The Pre-Opening Chronicles of Khair’s Café & Restro

As the opening day of Khair’s Café & Restro approaches, Mehandi Hassan, future barista extraordinaire, reflects on the hilarious and unpredictable events that have brought him closer to his dream café.

The Furniture Adventure in Gaya

In his quest to create the perfect café, Mehandi decided to buy used furniture from Gaya. To make the trip more productive, he brought along Kashaf, his bookworm cousin with a sharp eye for detail, and borrowed a mini truck and driver from Danish, his fruit-seller friend.

Their journey to Gaya was uneventful, but the furniture market was a treasure trove. Mehandi found sturdy wooden tables and chairs in surprisingly good condition. Kashaf, initially skeptical, inspected each piece like a seasoned critic. “These tables are solid, and the chairs don’t even creak,” he remarked, clearly impressed.

After negotiating a fair price, they loaded the furniture into the truck and began the ride back. Danish’s truck wobbled under the weight, and every pothole felt like an adventure. Kashaf couldn’t resist teasing, “If this truck breaks down, we’ll have to carry everything back on foot.” Thankfully, they reached Bodhgaya without incident, and the café’s foundation—both literally and figuratively—was set.

The Great Pizza Practice

Months before the café was even an idea, Mehandi bought a big pizza oven, convinced that every great café needed great pizza. He spent weeks experimenting with dough recipes, sauces, and toppings, transforming his evenings into mini pizza parties.

His cousins and friends became his official taste testers, eagerly sampling his creations. While most pizzas were delicious, there were a few questionable experiments—like the “Chili Mango Madness” pizza. Zaid, his younger cousin, once said, “Your pizza is amazing, but this one tastes like a dare.”

Despite the occasional flop, those nights were filled with laughter and camaraderie. “If this is what being a chef feels like, sign me up,” Mehandi joked as they devoured yet another margherita masterpiece.

The Delhi Coffee Machine Mission

Mehandi knew that the heart of his café would be the coffee machine. Not one to compromise, he decided to invest in a brand-new, state-of-the-art machine from Fiamma, a company he had read rave reviews about. The catch? He had to travel all the way to Delhi to get it.

Not wanting to make the journey alone, he brought along with Zaid, a cheerful and curious companion who saw this trip as the perfect excuse to explore Delhi's famous street food. Armed with determination, a suitcase full of snacks, and Zaid’s endless energy, the duo embarked on their adventure.

When they arrived at the showroom, Mehandi was captivated by the Fiamma coffee machine. “This beauty can make cappuccinos, lattes, and even the perfect espresso,” the salesperson explained. Zaid, meanwhile, kept pressing random buttons on the display models, accidentally setting off a demo brew that flooded the counter with coffee.

After completing the purchase, the journey back to Bodhgaya was less glamorous. The massive coffee machine, packed in an enormous box, barely fit in the back of their bus. Zaid spent most of the trip guarding it like a treasure chest, refusing to let anyone come near it. Every bump on the road felt like a personal attack on Mehandi’s dream, but with Zaid’s enthusiastic chatter keeping spirits high, they made it home. The machine was finally placed in the center of what would soon become Khair’s Café & Restro.

Last Winter’s Café Experiment

Last winter, Mehandi took his coffee passion to the next level by running a pop-up café near the main gate of Khair House, perfectly located near the bustling Kalachakra Ground. Armed with a non-commercial coffee maker he’d purchased, he set up a small café that ran for a month.

The pop-up quickly became a local hit. Travelers, tourists, and locals stopped by for his cappuccinos and lattes, and his cousins and friends became his most loyal “customers.”

Kashaf, ever the book nerd, didn’t bring a reading corner as everyone expected. Instead, he spent most of his time arguing with Zaid about the “ideal coffee-to-milk ratio.” At one point, he suggested adding a trivia night to the café experience, to which Zaid replied, “Sure, let’s ask people how much free coffee they think you’ve drunk this month.”

The month was filled with warmth and joy. “I think I was happier serving coffee than my customers were drinking it,” Mehandi recalls. Those winter days became cherished memories, with everyone eagerly asking if the café would return someday.

The Countdown Begins

Now, as Khair’s Café & Restro inches closer to its grand opening, everything is falling into place. The furniture is ready, the Fiamma coffee machine stands proudly, and the pizza oven is ready to bake its first official order.

Standing in the soon-to-be bustling café, Zaid looked around and declared, “This place is going to be legendary. People will come for the coffee and stay for my company.” Kashaf rolled his eyes, “Or they’ll stay because they’re waiting for you to finally pay your coffee tab.”

With everything set, Khair’s Café & Restro is opening soon. So, get ready, Bodhgaya—delicious coffee, mouthwatering pizzas, and unforgettable moments are just around the corner!

See you at the café!

Awakening Without Worship: Buddha's Path to Freedom

When Buddha attained enlightenment under the Bodhi tree in Bodhgaya, he entered a realm of profound understanding. He saw the nature of existence with unparalleled clarity, yet he hesitated to share his realization. He questioned whether anyone could grasp the depth of his insight, knowing that enlightenment is not something that can be taught—it must be experienced. Each individual, he understood, must walk their own unique path, confront their own illusions, and arrive at the truth in their own way.

When he eventually chose to teach, it was not to impose dogma or establish himself as a figure of worship. Buddha never claimed to be a god, nor did he desire to be idolized. He consistently redirected attention away from himself and toward the individual’s capacity for awakening. His role, he said, was that of a guide, pointing to the path rather than carrying others along it.

This humility was evident even at the end of his life. As he lay on his deathbed, surrounded by his disciples, they asked him what they should do after he was gone. Buddha’s final words were: “Appo Dīpo Bhava”—be a light unto yourself. These words encapsulate the essence of his teaching. He reminded them that no teacher, not even himself, could replace their own effort and inner wisdom. The path to liberation lies not in following others but in cultivating one’s own discernment and clarity.

“If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him”

This teaching from the Zen master Lin Chi mirrors Buddha’s own approach. It warns against turning the Buddha—or any spiritual figure—into an external savior. The “Buddha on the road” represents any idolized image, teacher, or belief system that we cling to in our search for truth. To “kill the Buddha” is to dismantle our attachments to these external objects and realize that enlightenment cannot be given or borrowed—it must arise from within.

This teaching underscores Buddha’s emphasis on self-reliance. Just as Buddha pointed his disciples back to themselves with Appo Dīpo Bhava, Lin Chi challenges seekers to let go of the need for external validation or authority. Both teachings urge us to confront our own illusions and step into the raw, direct experience of reality.

The Kalama Sutta: Question Everything

Buddha’s message of self-reliance is further illuminated in the Kalama Sutta. When the Kalama people approached Buddha, confused by the contradictory teachings of various spiritual leaders, he did not ask for blind faith. Instead, he told them:

Do not believe something just because it is taught by a revered teacher.

Do not accept traditions simply because they are ancient.

Do not rely solely on scriptures, logic, or popular opinion.

Test everything for yourself. Accept only what leads to the cessation of suffering and promotes well-being.

This teaching was revolutionary. Unlike religious authorities of his time, Buddha did not present himself as the ultimate arbiter of truth. He encouraged questioning, critical thinking, and reliance on personal experience. The Kalama Sutta reinforces the idea that truth is not a fixed doctrine but a living realization that must be discovered individually.

A Unified Message of Freedom

Buddha’s teachings—Appo Dīpo Bhava, the Kalama Sutta, and Lin Chi’s “kill the Buddha”—converge on a single, powerful idea: liberation comes through self-discovery. Buddha did not want followers; he wanted awakened beings. He did not claim divine authority but pointed to the divinity and potential within each person.

To “be a light unto yourself” is to trust your own capacity to navigate life with clarity and wisdom. To “kill the Buddha” is to dismantle your reliance on external saviors or fixed ideas of enlightenment. The Kalama Sutta reminds us to question everything, even the teachings themselves, and accept only what resonates with direct experience.

A Call to Awakening

These teachings invite us to stop searching for answers outside ourselves. Buddha’s message is not about following his path step by step but about finding our own. Just as he attained enlightenment under the Bodhi tree, each of us has the potential to discover our own moment of awakening. The light we seek is already within us.

By questioning, seeking, and embodying wisdom, we honor Buddha—not as a god to be worshipped but as a guide who showed us the way to become Buddhas ourselves. This is the true tribute to his life and teachings: not to look up to him but to look within.

The Blissful Prison of Uncle Roberto

Bodh Gaya is a strange place to live if you’re like me—someone haunted by questions about existence. Everywhere you look, people are either meditating, debating, or scribbling notes in well-worn journals. The air itself feels heavy with existential angst, as though even the trees are pondering why they exist. And then there’s Uncle Roberto, the cheerful anomaly in our little town.

Uncle Roberto lives in a small house with a garden that isn’t particularly beautiful or well-kept. It has some wildflowers growing out of control, a sagging fence, and a stubborn patch of weeds he calls “nature’s rebellious spirit.” Every morning, he sits in this garden with his eternal cup of tea, staring at the sky as though he’s in direct communication with the heavens. But here’s the thing: Uncle Roberto doesn’t think about the heavens. He doesn’t think about anything, really. He just… exists.

To everyone else, Uncle Roberto is a beacon of joy, a man who has “found peace.” But to me, he’s a cosmic joke—a man so blissfully oblivious that he’s missed the entire point of living in a place like Bodh Gaya. I often wonder if he’s a misplaced extra from some cheap comedy about enlightenment.

One morning, I decided to confront him. It was a humid day, the kind where the air feels like wet cotton, and Uncle Roberto was in his usual spot, sipping tea and humming a tuneless melody. A stray dog lay at his feet, looking as serene as its master.

“Uncle Roberto,” I began, standing over him like a frustrated schoolteacher, “don’t you ever wonder about the meaning of life? Or why we’re here? Doesn’t it bother you that you don’t know anything about the truth?”

He looked up at me with his maddeningly calm smile. “The truth? Oh, Kashaf, the truth is right here.” He gestured vaguely at his tea, the dog, and the wildflowers as if they were the Holy Trinity of existence. “Life is beautiful. Why trouble yourself with questions when you can enjoy a nice cup of tea?”

I sighed, already regretting my decision to talk to him. “Uncle, you’re like someone in a prison, but instead of chains, you have tea and flowers. George Orwell once said, ‘Football, beer, and above all gambling filled up the horizon of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult.’ You’re the same, only your distractions are peace and happiness. The system doesn’t even need football or beer to control you; you’ve imprisoned yourself with joy!”

Uncle Roberto chuckled and took a long, dramatic sip of his tea, as if to prove my point. “Controlled by happiness? What a delightful prison to live in! And unlike Orwell’s football and beer, my peace doesn’t come with hooligans or hangovers.”

I felt my eye twitch. “That’s exactly the problem! You’re so busy enjoying your little distractions that you’ve stopped asking questions. You’re like a bird in a golden cage, so mesmerized by the shiny bars that you don’t even realize you’re trapped.”

“And you,” he said, wagging a finger at me, “are like a fish trying to climb a tree. You’re chasing after questions that have no answers, forgetting to enjoy the water you’re already in.”

I groaned. “No, Uncle! I refuse to be content with ignorance. I want to know things. I want to understand the truth, even if it’s painful. Socrates said, ‘I know only one thing: that I know nothing.’ That’s my wisdom—to embrace my ignorance and keep searching. But you? You’ve numbed yourself with this endless peace. You’ve let your happiness blind you to the bigger truths of existence!”

Uncle Roberto’s dog let out a sleepy yawn, as if to mock my outburst. My uncle, meanwhile, looked at me with the patience of a kindergarten teacher explaining shapes to a child. “Ah, Kashaf,” he said, “why chase the truth when you can sip tea? Life is simple. Complicating it with questions is like stirring sugar into your tea and complaining that it’s sweet.”

I stared at him, wondering if I was the fool or he was. Here was a man who had somehow turned his own ignorance into a fortress, his happiness into an impenetrable shield. He didn’t care about the cracks in his worldview or the mysteries of the universe. To him, life was tea, dogs, and wildflowers.

For a brief, horrifying moment, I envied him.

But then I snapped out of it. “Uncle, your peace is an addiction!” I declared. “You’re like those people Orwell warned about. Football, beer, gambling—they were just distractions to keep the masses docile. And you’re no different! Your peace is your football. Your tea is your beer. Your wildflowers are your gambling. The system doesn’t even have to work hard to control you because you’ve trapped yourself!”

Uncle Roberto laughed, a deep, hearty laugh that made the stray dog wag its tail. “And your questions,” he said, “are like chasing the horizon, thinking you’ll reach the end of the earth. Both are equally pointless, but one is much more enjoyable.”

I wanted to throw his teacup into the weeds, but I knew it would only end with him shrugging and saying, “Ah, now the soil gets to enjoy the tea.”

As I stormed out of his garden, I couldn’t shake the absurdity of it all. Here was a man who had, in his own way, found freedom—not through wisdom or understanding, but by refusing to question anything at all. To him, life was a string of small joys: a sip of tea, the sound of a bird, the rustle of the wind. And he was perfectly content to stay in his golden cage, never daring to peer beyond the bars.

I returned to my little room, where books and questions piled up around me like mountains. Bodh Gaya, the land of enlightenment, seemed utterly indifferent to my struggle. I didn’t have the answers—not even close. But I knew one thing: I would rather wrestle with the chaos of existence than drown in its calm illusions.

Uncle Roberto may have found peace, but I found purpose in my questions, even if they led nowhere. That, perhaps, is the difference between us: he is happy, and I am free—or at least free to be frustrated.

Confessions of a Thoughtful Alien

Every day feels like an episode of The Alien Diaries. If someone were to document my life, it would probably be titled Kashaf and the Great Planetary Misfit Chronicles. You see, I often feel like I’ve been accidentally dropped onto this planet, surrounded by beings who don’t quite get me. Let me elaborate.

Take my friends, for example. They’re nice people—don’t get me wrong—but their idea of fun is watching action movies where cars defy gravity, bullets solve all problems, and the plot is about as coherent as a toddler explaining quantum mechanics. Me? I like movies that make me think—or at least leave me mildly traumatized. Throw in some existential dread, absurd humor, or a meaningful narrative, and I’m sold. But every time I try to suggest something remotely thought-provoking, I get the same bewildered look one might give a cat trying to explain algebra.

I’ll try to talk about Synecdoche, New York, for instance—what a masterpiece of existential despair, a deep dive into the absurdity of life and death, all wrapped in a sprawling, labyrinthine narrative that mirrors our attempts to make sense of the chaos. But my friends? They can’t even sit through the first five minutes without asking, "Why is everything so dark?" or "Is this a movie about a man who makes a play?" It’s as if I’ve just tried to explain Schrödinger’s cat to them using interpretive dance.

Then there’s my love of books. Oh, books! My sanctuary, my escape, my secret doorway to worlds where people actually think. My friends, on the other hand, can barely focus on reading one of my Facebook posts without wandering off to like a meme about pizza. It’s like they’ve developed an allergy to anything requiring more than 120 seconds of mental engagement. Meanwhile, I’m over here devouring Dostoevsky and wondering why Raskolnikov’s moral dilemmas feel oddly relatable.

Conversations are another story entirely. I want to discuss philosophy, spirituality, or psychology—something that scratches beneath the surface of existence. But my friends? They’re busy debating whether pineapple belongs on pizza or which Marvel hero would win in a fight (the answer is always “who cares?”). Yet, somehow, I end up participating in their debates because, well, they’re my friends. But I often feel like a philosopher forced to play referee at a meme Olympics.

What truly baffles me is their confidence. They are so sure of themselves, so utterly convinced that their worldview is the only truth. It’s like watching someone argue that the Earth is flat while refusing to look out of the spaceship window. Isn’t it hilarious? Isn’t it absurd? Isn’t it… kind of sad?

And yet, I stick around. Why? I suppose even aliens need company. They might think I’m weird, and I might think they’re shallow, but at the end of the day, we’re all just beings trying to make sense of the universe in our own ridiculous ways.

But, sometimes—just sometimes—I meet someone from my own planet. It’s rare, like finding an existential diamond in the meme-filled rough, but when it happens, it’s like the universe conspires to remind me that I’m not completely alone. These aliens from my world? They get it. They show up randomly, like cosmic wanderers who accidentally slipped into this chaotic dimension. We’ll stumble into each other at the oddest places: a quiet corner of a café, at a temple where the sound of bells and chants feels strangely like home, or even online, buried in a thread about absurdist philosophy. And when we meet, it’s like our minds click into place, as though our thoughts have been orbiting the same galaxy all along.

We’ll talk for hours about the futility of existence, the illusion of self, and whether or not reality is just a bad simulation by some bored god. And somehow, amidst all the absurdity, I’ll feel a spark of something rare—connection. For a fleeting moment, the crushing alienation of this planet disappears. These meetings are brief, though. The other aliens, much like me, are wanderers, and before long, they’re off again, searching for meaning or just a decent cup of tea. But those encounters? They keep me going.

So here I am, stranded on Planet Earth, sipping tea, laughing along with my friends’ nonsense, and quietly planning my next intergalactic escape. But at least now, I know there are others out there—aliens like me—who are just as lost, just as absurd, and just as wonderfully misplaced as I am. And maybe, just maybe, that’s reason enough to keep existing.

The Rise and Fall of Thermocol Empire

Uncle Roberto was having one of those “I’m-a-man-on-a-mission” days. You know the type. He called me and my father over, insisting we come immediately to witness what he proudly described as “the most avant-garde coffee experience of your lives.” Naturally, curiosity got the better of us, and we made our way to his room. What awaited us was something I can only describe as Roberto’s magnum opus—a room that was part café, part construction site, and entirely ridiculous.

Uncle Roberto’s room wasn’t bad, really. It was a decent size, good enough for two grown adults to live comfortably, provided they didn’t own more than three shirts and a pair of shoes each. The walls were plain, the floor was tiled, and the iron-barred window overlooked a scenic view of the neighbor’s water tank. The centerpiece of the room was a bed that seemed to serve multiple roles—sofa, workstation, and apparently, coffee bar. In one corner was an overloaded extension cord sparking ominously, which Roberto dismissed with a casual wave. “It’s fine! Adds to the ambiance.”

The pièce de résistance, however, was his water heater. “My barista machine,” Roberto announced proudly, holding it up like it was the Holy Grail. “This little guy is the future of coffee-making. Forget your fancy espresso machines. This is where the magic happens!”

We sat down, trying to ignore the faint smell of burnt wires, and watched as Roberto began his performance. He poured water into the heater with the flair of a chemist discovering a new element. He wore his signature prayer beads, which he claimed gave him “coffee-making enlightenment,” and stirred the concoction with the seriousness of a scientist preparing to change the world.

The cups were, of course, mismatched. My father was handed a steel tumbler, I got an old ceramic mug that proudly declared “World’s Okayest Uncle,” and Roberto himself sipped from a chipped floral teacup that looked like it had seen better days in the 1980s. “Drink up,” he said, grinning like a magician revealing his greatest trick. The coffee, I must admit, tasted like hot regret with a hint of chaos.

But the coffee was only Act One. Act Two was the real show. Roberto, inspired by a YouTube video he had half-watched at 2 a.m., had decided his room needed “a touch of elegance.” His solution? Thermocol sheets. Yes, you read that right. He shelled out 2000 rupees and hired a local handyman—known only as “Mistiri Ji”—to stick thermocol sheets onto all the walls. The operation took an entire day.

When we arrived, the transformation was complete. The once modest room was now a grey thermocol wonderland. It looked like the inside of a Styrofoam cooler. Roberto stood in the middle of the room, beaming with pride. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” he said, sweeping his arm across the walls. “I call it modern insulation chic.”

He sat back on his bed, gazing at the walls like a king admiring his newly conquered kingdom. “This… this is sophistication,” he declared. For the next thirty minutes, Roberto reveled in his achievement. He sipped his watery coffee, nodded approvingly at the walls, and occasionally muttered things like, “I feel so classy now.”

But the honeymoon phase was short-lived. By hour one, Roberto started fidgeting. “Is it… hot in here?” he asked, wiping his forehead. My father and I exchanged glances. The room did feel a bit stuffy, but we weren’t about to ruin his moment. Ten minutes later, he was fanning himself with a notebook. “Why can’t I breathe? Is this… elegance? Suffocation?” he gasped, pacing the room like a trapped tiger.

“I’ll get used to it,” he assured us, clearly trying to convince himself. “It just needs time. I’ll give it one day—no, two days. Maximum.”

Spoiler alert: he didn’t last two hours. By the 90-minute mark, Roberto had had enough. “I can’t live like this!” he cried, grabbing a spatula and attacking the thermocol sheets with the fervor of a man escaping a foam prison. My father tried to reason with him. “Why don’t you open the window, Roberto?” But he waved him off. “No! That will ruin the insulation! This is about principle!”

Within minutes, the thermocol sheets were in a sad, crumpled pile in the corner, and the room was back to its original, uninspired state. Roberto flopped onto the bed, exhausted but triumphant. “Freedom,” he whispered, staring at the now bare walls.

That night, Uncle Roberto didn’t sulk. No, sir. He plotted his next move, and a few days later, it came to life in what would be known as “The Carpet and Table Renaissance.” Determined to outdo his failed thermocol empire, he hatched a plan involving a Persian carpet, black marble, and the dismantling of his bed.

This plan had actually been in the works for over a year. You see, Roberto had bought a black marble slab during a clearance sale last year. “It’s an investment,” he had declared back then, guarding the marble as if it were a national treasure. For months, it sat in the corner of his room, wrapped in plastic, collecting dust. When anyone asked why he hadn’t used it yet, Roberto would reply, “Patience. Great art takes time.”

Finally, his vision had come to fruition. “Mistiri Ji!” Roberto called, summoning his loyal (and long-suffering) handyman once more. “Today, we create greatness. Destroy this bed and transform it into a table worthy of royalty.”

“Your bed? Into a table?” Mistiri Ji asked, already regretting picking up the phone.

“Yes! It’s time for the marble to shine!” Roberto said with the fervor of a man unveiling the Mona Lisa.

And so, the bed met its untimely demise. Mistiri Ji sawed, painted, and hammered, all under Roberto’s watchful eye. “Make it black!” Roberto ordered. “Black like the night! Black like sophistication!”

When the frame was complete, Roberto declared it needed “sunlight therapy.” For two whole days, the freshly painted table stood in the yard, absorbing the energy of the sun, much to the confusion of the neighbors. Once deemed sufficiently energized, Mistiri Ji installed the gleaming black marble top.

Uncle Roberto’s pièce de résistance, the table, was almost complete. The black marble top gleamed like it was made for royalty, and the sturdy frame, once a humble bed, stood tall in all its sun-cured glory. But Roberto wasn’t ready to stop there. Oh no, greatness demands a finishing touch—something bold, something creative, something only Uncle Roberto could envision. And so, he reached for his secret weapon: flower patches.

These weren’t just any flower patches. Roberto had been collecting them from various bazaars, gift shops, and random impulse purchases over the years. Some were embroidered, others sequined, and a few even had googly eyes stuck on them for reasons unknown. Each patch had a story. “This one,” he said, holding up a garish pink sunflower, “came from that shop near the temple. And this? A limited edition rose patch. Found it in a discount bin last year. Pure treasure.”

Armed with his silicone gun—his Excalibur—Roberto began carefully attaching the patches to the legs of the table. “It’s not just decoration,” he explained solemnly. “It’s a statement. A revolution in furniture design.” He placed each patch with the precision of a jeweler setting diamonds, occasionally stepping back to admire his work.

By the time he was done, the table looked like it had stepped straight out of a children’s fairy tale. Bright red roses, shimmering daisies, and glittering sunflowers adorned its legs, transforming the table into a bizarre yet oddly charming fusion of gothic elegance and carnival fun. The googly-eyed patches, positioned strategically on each leg, gave the table an almost sentient personality.

“Look at this masterpiece!” Roberto declared, gesturing at the table like he was unveiling a new monument. “The flowers symbolize life. The black marble, sophistication. And the googly eyes? They remind us not to take life too seriously.”

The neighbors were, as expected, baffled when they saw the table through the open door. “Roberto bhai, what is this?” one asked, leaning in for a closer look.

“Art, my friend,” Roberto replied, patting the table like it was his magnum opus. “It’s a perfect marriage of functionality and beauty. This isn’t just a table—it’s a conversation starter. A declaration of individuality!”

The table soon became the centerpiece of Roberto’s room, overshadowing even the Persian carpet on the wall. Guests couldn’t help but marvel at—or laugh at—the whimsical flower patches. “Why flowers?” one brave soul asked during a visit.

“Why not?” Roberto retorted. “Flowers are universal. They’re for everyone. You see, this table doesn’t just hold things—it holds dreams, laughter, and the occasional coffee cup.” He winked as he placed his beloved purple water bottle back on the table, carefully adjusting it so it looked just right.

And so, the table with its flower patches became legendary in the neighborhood. Children loved the googly eyes; adults couldn’t decide whether to laugh or applaud. But Roberto? He was in his element, sipping his coffee, admiring his work, and occasionally stroking the table legs like a proud pet owner.

“People may laugh now,” Roberto would say with a dramatic pause, “but mark my words—one day, flower-patched tables will be in every home. And when that day comes, remember who started it all!”

The Monk, the Lover, and the Lie

The weight of loneliness has become unbearable for me. Watching Shah Rukh's romantic movies since childhood, I harbored a dream that one day, I too would have my own "Raj." Like Simran, I would lose myself in love. But now, it felt like my "Raj" has gotten lost somewhere. Is he searching for me? Or is this quest my own?

The local guys here don't interest me at all—they’re all absorbed in meaningless chatter and empty flattery. So, I decided to search for my "Raj" online. One day, while chatting with a stranger on Ome TV, I suddenly met him. As soon as I saw him on the camera, my heart began to race in a strange way. His words had a charm, and he looked just like a hero.

We chatted for a bit, and then he asked for my Instagram ID. Over the next few days, we continued talking on Instagram. Eventually, he took my number, and our conversations only grew deeper. I felt that maybe he was my "Raj." He lives in Burma, and I’m in Gujarat—but so what? When hearts connect, what’s a little distance?

Slowly, love blossomed between us, along with a desire to meet. But there were challenges—he didn’t have enough money to come here, and my family wouldn’t allow him to visit me at home. But I was determined. Since I work, I managed to save a little, and invited him over. I arranged for him to stay at a guesthouse.

Finally, the day arrived when I saw him in person for the first time. He hugged me, and in that one moment, all my loneliness, all the distances, and all the hardships seemed to melt away. That one meeting felt like it fulfilled all my dreams.

I took a month off from my job, telling my family I was going away for work. But only I knew the truth—that I wanted to live this month with my "Raj." A Raj I had found online, like a ray of light in a dark room. We shared a room at a guesthouse in Ahmedabad, as if the walls there would become witnesses to our love.

When we reached the room, he said, "Take off your clothes." I hesitated, but gradually, I laid myself bare before him. He came closer, and for the first time, someone touched me in a way that felt like he was trying to solve a puzzle. His fingers moved over my body as if reading every part of my existence. That night, we both lost ourselves in each other. For the first time, I had given someone the right to my body, and in that moment, I felt what could only be described as heaven.

Days passed, and an invisible wall seemed to grow between us. Our love was profound, yet the reality around us became more complex. He was from Burma, a place rife with political upheaval. He told me that if he returned, he would have to join the military; every young person there was burdened by the weight of war. For us, this was a strange truth—we were lost in our little world of love, while his homeland was ready to claim him back.

I told him, "Stay here with me. I’ll help you. You can find work here, and we can be together." My proposal was naive, like a child trying to build a dam against the sea. I wondered, could our love overcome the world’s challenges?

He smiled at me gently, and in that look, I realized that while we understood each other deeply, there was a distance between us that no bridge could cover. My inner voice kept telling me that this relationship, this love, could never be ordinary.

Our languages, our religions, our cultures—everything was different. Yet, we conversed in English, without any shortage of words. Our love was like a pact, as if we had signed an invisible contract to live this moment fully, even if it could never last.

There was a yearning in his eyes, a search for a place that was his yet felt distant. He slowly unfolded his story to me, as if revealing pieces of a puzzle. His mother lived in Kolkata with her second husband and their young daughter, and he didn’t want to burden her. He said that some of his relatives visited Bodh Gaya often, and maybe we could create our place there—where it would just be *us.*

I held a strange, deep belief in my heart that I would keep him here, no matter the cost. I promised myself that if anyone tried to come between us, I would stand in their way. But to be honest, I didn’t know whom I was fighting—the world, his country’s military, or my own illusions.

After much thought, we decided to go and live in Bodh Gaya, to open a small café there, and lead a simple but peaceful and love-filled life.

We dreamed of filling this strange, colorless world with our own colors. After all the struggles, this plan suddenly appeared like a light showing us the way. Bodh Gaya, with its peace and spirituality, where no one knew us, where we could go unnoticed, seemed like a new hope.

We both planned to open a small café there. It wasn’t just a business for us, but a *dream.* It would be a place where time would pause, where people would come to seek solace, and we would find our peaceful space there.

We imagined a simple life in Bodh Gaya, where we would gaze into each other’s eyes and find that in each other which was absent everywhere else in the world. Our plan held the reality that we were moving towards a life that perhaps could never be ours. And yet, we were ready to leap into that unseen future together.

Perhaps we knew it might all be an illusion—like standing in a closed room imagining open air. But within that illusion lay a sense of tranquility, a hidden belief that if we could escape to some corner of the world, we might find our *own* space, free of fear and barriers.

Like characters in Kafka's stories who remain entangled in the battle of existence, we too sought to find our existence in a small café, in a world where love and peace, perhaps for just a fleeting moment, could truly exist.

When I returned home with this decision, it felt like the whole world had turned upside down. I told my family that I didn’t want to continue my job, that I wanted to open a café in Bodh Gaya. It was peaceful there, with less competition—as if every word connected to me and this was my new path. My family hesitated at first, saying it would be foolish, but when I tried to reassure them, they reluctantly agreed, and my parents couldn't say no. They supported me, even if it was against their wishes. But I was preparing to leave them and go with my "Raj" because, in the end, *love is blind*—and at this pivotal moment of our lives, that blind love was leading us forward.

I had saved about fifteen lakh rupees from my job, which felt like enough to start a new life. I was taking this step fearlessly, without worrying about hitting a wall.

Raj contacted his relatives and found an affordable place in Bodh Gaya where we could stay. Through their connections, they arranged a spot, a small space for a café, without rent. It was as if they were opening a path for us, offering us refuge in an unknown world.

We both decided that this would be the place where we would start our new life. We had nothing—no concrete plan, no set path, but at that moment, it felt like we had everything. Like Kafka's characters, we too were ready to embark on a journey to understand our existence, moving towards an unknown, daunting future, with only love and dreams by our side.

In that small room in Bodh Gaya, where peace and turmoil coexisted, we were bound in love. We knew our truth, yet we were ready to walk a path with no limits, only endless possibilities.

When we reached Bodh Gaya, the first thing we did was meet Raj's relatives. Raj introduced me, saying, "This is my life partner. I am going to spend my entire life with her." Hearing this, a strange wave of happiness surged within me. It felt as if a hidden truth had surfaced, and everything was exactly as I had once imagined. His relatives were kind people, their welcome and conversation full of warmth, and meeting them brought me a profound sense of peace. They guided us to our room, and we both entered together.

As soon as the door closed, we talked and eventually fell asleep. The silence of the night and our conversations blended into a comforting tranquility. The next day, we woke up with a new enthusiasm, and we decided to explore the temples.

Our first stop was the Mahabodhi Temple, the place where Siddhartha Gautama attained enlightenment. There, Raj taught me how to meditate. He said, "Metta Bhavana is a form of meditation rooted in Buddhist tradition, in which one intentionally cultivates feelings of love, goodwill, and compassion toward oneself and others." Watching him meditate, I too began to lose myself in that peace, but my thoughts, my past, my fears—all kept swirling within me, and I couldn’t stay in meditation for long. Seeing Raj’s face immersed in meditation, I felt as if he were in another world, and slowly, I too got lost in it.

Raj opened his eyes and stayed silent for a moment. Then he said, "Come, let's circumambulate the temple." Afterward, we visited the oldest Burmese monastery in Bodh Gaya. Raj explained, "In the past, whenever anyone from abroad visited Bodh Gaya, they would stay in this monastery." We were alone in the monastery; there were few people, and the tranquility of the place filled us with a new energy.

After visiting several more temples, we got hungry and had lunch at a restaurant called "Fujiya Green." As the day came to an end, we made our way back to our room and brought dinner with us. Once there, we ate and then shared an intimate moment filled with boundless love. That night, we thought about our future together and decided that the next day we would search for a place to set up our café and start preparing it.

As soon as we charted this new direction for our lives, it felt as though everything had been predestined. Our love story had begun, and now we were ready to create a world of our own, a world that belonged solely to us.

In the quiet dawn, I awoke, my routine mechanical yet strangely comforting. First, I bathed. Then, I prepared breakfast, brewing tea and waking Raj. We shared a morning kiss, alongside the potato paratha I had made with my own hands and love.

We left, heading toward our café, a place not yet built but already a dream. We found the space, and through the help of labourers, we constructed a wooden café in an old style—simple, unremarkable in its charm. It took us a week to complete, a week in which we ran errands, worrying over gas stoves, tables, chairs, and the menu. We arranged everything, but the frantic pace of it all left us exhausted. To make the commute easier, I bought Raj a second-hand scooter.

Finally, we opened the café. We sat there, waiting for customers to arrive. But the hours passed slowly. Few came. A day would stretch on, and we would sit alone, only to see the occasional face walk in, indifferent to our existence.

Then, one day, a monk from Thailand entered. He sat, ordered coffee and chow mein, and we started talking. After a while, he asked Raj for his number, mentioning he lived in the nearby Thai monastery. "The chow mein here is very good," he said, "I’ll call whenever I need to order." 

The next day, the monk called again, and Raj brought him his breakfast. Days passed, and soon, the monk was coming to our café for every meal. Breakfast, lunch, dinner—he ordered each time. He never spoke of much, but there was an unspoken bond between us.

However, soon, Raj began returning late from the monastery. I never asked why; I couldn’t bring myself to. The orders from the monastery grew. At first, it was just one or two meals, but then it was four, sometimes five. Our business was growing, but something was changing in Raj. He seemed distant, lost in thoughts of the café and its success, and less in me. We spoke less about us and more about business. A quiet dread settled in my heart, unnoticed by him.

Then, one day, Raj told me he was going to Rajgir with a group of monks. I didn’t stop him; I simply let him go. He was away for three days, and those days, those long, empty days, stretched on endlessly. Alone, I waited, not knowing how to fill the hours. My solitude felt like a slow suffocation. Raj had grown distant from me.

When he returned, I confronted him. "You don’t speak to me with love anymore. You’re always so serious," I said. He paused for a moment, his face a mask of thought. "It’s not that I don’t love you," he replied, his voice flat. "But money is important, too. I can’t give you all my time. We need it for the café."

I didn’t know how to respond. Something inside me cracked, but I said nothing. It was a silence that both of us carried, heavy and unspoken. And as our café flourished, I began to wonder if the love I once held was simply another thing that had slipped away, like sand through fingers, as we became consumed by the business we had built together.

Our café has started running well, but with it, the closeness between us has somehow faded away. I once thought this journey would bring us closer, but now it feels as if we are drifting apart. That love, those conversations—they've slipped through my fingers like sand.

I remember the days when we would feel a sense of belonging in every little thing we shared. You would look at me, and without saying a word, you would understand everything. Now, it feels like we look at each other, but there’s no understanding left.

Can we go back to those moments? Can we find that lost love again? Or was it all meant to disappear with time? I don’t know.

Even now, when we’re together at the café, we don’t talk much. He’s always busy on his phone. One day, I asked him for his phone, and he replied, “Why do you need it?” I said, “Even when you’re with me, you’re busy on your phone. I just want to see where you’re spending your time.” 

He refused to give me his phone, but I snatched it from his hand and checked his WhatsApp messages. What I saw shattered me—he was exchanging sweet messages with some girl from Burma, words he once said to me. I asked him, “Who is this? You’re sharing such intimate messages with her while deceiving me?” 

He replied coldly, “She’s an old girlfriend who texts sometimes, so I talk to her.” Hearing this broke me completely. My heart shattered as I realized the man I thought of as mine was nothing but a deceiver. I checked more of his WhatsApp messages to see how many others he was speaking to like this.

Just then, a message from Bhante Ji appeared on his phone, which read, “I Miss You.” Seeing this, I was even more shocked. When I checked his chat history with Bhante Ji, I realized that the man I thought was mine had, in reality, become someone else’s—he had become a mere “Simran”  gay.

My world crumbled like a castle of sand, swept away by the tide of betrayal. Raj, my Raj—at least, I thought he was mine—was the man I had dreamed of since childhood. He wasn’t just a dream. He was my reality, my everything. Until he wasn’t.

I still hear his words echoing in my mind, sharp and cold. “I did what I had to for money. Love doesn’t pay the bills.”

That night, my heart shattered. I flung his phone at him, demanded answers, and received none that could heal the wounds he’d inflicted. Bhante Ji. The name felt surreal as it left my lips, as if saying it would erase the reality of Raj’s betrayal. A Thai monk. For money. My love had been reduced to a cruel transaction.

I left him that night. Packed my belongings with trembling hands, fueled by a mix of rage and despair, and walked out. Out of his life, out of our life.

The next morning, I found myself back at the café, staring at the empty chairs where our future once sat. My chest ached, each breath heavy with the weight of loss. I didn’t know where to go or how to move forward.

That afternoon, fate intervened. Two strangers entered the café, their presence as unexpected as it was comforting. Kashaf, soft-spoken and kind, with a gaze that seemed to understand my pain. And Uncle Peter, an eccentric traveler with a warmth that felt like a long-lost embrace.

It didn’t take long for my walls to crumble. Their gentle inquiries unlocked the dam inside me, and my story tumbled out—Raj, his betrayal, the unbearable loneliness that followed.

Uncle Peter leaned forward, his words etched into my soul. “Sometimes the universe protects us in strange ways. Imagine discovering his lies after a lifetime together. This isn’t the end, Simran—it’s a beginning.”

Kashaf’s steady voice followed. “You gave your heart to the wrong person, but that doesn’t mean you’re unworthy of love. This is your chance to rebuild.”

Their words were like light breaking through a storm. For the first time, I felt hope—a fragile, flickering thing, but it was there. Over the next week, they became my anchors. They brought me to Bodh Gaya’s serene temples, taught me to sit with my thoughts in meditation, and filled the empty hours with stories, laughter, and purpose.

Uncle Peter’s voice still lingers in my mind. “Do you know why the Buddha left his palace? Clinging to illusions brings suffering. You’ve left yours behind. Now, find your truth.”

And I did.

I returned to Gujarat stronger than I thought possible, carrying their wisdom in my heart. Their goodbye was tearful but hopeful, and I promised to stay in touch. Yet, my journey wasn’t over. With newfound resolve, I applied to study in Dubai—a city that had always been a distant dream.

Raj’s story didn’t end with me. Months later, I learned of his fate. He contracted AIDS. Bhante Ji, the monk he had been with, had unknowingly carried the disease. Karma doesn’t ask for permission when it arrives.

But I didn’t feel joy. Only a strange, quiet vindication. I whispered to myself that day, “The universe has a way of setting things right.”

Now, as I write this from my tiny but cozy apartment in Dubai, I can feel the weight of the past lifting. My days are full of learning, new friendships, and a life I am building on my own terms. The scars Raj left are still there, but they’ve begun to fade.

And every so often, when I sit quietly, I think of Kashaf and Uncle Peter—the two strangers who gave me the courage to begin again. Wherever they are, I hope they know the gift they gave me: the strength to find myself amidst the ruins.

Her story wasn’t just one of betrayal but of resilience, growth, and rediscovery. Simran had walked through fire and emerged stronger, her heart now filled with the belief that every ending is just a new beginning.

This story, though it feels like the plot of a dramatic film or novel, is rooted in reality. It is a tale of love, betrayal, resilience, and self-discovery that unfolded in the life of someone who dared to dream and face the consequences of those dreams. Every moment, from the highs of passion to the depths of heartbreak, is drawn from the experiences of a real-life Simran—a testament to the unpredictable, raw, and often bittersweet journey of human emotions.

Thank you for taking the time to read this story.

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?”