I have tried too many things in one life. I pursued literature while studying medicine, then I got involved in symbolic logic and applied mathematics even before I’d finished my literature course, and now I’m obsessed with homeopathy. Nothing else but the
Materia Medica
running through my head. A one-track mind. I cannot possibly teach you Baudelaire now. And frankly speaking, I’m afraid of Esha.’
‘What! Whatever for?’ Esha almost jumped out of her chair. Mahanam laughed. ‘Girls who study poetry often ask such difficult questions that dilettante teachers like me cannot offer answers.’
Aritra’s eyes were still questioning. An intelligent young man, he had not believed the explanation. Mahanam had inadvertently blurted out something that lay deep in his mind. Doubt gathered in Aritra’s eyes. Couldn’t boys who studied poetry ask difficult questions too?
Yagneshwar had brought in luchi, alur-dom and deep-fried hilsa. All of them white. The first two were milky white. The fish had acquired a golden hue because it had been fried.
‘I’m something of a gourmet too,’ Mahanam was saying, dividing a luchi into four with a fork and a knife. ‘Quite primitive in that sense.’
‘Are you going to use a knife and fork for the fish too?’ asked Esha in wonder.
‘Not knife and fork, but just the fork.’ Spearing a piece of fish with his fork, Mahanam transferred it into his mouth. ‘Why aren’t you eating?’
Aritra took a sip of tea. Esha said, ‘Both tea and hilsa are off-limits for me, Mahanam-da.’
‘Still on milk?’
‘Not just on milk, on luchi and alur-dom too. But I’m not used to such a heavy breakfast at this hour of the morning. Makes me uncomfortable,’ Esha replied.
‘Yagneshwar!’—Mahanam called for him— ‘Yagneshwar!’ He appeared in a dhoti and shirt, a duster slung over his shoulder, a bristly moustache, and grey hair.
‘Never cast pearls before swine. Take away your Begumbahar luchi and Mughlai alur-dom at once. These two think gastronomy and academics are mutual enemies. Let them, but I am not allowing your cooking skills to be humiliated.’
Yagneshwar picked up the tray of food while Esha said, ‘Begumbahar luchi? Mughlai alur-dom? What are all these, Mahanam-da?’
‘You’d have known if you’d tried them,’ answered Mahanam, carefully folding the second luchi with his knife and fork. ‘If you can have rumali roti, why not Begumbahar luchi? Invented by Yagneshwar Mal, esquire. Practically transparent. If you’d only tasted the alur-dom you’d have known it isn’t your everyday stuff.’
What had Aria and Esha discussed on their way back that day? A smile appeared on Mahanam’s lips. Aritra must have said, ‘Actually he doesn’t know anything. Claims to know French like his mother tongue. Humph!’
‘Strange man, you know.’
‘More peculiar than strange. Begumbahar luchi! My foot!’
‘No but I should have tasted it. I made a mistake.’
‘You made nothing of the sort. He’s actually a miser. Complete skinflint. Thinks he’s very clever. Just flashed the tray before our eyes. Always does that. Yagneshwar cooks just once during the day and passes it off for breakfast, lunch and dinner. This one Yagneshwar is my cook-cumservant-cum-cleaner-cum-errands-boy . . .’
This conversation was not entirely imaginary. These were the stories that circulated about Mahanam, who had just returned from Oxford. He quite enjoyed them. Apparently he had grown a beard to hide a burn on his chin. From acid. Which he had acquired when trying to kill himself. Had a colleague not snatched the bottle of hydrochloric acid out of his hands he would have been the late Mahanam by now. And the suicide was apparently for the blue-eyed Irene McCutcheon. Mahanam would hear these stories, but never protest. This was how legends were created. His beard, Joggeshwar, Marble Palace and the strange things he said had given birth to long-standing fables on the university
Materia Medica
running through my head. A one-track mind. I cannot possibly teach you Baudelaire now. And frankly speaking, I’m afraid of Esha.’
‘What! Whatever for?’ Esha almost jumped out of her chair. Mahanam laughed. ‘Girls who study poetry often ask such difficult questions that dilettante teachers like me cannot offer answers.’
Aritra’s eyes were still questioning. An intelligent young man, he had not believed the explanation. Mahanam had inadvertently blurted out something that lay deep in his mind. Doubt gathered in Aritra’s eyes. Couldn’t boys who studied poetry ask difficult questions too?
Yagneshwar had brought in luchi, alur-dom and deep-fried hilsa. All of them white. The first two were milky white. The fish had acquired a golden hue because it had been fried.
‘I’m something of a gourmet too,’ Mahanam was saying, dividing a luchi into four with a fork and a knife. ‘Quite primitive in that sense.’
‘Are you going to use a knife and fork for the fish too?’ asked Esha in wonder.
‘Not knife and fork, but just the fork.’ Spearing a piece of fish with his fork, Mahanam transferred it into his mouth. ‘Why aren’t you eating?’
Aritra took a sip of tea. Esha said, ‘Both tea and hilsa are off-limits for me, Mahanam-da.’
‘Still on milk?’
‘Not just on milk, on luchi and alur-dom too. But I’m not used to such a heavy breakfast at this hour of the morning. Makes me uncomfortable,’ Esha replied.
‘Yagneshwar!’—Mahanam called for him— ‘Yagneshwar!’ He appeared in a dhoti and shirt, a duster slung over his shoulder, a bristly moustache, and grey hair.
‘Never cast pearls before swine. Take away your Begumbahar luchi and Mughlai alur-dom at once. These two think gastronomy and academics are mutual enemies. Let them, but I am not allowing your cooking skills to be humiliated.’
Yagneshwar picked up the tray of food while Esha said, ‘Begumbahar luchi? Mughlai alur-dom? What are all these, Mahanam-da?’
‘You’d have known if you’d tried them,’ answered Mahanam, carefully folding the second luchi with his knife and fork. ‘If you can have rumali roti, why not Begumbahar luchi? Invented by Yagneshwar Mal, esquire. Practically transparent. If you’d only tasted the alur-dom you’d have known it isn’t your everyday stuff.’
What had Aria and Esha discussed on their way back that day? A smile appeared on Mahanam’s lips. Aritra must have said, ‘Actually he doesn’t know anything. Claims to know French like his mother tongue. Humph!’
‘Strange man, you know.’
‘More peculiar than strange. Begumbahar luchi! My foot!’
‘No but I should have tasted it. I made a mistake.’
‘You made nothing of the sort. He’s actually a miser. Complete skinflint. Thinks he’s very clever. Just flashed the tray before our eyes. Always does that. Yagneshwar cooks just once during the day and passes it off for breakfast, lunch and dinner. This one Yagneshwar is my cook-cumservant-cum-cleaner-cum-errands-boy . . .’
This conversation was not entirely imaginary. These were the stories that circulated about Mahanam, who had just returned from Oxford. He quite enjoyed them. Apparently he had grown a beard to hide a burn on his chin. From acid. Which he had acquired when trying to kill himself. Had a colleague not snatched the bottle of hydrochloric acid out of his hands he would have been the late Mahanam by now. And the suicide was apparently for the blue-eyed Irene McCutcheon. Mahanam would hear these stories, but never protest. This was how legends were created. His beard, Joggeshwar, Marble Palace and the strange things he said had given birth to long-standing fables on the university
Similar Books
