Grouchy Gourmet was going through a makeover. Knocking on the door was its 5th anniversary, hence coming up with a content ready to challenge the food vlogging world was a must. And it had been wonderfully taken care of, that much Anushka was certain. The plan had been brewing in her head for quite some time and ultimately the day was as near as a jar of cookies in the kitchen.

Yes, it was draining to continuously cook plans in your head on how to overtake other channels, especially when they were breathing on your neck, yet she had managed to do it the past five years.

Recording, editing, filtering, catching up with what others are up to, concocting revenge ideas, coming up with whacky shits to have the momentum on, and finally…finally keeping up the act with Rahul!

In front of all!

And what about my mother?

What about her when she knows the truth?

She had been masking the reality with distractions, shielding herself from truth ever since..ever since..

He came running through the door, skidding against the rug on the floor, bumped against the table at the corner and finally jerked to a halt in front of her. Without a word he embraced her tight.

“What are you doing?” she had squealed in a mix of delight and mortification. Delighted to have been hugged, mortified at the fear of somebody seeing. To others they were neighbours and friends, to themselves they were much more.

“I have got the job!” he had shrieked, damp eyes sparkling with tears. They were not of sadness or misery, but of elation and euphoria. Anushka had always adored his lighter orbs, something he inherited from his mother. The chances of finding brownish green eyes among Indians is as rare as pearls in an oyster.

That day they had agreed to get married amidst stolen kisses and whispered promises.

Young infatuation, childhood fantasy, people could call names but to them it was the truth.

Or was it just to Ronit and not to her?

Or why else, exactly a year later, she was in Kolkata, in Rahul’s posh car, wheezing by empty New Town roads and expressways in the dead of the night?

Or why were his hands all over her when that very body had been ravished by Ronit not even six months before?

How could she forget that day at her old Darjeeling home where their eyes had alighted with burning desires and passions deep hidden in the innermost crevices of their hearts!

How could she forget the very first touch of a man’s lips on hers? They were so foreign yet so enchanting, enigmatic!

How could she forget so easily her hands on his smooth shoulders that dented towards his forearms, his trembling fingers and extreme reservations while he revelled in the soft, highs and lows of her young, untainted body.

Her virginity that he kept intact due to obvious priorities, she happily gifted to Rahul.

Ever since the tea party, those words had been resonating inside her head, they were eye opening and have had deep impact, much more than she would have liked to allow.

“There is a time to grow and there is a time to live, if you live too early, you will not grow…”

I indeed lived too early.

She sighed.

But, her life was too fast for nostalgia. There wasn’t a single time to waste, was there? The answer was a deeply resounding no. Today was supposed to be a start of something new and she would make sure it remained so.

                        ********

Arranging the last pleats of her saree and safely tucking them inside the elastic band of her shapewear cum petticoat, she took a last glance at her reflection. And man, the result was phenomenal!

It was a far cry from her skimpy attired self, miles apart from the persona she had..faked?

With her trusted camera safely put inside a cross body bag, she reached the venue. The five star hotel in Salt Lake had just opened doors to the public. Designed as one of Kolkata’s heritage houses with a dedicated, artificial green trimmed lawn, that mimicked the grandeur of Bonedi Bari to the closest possibility, the three storeyed structure had a courtyard lit with a ginormous chandelier, the gleam of which illuminated the broad, spiral stairways and the ceiling curvature. With its tip finished chessboard floors, lion sculptures and impeccable artefacts, the structuration was arguably the most evocative depiction of Bengal’s zamindari(landowner). Befitting the interiors, she was dressed in a classic white garad  saree with a beautiful red border complete with an ornate zaree detailing.

Everything had been set up a week prior. The hotel had accepted her request since both were to mutually gain. She would get a partial payment on the first twenty people opting for a staycation using a discount code given in her name, in exchange the hotel could use her wild and vast fan base to advertise, thus catering to a larger customer setting. The offer was profitable for both and Anushka felt it was time for a massive breakthrough; her ground breaking plan was ready to roll.

There was another twist though. Designed to be filmed as a series and going on air every weekend, she was to accompany a guest on each sojourn. The catch—the guest would be from an impoverished background, in plain and crude language, one who would have never thought of having a chance at eating in places such as those. The responsibility of finding that person was not hers, it had fallen on her team and after much research they had stumbled upon Wasim Khan. A factory worker by day, taxi driver by night. Widower and survived by three teenage sons, all school going, the oldest being fifteen and the youngest, seven.

The man gave her a lopsided smile, the blackish gums was a stark contrast against the white of his teeth. A shabby pink shirt and worn out grey cargo sat distressed on his pot belly. His constant blabber, however infuriating, wasn’t able to dim the excitement of her view count hitting the jackpot like crazy overnight.

Just a few hours, and this haggard would be out!

“Namaskar and welcome to Kolkata Heritage”, two men dressed in distinct white uniforms with colour-co ordinated turbans greeted them with bowed heads and folded hands from either side of an archaic Burma Teak wooden door with artfully curated rustic knobs. Holding a silver plate of dressed betel leaves that gave antique Kolkata vibes, Anushka couldn’t ignore the arresting charm of the place.

Hmm, fantastic indeed!

Throughout, her camera didn’t fail to capture the aesthetic appeal of every nook and cranny and she was quite satisfied with the result till bratty Wasim decided to snatch 5 betel leaves off in a go. The ear to ear grin on his face rang alarm in Anushaks’s brain and she was left fuming with rage until the thought of an even worse outcome hit her rationality.

Patience..patience..calm down..calm down.

These people do not know any etiquette..

Patience..patience..do not snap.

With a quick side glance, Anushka observed him gauging the surrounding’s splendour with wide, open eyes and the most idiotic smile was plastered on a round face. In a posh surrounding, his weird behaviour soundly stood out.

In no time, their reserved table was full with food. The antique theme had spilled into the flagship restaurant where Bekti Meunière and Chicken a La Kiev lead the Anglo-Indian menu with Portuguese, Dutch and Mughal influences. Not to forget the wide array of rich Bengali dishes that that was their specialty.

Anushka suited herself to some posh cutlery and cut a decent slice of chicken, Wasim Khan on the other hand dived in deep with hands. With that same irritating and callous smile playing at his brown lips, he said, “madam, why not use hands?”

Anushka couldn’t believe the fool's audacity. A vagrant who ought to be on the moon to be able to dine at a place, his fourteen generations could only dream of, was instructing her! Her!

Enough!

It was enough. She had been tolerant towards his boorishness, considering it was the first day and the start of her Kolkata Diaries series. Otherwise, he would long before be given a piece of mind. But no, she couldn’t afford being rude or arrogant, could she?

“Listen, these places have a class”, she spoke through clenched teeth, “crass behaviour is not their forte”, she finished, her voice barely above a whisper.

Wasim laughed, an awkward booming laugh that ricocheted off in deep vibrations throughout the large hall, halting service men and earning curious glances. “Madam, we are Indians. This is an Indian place and Indian food taste best when eaten with hands. You know what my grandmother used to say? That when your fingers touch the food, your body knows that it has to eat..do not mess with Indian culture madam, your western one will always be a baby.”

Anushka couldn’t fathom the rubbish.

What the hell?

She stared at him in utter disbelief. Her teeth rubbed against each other as she observed his robust fingers mixing the contents of the red goat curry with the traditional yellow pulao and taking in mouthfulls. On the other hand she toggled with despair, being frustrated with her own efforts in enjoying the same with a fork, spoon and a stupid knife!

“Eat, eat madam, I’m much older than you, so trust me on this. Your western etiquette will not work here.” He grinned and slurped the curry while sucking his thumb, the look of content was evident. “Why else do you think they have served these in terracotta plates with a banana leaf on top? Do you think the zamindars ate with spoon?”

No matter how much she intended to argue, deep down she was aware it was futile. Eating Indian food with a spoon was an onerous task indeed, the cuisine is completely different.

Thinking of which, it is true that food has never tasted the same with cutlery. Any Indian will resonate with the sentiment.

Forgoing her inhibitions and letting the feel of the moment soak in, she rubbed her hands against each other and dug deep, very wary of judgemental stares.

But, alas! Almost everyone was busy minding their own business, they didn’t even spare a look! And there she was squirming under her own hesitance. Thinking on this line, she couldn’t help but reflect how a traditional Bengali thali tasted like heavens after..after..almost half a decade, may be? During any dine out, continental would be Rahul’s pick, not that she didn’t agree but the ear-splitting and tooth-breaking french names was never her cup of tea. And Japanese food? Better not venture into that terrain. Chinese was a close cousin, so was Thai and Mexican but others…

Her eyes drifted to Wasim, happily sucking on a goat bone, ah! The marrow! Was there any Indian who hadn’t helped himself to a goat marrow? She could hardly fathom. She had a bone too with some sound marrow, but could she go ahead and do it?

No, definitely not. It’s crass.

Realisation dawned on her, when and how did her life become this strict?! So utterly, miserably disciplined? So much that her whole being had been invested in just protocols and etiquette! So much that all she had cared about was to be someone else, rather something else, so much that she had forgotten who she was!

“Ahhh! Not even my grandfather could comprehend eating in a place as this.” Wasim’s booming voice with an accented Bengali, typical of people from Bangladesh, jolted her back to reality. He was rubbing his bloated and sated stomach, that same ignorant smile—a definite sign of fulfilment refused to go.

Is it ignorant, really? Or is it infectious?

Nah, this person is classless fool.

But he is much happier than you are.

Isn’t that all that matters?

To Anushka’s utter dismay, he was finished with the Biriyani-salan combo and now chomping on the Bekti. Hers was still intact.

“Madam, what is this?”

“Bekti Meunière.”

“Menu what?”

Anushka rolled her eyes. “Its meuniè—“ she stopped, composed and schooled herself. “Me-ni-ere, meniere, got it? Now eat.” Flabbergasted, she stabbed the fish with the knife and throughout kept on wondering why on Earth she thought of this bloody series in the first place. Given the experience, this was her first and could well end up being the last.

“Madam, why is it called bekti and not bhetki? Like in Bengal, it is bhetki, right? What is the use of giving such fancy names? It’s like making love with a radio.”

Anushka spilled her mouthful in her saree, coughed hard and hiccupped in a very un-posh manner.

Argh!

But, the man was unperturbed. They were on the last course of their meal. Fluffy, white rasgollas and gulab jamuns with beautiful sweet yogurt full of cream sat in brass bowls in front of them. In an era of porcelain and classic bone-china, brass bowls oozed a fresh aroma of nostalgia and took her back to days at her grandmother’s, when she was just an eight year old.

This was one of the cons of living in with Rahul, his too chic and to an extent mechanical habits had rubbed on her. But, was it Rahul? Or was it her? The last two years she had thought that a jet-setting life had thrust her into a world of high class shit, far cry from her middle class principles, principles that were now ruins of the dilapidated towers of her forgotten humanity. But, no. Careful analysis showed nothing ever had anything to do with Rahul or Ronit, it was her and her choices all along.

“Madam, can I pack these home?” Wasim khan croaked from the opposite end of the table. Anushka put the recording off. Though irritated beyond limits, the earnestness and the pleading tone in his voice didn’t miss her ears.

“Why?” she asked.

The Bangladeshi hesitated, his bent head partially obscured his eyes. “Ma-madam, my boys. They..they..I mean, you know, we are poor, they have never seen this much food..also much of it will be wast—”

“You don’t have to worry about that.” She dismissed with a wave.

The man gulped but continued. “No..t-the thing is..I ate so much and my boys are eating only watered rice..” the tears in his eyes were on the verge of spilling out. Anushka noticed how he tried to swallow the discomfort. “At least a bit of this biryani, these rasgollas and gulab jamuns and this yogurt, if they can pack these, my sons will be too happy. Madam, please? They have never seen good food, let alone taste.”

Anushka stared at him unblinking. A quick flashback transported her to months after her father’s death, when they had survived on only puffed rice, boiled rice and potatoes.

“Pretence about anything sometimes deceives the wisest and shrewdest man, but, however cunningly it is hidden, a child of the meanest capacity feels it and is repelled by it.” Leo Tolstoy had once said. Right then, her pretentiousness was clear and laid bare wide open and it had started right the moment she deserted Ronit.

With time, she had realised Rahul was her refuge, Ronit had been her love. Rahul was her assurance, Ronit her treasure.

The window to thousands laptops and mobiles that await her videos to drop each Friday had nibbled and corroded Anushka, the simple girl from Darjeeling and had vamped her into a vixen. Somewhere, within reluctance and wilfulness, she had permitted the change.

But, was it worth it?

This man right there in front was a brilliant example of happiness and jubilance. The permanent smile spoke volumes about how money and a fancy car fails to buy happiness.

When one is overfed and another is hungry, isn't that a disaster?

“Yes you can”, she smiled. Wasim Khan rubbed the remnant drops of tear, the joy was palpable and it tore open her heart, making long dumped emotions gush out like a stream, overflowing her composure. He inserted his hands into his cargo pockets, brought out a hand written note and gave it to Anushka.

With a frown, she read it out.

Anushka didi, you may not know me but I’m Karim. I’m a huge fan of your Funtube channel and you in general. I admire you a lot and one day hope to be like you. I know abbu will eat good food today. Miss, will you mind if he brings some mutton? Will you allow it, please. I havent eaten it in so many days.

Also, can you sign this note for me? I’ll keep it within my school books.

Anushka teared up. Tears were a threat to her mascara, she knew. Girls love their make up, don’t they? But to her, at that instant, it ceased to exist. No matter how sheer annoying Wasim's attitude was, how contemptible his shabbiness was, the energy he exuded was very much tangible and infectious. And even though his presence and awkward mannerisms was a sharp contrast to the elite vibes the place gave off, it broke the dark realms of a fragile and brittle shell that encased her humanity and opened the dams to the part she forgot even existed, the part long fossilised in a world of selfie addiction where a smile is usually a brand name for a drug called pretence.

In an universe where filters rule our lives and goal-getter and goal-setter are the go-to words for the urban youth, most are not they post(pun intended) to be. Anushka realised, she was no exception and it struck her at that very instant how she could have used her profoundness of experience to impact lives, yet she had been after a vain pursuit of fame all along.

Despicable!

That’s all she could conclude of herself. The window that triggered her success, that very window had imprisoned her. The sparkles that once enticed her now binded her to herself, the practicality and the reality.

She got up and packed her camera. Yes, she would refuse to be a slave  to the world she was a part of. She fondly remembered a saying that her grandma often hummed during childhood, “when your happiness is dependent upon what is happening outside of you, constantly you live as a slave to that external situation.”

No, the days of slavery were over. Evil does not reside in the gun, it resides in the hearts of people who pull the trigger. Social Media was the knife, she was the incapable hand handling it. The time had come, the time had come to rise up to her highest possibility. And she would do just that.

                         ********

Anushka sat bare faced in front of the camera. It was sharp nine by her clock and the night was peaceful. She had deliberately stripped herself of make-up. She wanted to be bare, naked, devoid of all the layers that clouded her mind. She wanted to showcase the real her, yearned to come out in the open in her original complexion which was a shade duller than the one projected. Her hair was tied in a normal pony tail and a baggy tee hugged her lithe frame. Unbranded and normal cotton it was, nothing fancy. This was the her, the Anushka she was meant to be.

She turned the recording on.

“Hello family, this is Anushka Roy aka your friend from Grouchy Gourmet. Today’s episode will be slightly different from the earlier ones”, she took a long breath. For whatever would be said could make or break her career.

Did she care? No. She knew where her priorities lay.

“Life had been phenomenal the past few years, so phenomenally blown away I was that I came to the realisation, I had been searching for a lost piece of myself all along. Amusing isn’t it? Considering, it had always been there, in front, yet I was blinded! Branded shoes, branded clothes, tons of make up, hiding behind filters and contoured cheeks, cat eyes..that..that wasn’t me. This is how I am when I put away my push up bras and wipe my face with cotton. I’m you, I still have bulky forearms..yes, I edit them. My waist still rolls up when I sit..the bikini pictures you see aren’t all too real. And yes..yes I’m fed up with constantly watching my diet or shunning my staples and indulging in juices..you know what, hell to dieting. Goddamn veganism, I lay it to rest, I will enjoy my rasmalai. Yes, I will look after my health, not to satisfy someone’s eyes but out of my own concern. To wear daring cut outs because that’s in and it satisfies the weird male fetish? Because sex sells? Looking back, I can only pity myself. That’s why you see me now in an old and comfy track pant and baggy tee, I will wear a mini if I’m comfortable in my own skin and after I have reached the conclusion whether I want my biology to be at the forefront..that’s it friends. I’m taking a hiatus..there are lots of things to be sorted out, but first I need to evaluate myself..I had been suffering ever since and honestly, it's time to put a stop to it. Last year, around this time I was in a hospital..", Anushka braved through the tears, ignoring how tough a task it was. "Last year, I was fighting for my life...it was an attempted suicide..you know this mind is a devil, so better keep it under control. Your faculties should never rule you, right? You may see me after a month or three, I guess. I will be back, I will definitely be back because I envision bigger and brighter possibilities. Those who can stick with me, my loyalty and gratefulness lies with them and those who won’t”, she shrugged. “I will know you were never there in the first place. And oh! Rahul and I are no more..that’s all I can say and I refuse to divulge more. Thank you. Stay well...untill next time.”

She turned the recording off, she wouldn’t probably edit. Because faults and stutters and sighs, that’s all her.

Bye bye to pristine self.

Anushka laughed to herself and turned the lights off. She would have lots to settle from now on, but for that day she would indulge in a peaceful slumber revelling in the happiness of finding her true self.

                     ****|||****

AN:

This is the end guys. An epilogue will follow soon. Votes and Comments are always welcome, so do not be a silent reader.

Do you like how the story turned up? Please leave a feedback, it benefits me a lot.

Any words on Anushka's character arc?

Views on Ronit?

Zamindari and Zamindars: Under British India, zamindari was a system invented by Lord Cornwallis where zamindars or land owners were given the duty to collect tax from peasants. They resided in huge mansions many of which are in ruins now ir some are transformed into heritage hotels.

Here are a few pictures.

A bedroom

Bonedi Bari: homes of Bengal's zamindars or kings or the yesteryear elite.

Rasmalai: It is a sweet dish made with cottage cheese which are shaped in discs and boiled in a creamy,milk base with sugar and saffron. A must try out of all Indian desserts.