Masters, minions and pangas

We'd won the Fresher's quiz that evening. After almost a month of trying to adjust to living alone, quickly dropping standards of meals, and even more quickly changing moral baselines, it felt good to have the familiar feeling of working out an answer from abstruse clues. It was to set the tone for the next few years in Roorkee - the transition from adolescence to (pretences of) adulthood was a lot about working oblique hints.

For now, though, I was only focussing on the chapo we were at. Dela and Prondu were the only second-years around, as the others didn't want to crowd out the three first-years - Pulkit, Rishabh and I - at the Ganga canteen. This was the autumn of 2007, mind you, so names such as bun panga and patties bhujia that are now considered ancient relics, were quite in vogue, if ever such a phrase could be used in the context of midnight grubs at hostel canteens.

I don't quite remember what we'd ordered, but I distinctly remember Lefty dreamily sauntering in from his abode in the neighbouring Cautley Bhawan, and extending a warm hand accompanied by a warmer smile. "Hi, I'm Saagar. I'm a third-year in Lit, so even though Dela and Prondy are probably going to ask me to pay, I'll leave them the honour." After a couple of minutes of exchanging names and introductions (and Prondu controlling his violent urge to ask Lefty to shut me up), he had to go back to join the friends from the farmhouse. Not before he said - "You should try cola shikanji. Trust me, you'll love it."

***

Living alone is no easier, standards of meals can go up at will because I can finally pay for it, and moral baselines continue to flutter about dangerously, and I am now working in Kolkata, a city I've said enough about in person and whatever is publishable here. It took me a while to figure out the most convenient bus route and get past Google Maps' skullduggery in the name of walking directions, but I finally made it to Bhojohari Manna, in southern Calcutta's Gariahat. Two courses of food went by in a flash over fleeting conversations, and dessert ordered by Lefty with no attempt to put on a Bengali accent, was on the table.

As Dela and I hung our spoons tentatively over Nolan Gud (ice cream garnished with jaggery), Lefty nonchalantly said - "Trust me, you'll love it." Grandmaster, Master and Minion may have years of other more refined social milieus behind them, but even under the suitably understated lighting on that restaurant's table, it could easily have been three soon-to-be tweens waiting for their shikanjis, wondering what in the name of Bhuppi gave the bun panga its name.