bicycles; then came the highways, dust, farmland and women on their haunches.

  An hour or two later, as the view from my window gradually became indiscernible, I was forced to acknowledge the other humans in my vicinity. My companions on this journey were an old couple, who had more suitcases with them than an entire caravan of nomads crossing the Sahara. Clearly, the old man had been so occupied with packing that he’d forgotten to wipe the stains around his freshly dyed moustache. His wife, on the other hand, the sly fox, was shamelessly abetting her husband’s public humiliation by pretending to fiddle with her crochet needles instead of directing him to a mirror. I tried to ignore both of them, but that shoddy dye job was hypnotic. Once I’d noticed it, I just couldn’t look away. Eventually, it got to the point where I had to say something.

  “Excuse me, uncle, your moonch… ” I pointed out the stains to him, his wife didn’t seem very happy about it.

  “Hain?” He got up and peered into the small mirror nailed to the narrow space between the two windows.

  “Oh, haha, thank you, thank you. Ho jaata hai kabhi kabhi, happenings, you know? Do you know? You understanding me?”

  Red flags went up in my head. If I didn’t play my cards right, then this could be the beginning of a two-day long conversation about all things personal and unnecessary.

  “Uh… no, my hindi thoda… less hai. Sorry!”

  “No problem, no problem, I know English very good. You from Phoren, no?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s right.”

  “Which place?”

  London? No, that would be a big talking point. America? Probably the same. I needed some place as obscure as. yes, “Norway.”

  “Oooh… Narvay! Ye kahan hai? Where is that?”

  “It’s a country right next to the north pole.”

  “Achcha? Then you see lot of Eskimo? You eat whale also?”

  “Well…”

  The old man leaned forward with curious, childlike eyes and I instantly knew that my scheme had backfired. After this, we were in free fall. Before I knew it, I was telling him all about my fictional life in a land where the sun never sets. We discussed how reindeers are to Norway what cows are to India. I also threw in a short history lesson about John Lennon, the composer of Norway’s supposed national anthem, Norwegian Wood.

  “Hai ram! Lenin? From Russia, you mean?” “Uh... yes, yes, the same one.”

  This highly educational tête-à-tête was interrupted only when the chai wallahs came around. The old man was so enthralled by my tall tales that he insisted on buying me cups of tea throughout the journey. By the time we were pulling into Agra in the evening, I could not have felt more terrible about lying to such a generous old geezer.

  * * *

  We had hardly looked out of the window in the past few hours, so the nightfall took me by surprise. Droves of weary travellers were standing at the edges of the platforms. Hundreds more were sitting on the stairs or sleeping on the floor; a few adventurous souls were busy pissing on the tracks. It appeared as though the whole population was being evacuated.

  “Bhaiya… kuch hua hai kya? Did a bomb go off somewhere?” I questioned a tea stall owner through the grills of my seat window.

  “Bomb? Arre nahin. Yeh to roz ka scene hai. This is less crowd; six o’ clock peak time, madam!”

  “Really?” Emboldened by this knowledge, I decided to venture out for a short walk and partake in some vigorous jostling.

  The evening air was predictably warm and humid, laced with cries of ‘Agra ka petha’, which are small treats made from winter melons or pumpkins boiled in flavoured sugar syrup. It’s nearly impossible to avoid the multitude of vendors who, with woven baskets full of petha balanced on top of their heads, climb into the stationary trains to make a quick sale.

  I had to buy a packet merely to use as a repellent. Only then was I allowed to walk away. I made my way towards the farthest corner of the station where a number of dogs were all lying face down in perfect symmetry. None of them reacted to my presence. They all looked like passengers on an express train to the afterlife. The difference between the hustle and bustle on the main platform and thi
s dog mortuary at the tail end was stark and unsettling. I was going to leave right away, but a black mongrel drew in his last shaky breath as if requesting me to stay and so I did, for a few minutes.

  Back in the carriage, we had some more company – two middle-aged women with a toddler, who started wailing as soon as the train moved. But I didn’t mind, because she was a delicious little girl – soft, white, fluffy and slightly browned on the curve of the shoulder, just like a freshly baked roll of bread. With their arrival, our entourage finally felt complete. Chatty geriatrics on one side, toothless babies and breastfeeding mothers on the other, the evening was as wholesome as it could possibly get.

  “Hello! What’s your name?”

  The baby seemed to understand my question, but she let her mother answer.

  “Baby Sarah.”

  “That’s a nice name. Ooohh Sarah, what are you eating?” I tried to engage her with my best baby voice.

  “No, no. Her name is Baby Sarah.”

  “You mean the whole thing?”

  “Yes, of course!” The mother let out a long, exasperated sigh.

  Obviously, she had no idea of what was coming to her 13 years from now.

  “Okay then.”

  We all had dinner together and thankfully, Norway was replaced by Baby Sarah’s gurgling laughter. Shortly after, we retired to our berths and I was dead to the world within seconds. The rhythmic cradle-like motion of the train had me soaring high above green forests and blue rivers till about six in the morning, when the sun appeared at the horizon. The experience of waking up on a train is so much more pleasant than on a plane – no aching back, no swollen feet or lungs clogged up with recycled breaths. You can stretch out your limbs in any direction you like and the morning air is so crisp and sweet that it goes right into the bloodstream like high-quality cocaine.

  When I resumed my seat next to the window, we were passing by miles and miles of virescent fields with narrow canals slowly feeding water to the crops. The only other person awake yet was the old man’s wife. She was busy rolling her breakfast paan with a generous sprinkling of areca nuts. We sat in awkward silence for a long time while she masticated thoughtfully.

  “So, where are you planning to go from Kolkata?”

  “Darjeeling,” I replied with enthusiasm.

  “Hai ram! Darjeeling? Why? There are two places in this world that I’ll never ever go to again – one is Darjeeling and the other, Puri. Bekaar! Never again!”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Ugh, you will see, why should I tell now!”

  Thanks for letting me know, I mumbled under my breath and shot her a few hateful glances, not that she cared. We went back to the awkward silence till her husband, who had groggily made his way out of the compartment earlier, showed up with a plate full of hot samosas from the pantry.

  “Eat, eat, you not get this in Narvay.”

  Our train crawled into Sealdah Railway station at seven in the evening. We were four hours late, which is more or less on time in the larger Indian scheme of things. Unfortunately, River had booked the tickets for our onward journey to New Jalpaiguri on that very night. So my plans of venturing out into Kolkata, however briefly, had to be abandoned.

  “Okay beta, be safe. I will surely think of you when I hear of Narvay again.”

  “Haha, of course you will, of course...” The old man shook my hand and I kicked myself internally while walking towards the exit, where River was waiting for me.

  * * *

  In the whole year that we’d been apart, River hadn’t changed at all. Slightly dishevelled and spaced out – that’s him, forever and always.

  “I’m so sorry about the train! How long have you been waiting here?” I apologized between hugs.

  “Waiting? Here? Are you mad?” He nodded his head at the crowd, which was scurrying in and out of the exit like ants trying to navigate the shortest route back to their colonies.

  “Then?”

  “I was chilling at the Victoria Memorial.”

  “That museum of colonialism? Why?” I asked, reproachfully. But River simply guffawed in response, implying that I was an idiot.

  “Victoria Memorial is bloody amazing! It’s where all the lovers of Kolkata rendezvous in secret. In the horse carriages, behind the unruly bushes in the garden, next to the marble pillars… they are everywhere. This evening will remain a cherished memory, trust me.”

  “Ew. And somewhere in the universe, Queen Victoria is writhing in agony as we speak.”

  “Why? She has no right to complain, considering that not a single English pound was spent in building the memorial. The funds were siphoned off entirely from the Maharajas’ coffers.”

  “Huh. Looks like you’ve thoroughly scraped the bottom of Kolkata’s barrel.”

  “Oh yeah absolutely, and it’s everything I had imagined India to be. I’m a bit upset though that I didn’t find special lassi anywhere.”

  “Jesus, are you still obsessing over that? There’s nothing special about special lassi. It’s just a flavoured milk shake blended with low-grade marijuana.”

  “I know, but it’s the idea of a pot milk shake that fascinates me. Do you know what I mean?”

  I paused for a second; I had no idea what he meant.

  “Not really... but fine, we’ll try to look for it somewhere along the way, okay?”

  “Ok-kay.” River executed a perfect Indian headshake and we walked around Sealdah to find something interesting to eat.

  The flyover outside the railway station had a narrow passage underneath, which quickly led us to the other side. Here we found a lively bazaar with little wormhole shops squeezed next to each other, illuminated by the soft yellow light of bare halogen bulbs dangling on spindly wires. We were surrounded by so many food stalls that it was impossible to pick a favourite. And despite the competition, all of them had robust queues where the orders were being hurled at the cooks like impassioned curses. The peppery aroma of hot samosas and ghughni tempted us considerably, but in the end, we picked a roll-shop with the smallest throng.

  The Indian equivalent of a burrito, these rolls along with the popular chilly chicken, are the enduring legacy of the Chinese immigrants who came to India during the British Raj. Even though most of them were forced to leave after the Indo-Sino war of 1962, the Chinatown in Kolkata continues to exist and serve some delicious opium-scented gourmet treats. At least, that’s what River had heard.

  “Two egg rolls, please,” River hollered at the man behind the huge griddle. We then stood next to the kerosene stove, gaping at his hands as they deftly tucked the noodles, roasted peanuts and fried eggs inside the thin roti. The cooking, chopping, rolling, packing, dealing with cash and washing up the dishes, all flowed together without a single pause. This, while accommodating the customers’ incessant requests: Could you put some more lemon on my roll? Could you make mine extra spicy? Could you double wrap it, dada? I wanted to hover around these men for a day just to document their nimble fingers, but the line had quickly multiplied behind our backs and we were forced to leave.

  We walked back to Sealdah through the same sweat-enamelled passage, with the latest Bengali songs blaring from crappy portable stereos. Somewhere along the way, a plastic buckets salesman wrapped himself around us because River had made the mistake of responding to his cries. While I would simply ignore exclamations such as, “Shirts! Socks! Very cheaply!” River had to stop and pretend as though he was actually interested in buying whatever the hell was being sold.

  “Don’t do that, River. Just keep walking.”

  “But that’s rude. I should at least take a look.”

  He didn’t listen and consequently, we were plagued with stalkers for the next eight weeks.

  The rest of our sojourn in Kolkata was spent in trying to scream at each other over the deafening arrival and departure announcements at Sealdah. After a little practice, we got so good at blocking out the noise that we almost missed our Darjeeling Mail. This led to a long cinematic
chase sequence with leftover egg rolls bouncing out of our pockets. Thankfully, once we were on board, there was nothing else to do except go to sleep. Both of us had been allotted lower berths, which was fine by me, but River didn’t seem too happy about it. He forced me to go talk to the man on the upper bunk and convince him to switch places.

  “But what’s wrong with the lower one? It’s nice and airy here next to the window.”

  “Yeah, but the rats can also get to you more easily.”

  “Rats?” I whispered instinctively, so as not to incur the wrath of the vermin.

  “Uhuh, those big hairy bandicoots that can hack off your big toe.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Well, I am going up. Good luck and good night.”

  What followed this exchange was silence, complete and utter silence, as I spent the night cowering in fear, imagining a gang of bandicoots nipping at my toes.

  Dorje Ling: Land of the Mystic Thunderbolt

  New Jalpaiguri is the last stop below the Lesser Himalayas, which is connected to the rest of the country by rail. And since it’s so far flung, there was a distinct possibility of waking up in a rusty, primitive little town with no ATMs or phone networks. But the morning was a pleasant surprise and NJP was teeming with tourists from all over the world. There were adequate cash machines, everything was new and relatively clean – well everything, except the toilet, which like all other public toilets in India, was appalling. While I was standing outside the stalls, fighting an intense bout of nausea, the woman inside seemed to be taking a bath. After 15 minutes of splashing water on god knows what, two of her friends started hollering, begging that she come out.

  “Ay, ki korcheesh? Come out!”

  “Aashchee, coming!” She shrieked right back at them through the closed door, but continued to frolic in the water.

  “But how is it inside? Is it clean?” the friends inquired hopefully.

  “Uri baba, naaa! It is terrible!”

  At this point, I just wanted to kick the door in and cry out, “if it’s that terrible, then why the bloody hell won’t you come out, you stupid woman!” But as an upstanding citizen I couldn’t bring myself to do it and decided to get some breakfast instead.