Chutki’s Sky, Peter’s Peace

In the heart of Bodhgaya, where the ancient Bodhi tree casts its serene shadow over pilgrims and passersby alike, there was a performance unlike any other. On the roadside, amidst honking autorickshaws and the rhythmic chanting of monks, a young girl named Chutki balanced high above the ground on a rickety bamboo contraption. Her act wasn’t just a spectacle—it was an escape from the monotony of poverty. And in the small crowd that gathered every day to watch her, there was one person who never missed her show: Uncle Peter.

Uncle Peter was an Englishman in his sixties, a wiry man with a fondness for berets and an air of eccentricity. Back home in England, he worked as a gardener in the small village of Little Whittington, tending to roses and pruning hedges. But every year, as autumn turned to winter, he left behind the frost-covered lawns and flew to Bodhgaya, seeking the peace he claimed only this holy town could provide. And every year, he stayed at Taj House Homestay, run by his old friend Shamim Uddin, who always greeted him with a warm smile and a cup of spiced chai.

It was on one of these annual pilgrimages that Uncle Peter first encountered Chutki. He had been strolling through the streets when he heard the crowd’s gasps and cheers. Curious, he followed the sound and found the little daredevil balancing on a tightrope. From that day onward, Chutki’s performances became a ritual for him. He watched her every afternoon, sipping chai from the nearby stall and cheering louder than anyone else.

“Ah, Chutki!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands as she climbed to the top of her makeshift setup. “You’re the Shakespeare of the skies, the Da Vinci of the daring!”

Chutki, all of ten years old, grinned at him from above. “Thank you, Peter Uncle! Today, I’ll do something even more amazing!”

Her mother, standing below with a nervous frown, groaned. “Peter ji, stop encouraging her! She’ll break her neck one of these days!”

“Art demands courage, my dear,” Uncle Peter replied, sipping his chai. He then slipped his usual crumpled 50-rupee note into the steel plate that served as Chutki’s donation box. But that day, he had a special surprise: a crisp 500-rupee note he had saved by selling his harmonica to a Dutch tourist earlier that morning. “For the artist!” he declared, holding it high for all to see.

The stakes that day were indeed higher—literally. Chutki’s father had tied an extra pole to the structure that morning, creating an even taller setup. As the bamboo swayed in the breeze, the crowd held its collective breath. Chutki, balancing on one foot, pretended to wobble, eliciting gasps. Below, her little brother Babu jingled the donation plate with a stick, hoping to draw more coins.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Chutki announced dramatically, her voice cutting through the air. “Today, I will defy gravity, logic, and my mother’s temper!”

Uncle Peter burst into applause. “She’s a poet too! A genius of the skies and the soul!”

The crowd grew, with tourists snapping photos, monks pausing their chants, and even street dogs looking on with curiosity. When Chutki finished her act, striking a triumphant pose at the top of the poles, the crowd erupted in cheers. Uncle Peter clapped until his hands turned red.

That evening, as the family counted their earnings, Uncle Peter joined them on their mat under the stars. They shared a simple meal of rice and dal, and Chutki, beaming with pride, turned to him. “One day, Peter Uncle, I’ll perform in big cities. Maybe even on television! And I’ll buy you a new harmonica.”

Uncle Peter chuckled, adjusting his beret. “And I’ll be there in the front row, wearing my finest suit.”

As the stars sparkled above, the absurdity of their lives—Chutki’s tightrope-walking, Uncle Peter’s annual retreat, and the patchwork of dreams holding them together—felt like a cosmic joke they were all in on. For a moment, under the quiet sky of Bodhgaya, the gardener from England, the street performer, and her family shared something that transcended poverty: hope, laughter, and the belief that tomorrow would be better.

The Day Joshua Turned Into Mickey Mouse

It was the year 2020 when my American buddy Joshua decided to pay a visit to Bodhgaya. Being the good friend he is, he stayed at a hotel my dad used to own but had since rented out to someone else who now runs it. We hung out for a bit, chatting and laughing, when suddenly Joshua got up and said, “Wait here, I’ve got something for you.”

A few minutes later, he came back with what looked like... a sticker? I squinted at it, utterly confused. “What is that?” I asked.

He grinned like he had just discovered the meaning of life. “This,” he said, “is LSD, a psychedelic drug. Trust me, my friend, this is going to blow your mind. All you have to do is place it on your tongue, wait 15 minutes, and welcome to heaven.”

“Okay,” I thought. “What could possibly go wrong?”

So there we were, two guys sitting in a room in Bodhgaya, holding this tiny piece of paper like it was some kind of golden ticket to another dimension. I put it on my tongue, exactly as he instructed, and waited. Fifteen minutes passed. I spat it out.

“Nothing,” I said. “Joshua, your magic sticker is broken.”

“Patience, my friend,” he replied like some kind of psychedelic prophet. “Give it a few more minutes. Trust me, you’ll feel special.”

And oh boy, did I feel special. Suddenly, he told me to put on my headphones and play some music. I did. And that’s when the magic hit me like a cosmic freight train. The music wasn’t just playing around me—it was playing inside me. I could feel the bass thumping in my ribcage and the melody vibrating in my teeth.

Then the walls started breathing. Yes, breathing, like they had tiny lungs. I looked over at Joshua, and—brace yourself—he looked like Mickey Mouse, but with this giant, wobbly head and a weirdly soothing smile. Everywhere I turned, it felt like I had stepped into Alice’s Wonderland, except everything was even weirder. I wasn’t sure if I was a character in a fairy tale or if I was the fairy tale.

After about an hour of this madness, nature called. I shuffled to the bathroom, fully expecting this to be a simple task. Spoiler: it wasn’t. I stood there, staring at the toilet, completely dumbfounded. How do you pee again? It was as if my brain had deleted that entire function. I tried to concentrate, but then the toilet bowl started swirling like a black hole. I panicked. Am I about to get sucked into the toilet?

I stayed in there for what felt like an eternity, having a deeply philosophical debate with myself about the mechanics of peeing. By the time I finally emerged victorious (yes, I figured it out), I was convinced I had transcended time itself.

When I got back to the room, I sat down and whispered to Joshua, “Everything is an illusion, my friend. Nothing is real. Consciousness is just... shifting energy.”

Joshua nodded like a wise sage. “Exactly, my friend.”

And that was it. I realized that everything I thought I knew about life was wrong. The walls were still breathing, but now it felt comforting. LSD didn’t just show me a different side of consciousness—it took my brain, flipped it upside down, and gave it a neon glow.

So here’s to Joshua—thank you for showing me the weirdest, most colorful, and downright absurd side of existence. Next time, though, maybe skip the Mickey Mouse transformation. That was a bit much.

Midnight Melodies of Miya Bigha

Ah, Miya Bigha in Bodhgaya during marriage season—a place where silence has been outlawed, the moonlight serves as a spotlight for baraats, and every night is a live concert no one asked for. This isn’t my first rodeo. Oh no, I’ve been living amidst this chaos for years now. At first, it was overwhelming. But now? Now it’s just Tuesday.

Take last night, for example. It was midnight (I think—it’s hard to tell because my wall clock has developed PTSD and ticks in rhythm with the dhol). I was trying to read, but the DJ, perched atop a stack of speakers taller than my house, decided it was time for a high-energy remix of Kajra Mohabbat Wala. This wasn’t just any remix. It was paired with what I can only describe as random animal noises. A rooster crowed, a goat bleated, and then—why not?—the sound of a tractor engine revving kicked in. I looked outside and saw a tractor actually there, revving along to the beat like it was auditioning for a Bhojpuri music video.

And this wasn’t even the most absurd thing I’ve witnessed this week. Two nights ago, one of the baraats decided to outdo the others by incorporating not one, not two, but three simultaneous sound systems. The DJs weren’t coordinating—they were competing. On one side, there was Jiya Ho Bihar Ke Lala. On the other, Chhalakata Hamro Jawaniya. And in the middle, some genius thought, You know what would really spice things up? Playing the shehnai version of Teri Mitti at full volume. It wasn’t music; it was an audio civil war.

Years ago, this would have driven me to the brink of insanity. But now? Now I’ve made peace with it. I no longer try to block it out or fight it. I’ve stopped asking myself, “Why is there a tempo blaring Bhojpuri hits parked outside my house at midnight?” The real question is, “Why wouldn’t there be?”

My brain has adapted to this chaos. My thoughts now come with a built-in dholak beat. When I read books, I sometimes catch myself mentally remixing the words into Bhojpuri wedding songs. Yesterday, while making notes, I realized I had doodled a baraat on the margins of my notebook, complete with a dancing uncle, a DJ, and speakers the size of small buildings. The DJ had sunglasses. I don’t even question it anymore.

The baraats, of course, remain the undisputed kings of absurdity. A few days ago, one baraat stopped outside my house for what I can only assume was a mid-parade team-building exercise. The groom decided to stand on top of a tempo, waving like he was inaugurating a cricket match, while the entire baraat broke into an impromptu choreography to Lollipop Lagelu. The tempo driver, clearly over it, started honking in sync with the music, and honestly, it worked. At some point, I think even the street dogs joined the chorus with enthusiastic barks.

And the fireworks—oh, don’t even get me started on the fireworks. They’re not content with the occasional burst of color. No, these fireworks are loud enough to be heard in another dimension. Just last week, one went off so close to my window that I spilled tea on my book. I wasn’t even mad. I just nodded and thought, Ah, another night in Miya Bigha.

Honestly, after years of this, I’m okay with it. The music, the chaos, the inexplicable tractors—it’s all just part of the ecosystem now. The absurdity has woven itself into the fabric of my life. And honestly, there’s a strange charm to it. I may not sleep much during marriage season, but I’ve developed a deep appreciation for the resilience of humans—and animals—who just keep going, no matter how many remixes of Lagavelu Jab Lipstick shake the ground beneath them.

So, if you ever find yourself in Miya Bigha during this season of eternal festivities, don’t bother bringing earplugs. Just let the music take over, admire the tempo’s horn section, and maybe join the crowd doing the Nagada Nagada dance at midnight. After all, this isn’t just a neighborhood—it’s a state of mind.

The Toddy Shop Tales: A Night to Remember

Uncle Peter, the endlessly amusing English gardener who roamed the world in search of oddities and inspiration, found himself in Kolkata during one of his annual pilgrimages to India. This time, his travels had brought him to meet his old friend T.P., a brooding yet charismatic photographer whose years of wandering had left him with a penchant for both adventure and mischief. T.P., a man as eccentric as Peter but with a sharper tongue, lived in a guest house somewhere in the labyrinthine streets of Kolkata—a location Peter suspected was deliberately kept vague, a nod to T.P.’s ever-growing list of peculiar acquaintances.

“Peter,” T.P. declared one sultry afternoon as they sat sipping chai in his chaotic studio, cluttered with lenses, sepia-toned portraits, and mysterious artifacts, “you may have wandered through English gardens and sipped whiskey in Scottish taverns, but you haven’t lived until you’ve drunk toddy at The Toddy Shop on Weston Street.”

“Toddy?” Peter adjusted his straw hat, his curiosity piqued. “What’s that?”

T.P. smirked, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. “It’s... an elixir. Sweet, fiery, and transformative. You’ll see. Come on.”

The journey through Kolkata’s teeming streets was a spectacle in itself. The city buzzed with life: rickshaws weaving through honking traffic, vendors hollering over sizzling frying pans, and the air thick with the mingling aromas of spices and humanity. At last, they arrived at The Toddy Shop, a crumbling relic of the British Raj wedged between modern storefronts. Its faded sign creaked ominously in the breeze, and graffiti-covered walls bore slogans like “Vote for TMC 2024” in bold Bengali script.

Peter hesitated. The darkened entryway looked foreboding, reminding him of the haunted hedgerow he’d once encountered in Little Whittington. But T.P., with his trademark devil-may-care grin, grabbed Peter by the arm and pulled him inside.

The interior was both chaotic and oddly charming. Rickety wooden tables were surrounded by patrons of all kinds: laborers sharing boisterous laughs, poets scribbling furiously in notebooks, and one man who looked as though he hadn’t left the premises since the previous decade. At the counter stood an old Muslim man in a pristine white kurta, his face solemn and his eyes sharp as a hawk’s. This was Chacha, the silent guardian of the toddy trade. While the shop was owned by the enigmatic Maya Devi Keshari, it was Chacha and his assistants who ran the show with military precision.

T.P. approached the counter with mock reverence. “Chacha, two bottles of your finest wild toddy. Glasses, too. My friend here needs enlightenment.”

Chacha’s intense gaze swept over Peter, as if weighing the Englishman’s worth. Without a word, he nodded and turned to prepare their drinks. His assistants worked quickly, retrieving two chilled beer bottles labeled with nothing but a faint smudge of blue ink—a mark that, T.P. later explained, distinguished the “wild” toddy from the milder varieties. They poured the frothy liquid into squat glasses, setting them on the counter with a silent flourish.

Peter picked up his glass, examining the suspiciously effervescent liquid. “Are you sure this is safe?”

“Safe?” T.P. laughed. “Who said anything about safe? To adventures, Peter!”

“To adventures!” Peter echoed hesitantly and took a sip. The effect was immediate. The toddy exploded across his palate—a heady blend of sweetness and sour tang, undercut by a fiery kick that seemed to ignite his very soul. His vision blurred momentarily, and the shop around him took on a dreamlike quality.

“By heavens!” Peter gasped, coughing slightly. “It’s like drinking bottled chaos!”

As they drank, T.P. introduced Peter to the regulars. There was Bijoy, a wiry man who claimed he could summon rain with his dance; Anjali, a brooding poetess whose entire body of work revolved around fish; and Mr. Das, an elderly eccentric convinced that the shop was built over a buried treasure. Peter listened to their tales with rapt attention, his British politeness making him the ideal audience.

The evening reached its crescendo when Maya Devi arrived to oversee the shop’s infamous “Toddy Talent Show.” The rules were as outrageous as the contestants: drink an extra glass of wild toddy, then perform a daring act to entertain the crowd.

Before Peter could slip away, T.P. shoved him forward with a devilish grin. “Peter, my dear friend, the stage is yours! Show them your coconut-balancing act!”

“What act?!” Peter protested, but it was too late. A bottle-tapping rhythm had started, and the crowd was cheering for the Englishman.

T.P., ever the instigator, handed Peter a coconut that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. “Improvise!” he whispered, clapping Peter on the back.

Fueled by toddy and a reckless sense of adventure, Peter stepped into the center of the room. What followed could only be described as pandemonium. He attempted to balance the coconut on his head while performing an improvised jig to a spirited Bengali folk tune. The coconut wobbled precariously before rolling off and bouncing onto the floor. Undeterred, Peter retrieved it and tried again, this time incorporating a dramatic bow that sent him careening into a nearby table. The crowd erupted in laughter, clapping and cheering as Peter, red-faced but triumphant, struck a final pose with the coconut held high.

When the chaos subsided, Maya Devi stepped forward, clapping slowly. “We have a winner,” she declared, draping a garland of peanuts around Peter’s neck. Chacha, in a rare display of approval, nodded once—a gesture more valuable than a standing ovation.

The next morning, Peter awoke on T.P.’s couch, the peanut garland still around his neck and an empty toddy bottle on the floor beside him. His head throbbed, but his heart was light.

T.P., leaning against the doorway, held up a photograph he had taken the night before: Peter, mid-dance, the coconut teetering on his head as the crowd roared in delight. “You,” T.P. declared with a grin, “are now a legend of The Toddy Shop.”

Peter groaned, rubbing his temples. “Well, it’s not every day an English gardener becomes a hero in Kolkata, is it?”