The street was shrouded in thick mist when I first beheld it, after getting off the taxi. It was a little over seven in the morning, and we had just arrived at Zakaria Street to have nihari at the famed Sufia restaurant near the famous Nakhoda Mosque.
Across the veil of mist, life had just began to stir on the street at the other end of which, I was told, is our destination. The avenue was flanked on both sides by edifices which seemed straight out of Burton's passages describing towns to the west of the Indus. Calcutta prides itself on its heritage of colonial buildings of Indo-European architecture and yet the ones which I was looking at, were unlike any other I had seen before. The latticed windows, the ornate railings of quaint balconies, the sprawling courtyards of the buildings caused me to stop after every few steps to soak in the beauty of the architecture; I was perhaps marvelling at the altered skyline of domes and minarets when a voice suddenly boomed from behind, " Supreme Lungis. Are you looking for Supreme Lungis , madam?"
" Huh?", I started and I turned around. There stood a tall, lean bearded man in a maroon woolen jacket and brown pajamas. He was a young man and perhaps, even good looking with his gaunt, sharp lineaments, but I had no chance to dwell upon that for he smiled at me as he spoke to me again, " Supreme Lungis are the finest in Calcutta, madam and our store is right here."
And it was the oddest, little smile I had ever beheld on a human visage. His eyes crinkled into his long lashes, and his mouth, hitherto hidden in the jungle of his thick beard, fell open to suddenly become conspicuous. This simultaneous disappearance of the eyes, and appearance of a pink mouth gave him, this salesman, the looks of a child. A child who is trying hard to ingratiate himself to a stern adult with his most winsome smile and yet, the smile also gives away his irreverence for the same adult.
Meanwhile, this bearded child with a strange, little smile continued, " Our lungis are made from 100% cotton, madam. Maybe you would like to check them out to gift some to your friends; they make nice souvenirs. Won't..." He could not continue enumerating the immense advantages of buying Supreme Lungis because he was interrupted by the petulant ringing of my mobile phone. I reluctantly answered the call; it was from Alain, one of the friends I had come to Zakaria Street with. In a voice that evinced vexation as well as anxiety, he asked why was I taking so long to join them at the restaurant where they had reached apparently several minutes ago. I must have turned away from my waylayer while speaking to Alain because when I finally finished talking, I realised that he had left. All this while, I had been too startled to spare any thought about Supreme Lungis but now I looked around and did see a tiny shop with a red signboard that had Supreme Lungis written over it in white. As I hurriedly walked towards the eatery where my friends awaited me, I decided to visit the shop on our way back.
It was about 9 o' clock by the time we finished our meal throughout which rather than admiring the decor or ambience of the place, I had let the image of the smiling mien of the bearded child-man flash before my eyes. My friends, surprised though they were, when I told them about my interest in buying lungis, came along to the store. A small room housed the shop which comprised of several shelves on the wall with glass covers, and a divan underneath them where sat the shopkeepers and their customers. When we walked in, two men were sitting on the divan, and I felt a pang of disappointment on discovering that the man who resembled a child with his winsome smile, wasn't one of them. They both looked up: one was painfully thin and probably a septuagenarian, and the other was a rotund man in his forties. They both had hennaed hair and were garbed in spotlessly white kurta- pajama with shawls over them.
" Hmmm...", I said gingerly. "We would like to see some of your lungis, please."
" Of course, please be seated", replied the younger man. He then did the needful in showing us several lungis of different prints and colours. I knew that nobody I was planning to gift these to back home at Grenoble , would have any opportunity to wear these sartorial wonders, even if they had the interest simply because of the cold, Alpine weather there, and yet, I ended up buying five lungis, all the while hoping that the boy who had praised Supreme Lungis to the sky, to me on the streets would make an appearance. A voice in my head was endlessly chiding me for having such childish hopes, while another was fervently encouraging me. The younger shopkeeper chatted with Alain and Jacqueline but I hardly paid heed. When he was performing the final customary ritual of thanking the customers for visiting, I suddenly blurted out, " You see, its your salesman who owes this thanks because he is the one who convinced me to visit your shop."
The men exchanged glances and then, looked at me quizzically. The emaciated, old man said, " But what do you mean madam? We have no salesman. It's a small shop as you can see for yourself and I run it with my son Aftab here".
I was rather taken aback and also conscious of my friends' questioning gazes. " But there was a boy, ahem, sorry, a man out on the streets," I said. " He was...", I wanted so much to, but stopped short of describing the smile to these people, and instead said, " He was most insistent that I visit this shop and I assumed him to be your employee. But maybe he was just a helpful local." Seeing an expression of disbelief mixed with suspicion creeping up on their faces, I stood up and left, bading them a hasty adieu. Out on the street, Jacqueline asked me if I had smoked up before coming out this morning.
A few steps ahead, on the pavement, by the walls of Hindustan Musafirkhana, another quaint, old building, an old man was selling tea. Jacqueline and Alain stopped by while I sauntered into the courtyard of the musfirkhana. There were flowerbeads lining the courtyard, and I was admiring them as well as the columns of the portico of the lodge when suddenly my attention was arrested by a painting that hung from the wall near the main door of the musafirkhana. It was a portrait of the bearded boy; and yes, he was smiling. A slackjawed smile beneath a pair of crinkled eyes. As endearing as it was mocking, it- the smile- managed to efface of solemn gravity of the dark, wooden frame of the portrait. He was dressed in the manner of an Englishman of Edwardian times, I thought, with a bowler hat, white waistcoat and shimmering black dress coat. Next to the portrait was a marble plaque that read, ' This Musafirkhana was built by Mr. Aaron Ainsworth and his wife, Begum Roshanara Husain, in the memory of their beloved son, Rizwan Allan Ainsworth, who passed away in 1905 in London, in his twenty sixth year.'
Across the veil of mist, life had just began to stir on the street at the other end of which, I was told, is our destination. The avenue was flanked on both sides by edifices which seemed straight out of Burton's passages describing towns to the west of the Indus. Calcutta prides itself on its heritage of colonial buildings of Indo-European architecture and yet the ones which I was looking at, were unlike any other I had seen before. The latticed windows, the ornate railings of quaint balconies, the sprawling courtyards of the buildings caused me to stop after every few steps to soak in the beauty of the architecture; I was perhaps marvelling at the altered skyline of domes and minarets when a voice suddenly boomed from behind, " Supreme Lungis. Are you looking for Supreme Lungis , madam?"
" Huh?", I started and I turned around. There stood a tall, lean bearded man in a maroon woolen jacket and brown pajamas. He was a young man and perhaps, even good looking with his gaunt, sharp lineaments, but I had no chance to dwell upon that for he smiled at me as he spoke to me again, " Supreme Lungis are the finest in Calcutta, madam and our store is right here."
And it was the oddest, little smile I had ever beheld on a human visage. His eyes crinkled into his long lashes, and his mouth, hitherto hidden in the jungle of his thick beard, fell open to suddenly become conspicuous. This simultaneous disappearance of the eyes, and appearance of a pink mouth gave him, this salesman, the looks of a child. A child who is trying hard to ingratiate himself to a stern adult with his most winsome smile and yet, the smile also gives away his irreverence for the same adult.
Meanwhile, this bearded child with a strange, little smile continued, " Our lungis are made from 100% cotton, madam. Maybe you would like to check them out to gift some to your friends; they make nice souvenirs. Won't..." He could not continue enumerating the immense advantages of buying Supreme Lungis because he was interrupted by the petulant ringing of my mobile phone. I reluctantly answered the call; it was from Alain, one of the friends I had come to Zakaria Street with. In a voice that evinced vexation as well as anxiety, he asked why was I taking so long to join them at the restaurant where they had reached apparently several minutes ago. I must have turned away from my waylayer while speaking to Alain because when I finally finished talking, I realised that he had left. All this while, I had been too startled to spare any thought about Supreme Lungis but now I looked around and did see a tiny shop with a red signboard that had Supreme Lungis written over it in white. As I hurriedly walked towards the eatery where my friends awaited me, I decided to visit the shop on our way back.
It was about 9 o' clock by the time we finished our meal throughout which rather than admiring the decor or ambience of the place, I had let the image of the smiling mien of the bearded child-man flash before my eyes. My friends, surprised though they were, when I told them about my interest in buying lungis, came along to the store. A small room housed the shop which comprised of several shelves on the wall with glass covers, and a divan underneath them where sat the shopkeepers and their customers. When we walked in, two men were sitting on the divan, and I felt a pang of disappointment on discovering that the man who resembled a child with his winsome smile, wasn't one of them. They both looked up: one was painfully thin and probably a septuagenarian, and the other was a rotund man in his forties. They both had hennaed hair and were garbed in spotlessly white kurta- pajama with shawls over them.
" Hmmm...", I said gingerly. "We would like to see some of your lungis, please."
" Of course, please be seated", replied the younger man. He then did the needful in showing us several lungis of different prints and colours. I knew that nobody I was planning to gift these to back home at Grenoble , would have any opportunity to wear these sartorial wonders, even if they had the interest simply because of the cold, Alpine weather there, and yet, I ended up buying five lungis, all the while hoping that the boy who had praised Supreme Lungis to the sky, to me on the streets would make an appearance. A voice in my head was endlessly chiding me for having such childish hopes, while another was fervently encouraging me. The younger shopkeeper chatted with Alain and Jacqueline but I hardly paid heed. When he was performing the final customary ritual of thanking the customers for visiting, I suddenly blurted out, " You see, its your salesman who owes this thanks because he is the one who convinced me to visit your shop."
The men exchanged glances and then, looked at me quizzically. The emaciated, old man said, " But what do you mean madam? We have no salesman. It's a small shop as you can see for yourself and I run it with my son Aftab here".
I was rather taken aback and also conscious of my friends' questioning gazes. " But there was a boy, ahem, sorry, a man out on the streets," I said. " He was...", I wanted so much to, but stopped short of describing the smile to these people, and instead said, " He was most insistent that I visit this shop and I assumed him to be your employee. But maybe he was just a helpful local." Seeing an expression of disbelief mixed with suspicion creeping up on their faces, I stood up and left, bading them a hasty adieu. Out on the street, Jacqueline asked me if I had smoked up before coming out this morning.
A few steps ahead, on the pavement, by the walls of Hindustan Musafirkhana, another quaint, old building, an old man was selling tea. Jacqueline and Alain stopped by while I sauntered into the courtyard of the musfirkhana. There were flowerbeads lining the courtyard, and I was admiring them as well as the columns of the portico of the lodge when suddenly my attention was arrested by a painting that hung from the wall near the main door of the musafirkhana. It was a portrait of the bearded boy; and yes, he was smiling. A slackjawed smile beneath a pair of crinkled eyes. As endearing as it was mocking, it- the smile- managed to efface of solemn gravity of the dark, wooden frame of the portrait. He was dressed in the manner of an Englishman of Edwardian times, I thought, with a bowler hat, white waistcoat and shimmering black dress coat. Next to the portrait was a marble plaque that read, ' This Musafirkhana was built by Mr. Aaron Ainsworth and his wife, Begum Roshanara Husain, in the memory of their beloved son, Rizwan Allan Ainsworth, who passed away in 1905 in London, in his twenty sixth year.'
