‘Lalgola‘ – read the tired-looking LED indicator, blinking feebly. It was the only train that left from Kolkata to my ancestral hometown some 300 miles south.
“Red Ball Of Heat” is what it meant loosely translated from the native Bengali word, and it was not difficult to see why.
Dutifully obeying Einstein’s law of relativity, the 3 hours of travel time expanded, edged on by the hot sun and the stinking heat.
The fact that this train was jam-packed with a variety of men, who for some reason brought on their unique odors into the mix, only helped Einstein’s cause. It would not have taken him much persuasion to prove his theory to this bunch.
Me, My Mother and Father secured our luggage, and found ourselves a small seat fitting snugly amidst a sea of men. We were placed tightly between the itchy man with warts and the sweaty man with warts.
As the train drudged along grunting at the weight of its obviously overweight passengers, the hot sun rained from above. Simple metal seats, open windows without panes, and compartments jam-packed with men, women, and children, this was the epitome of the Indian train-faring experience. Nonetheless, to be fair I must say, it was nothing new. Every year, every month, and every day the train traveled from Kolkata to its distant cousin town, efficiently delivering an eclectic mix of Bengalee passengers in some 3 short hours. It was routine. However, as the clock ticked away, I threw hopeful glances toward the other side of the compartment. This journey had its few merits and it was to come eventually. The only question was, when and how soon.
And then, I heard, “Jhaaal Muuriiiiii ! ” shouted a voice from above the crowd in a dreary yet firm voice. Our savior had arrived.
Like Moses parting the waves, he parted the sea of men with his precious cargo of spicy treats. Jhaal Muri is a local delicacy that has two of the most coveted items of food-loving Bengalees – Rice Puffs and Spices.
It was a lip-smacking combination of tastes that could overpower the discomfort of other sensory perceptions and one of the few trademark delicacies available to the dreary train passengers, especially in eastern and northern parts of India.
As the man came into full view, my dad, always a foodie eyed the large mixing pot of spices, raw mango, lemon juice, puffed rice, and many other lip-smacking delicacies. His enthusiasm was only short-lived felt as he felt a conscientious tug on his shirt by my dutiful mother, who had been observing the whole scenario unfold.
As their eyes met, an invisible conversation unfolded. Within seconds all his hopes of Jhaal Muri died out. One look and done. period.
That is what I love about married couples. Because I have always wondered how they manage to transmit so many romantic and not-so-romantic intentions between each other with one simple look.
Of course, she was right, my dad had an upset stomach yesterday.
But, like most times, I came to his rescue and ordered one pack of Jhaal Muri for myself, an extra large one.
As we happily munched on the “Jhaal Muri”, me and my dad, occasionally, the journey no longer seemed so dreary and the odor so awful.
The stinging smell of sweat, the rude summer heat, the lack of space in the congested train compartment, and all other discomforts seemed less discomforting in the company of this tasty delicacy as we blissfully kept moving towards our destination.
