Soumitra Deb
1
It was a lazy winter Sunday in south Kolkata—the kind where the sun was gentle enough to soften the edges of reality, the kind where even alarms gave up and let people sleep a little longer. In the modest Ghosh household of Lake Road, Mr. Biswajit Ghosh was already up by 7:30 a.m., fully dressed in his house kurta, socks on, and sipping tea while reading The Telegraph, shaking his head every five minutes at something he claimed was “kintu bipodjonok”. Purnima, his wife, had just started preparing luchi-alur tarkari when she heard a firm clearing of throat from the living room—a sure signal that her husband had either something philosophical to say or something catastrophically impractical to propose. “Purnima, I have reached a decision,” Biswajit declared, adjusting his glasses as if summoning the cabinet. “We are going for a family picnic. A proper one. With mats, tiffin boxes, Ganga er hawa, and Rabindrasangeet playing in the background.” The kitchen went silent for a beat, save for the sizzle of frying potatoes. From the adjacent bedroom, Jhimli groaned audibly. “Seriously? A picnic? In 2025? Who even does that? This isn’t Doordarshan, Baba,” she shouted, her voice muffled by the comforter. Little Tublu, barely ten, poked his head out from behind a pillow fort he had built using the sofa cushions. “Will there be treasure maps?” he asked hopefully. Purnima, frying batch number two of luchis, turned her head and shouted, “Why not ask your father if we’ll also ride elephants to Babughat? Biswajit, you’ve tried this last winter and got a stomach infection from the cold rice. Remember?” But Biswajit was unfazed, already pulling out a half-torn notebook labeled “Picnic 1998” filled with elaborate diagrams of picnic site layouts, snack distributions, and tiffin management strategies. The idea, ridiculous as it sounded, gained traction like an unattended gas stove. Within fifteen minutes, Chotka—Subhasish, Biswajit’s younger brother—woke up and strolled in with his guitar, asking if there would be “ambient folk jam sessions” involved, while simultaneously eyeing the luchis. The seeds of chaos had been sown.
The family debate that followed could rival a Lok Sabha session in volume and structure. Everyone had different ideas about the picnic location. Biswajit wanted Babughat for “its heritage value and breeze quality,” while Purnima leaned toward Eco Park for the availability of public toilets. Chotka lobbied for Victoria Memorial “for the vibe,” but his real intention was to impress some college girls with his guitar skills. Jhimli, insulted by the whole concept, proposed they go somewhere “aesthetic, like the new café in Salt Lake with bubble tea and fairy lights.” But her proposal was ignored on the grounds of cultural irrelevance. Kakima—Bela Sen, their nosy neighbor who had a sixth sense for eavesdropping through balconies—popped her head in around lunch and exclaimed, “Picnic? I was just thinking the same! Count me in, haan. I’ll bring nimki and my playing cards.” Nobody had invited her, but she had already written her name on the list with a ballpoint pen. Meanwhile, Tublu took it upon himself to start “preparing” for the adventure by packing a small bag with his catapult, marbles, and an old bottle of bubbles. When Purnima noticed he had also packed two frogs in a Tupperware box, he was sent into a corner for “pre-picnic behavioral reformation.” Still, as the Sunday progressed, the reluctant family began warming up to the idea. There was something oddly comforting about the chaos. Jhimli secretly began imagining selfies near the river with fairy lights edited in later. Even Purnima, while complaining, mentally began noting down ingredients for her legendary alur dum. As dusk fell and the familiar aroma of gondhoraj lebu filled the home, Biswajit stood in the balcony, eyes on the horizon, hands behind his back like a General preparing for war. “It’s settled,” he whispered to no one. “This year, the picnic will be perfect.”
Preparations began almost immediately, with the precision and emotional instability of a Bengali wedding. Biswajit drew up a “picnic duty chart” with rows of responsibilities—from food logistics to mat procurement and child supervision. Chotka was officially made the “culture secretary,” responsible for providing musical entertainment and emotional commentary. He immediately started polishing his guitar and mumbling lyrics from a Monsoon Wedding soundtrack, planning to include an “impromptu” performance by the river. Jhimli was designated social media in-charge, although she declared she wouldn’t be caught dead carrying tiffin boxes in selfies. Purnima took control of the kitchen, of course, already soaking kabuli chana overnight and sharpening her cutlets with military intensity. Even Kakima sent a list of items she would bring—her favorite being a windbreaker jacket with a loud peacock design “for the evening chill.” By Wednesday, the Ghosh residence looked like a food supply depot. Papad packets lay next to picnic hats. Mats were being aired on the terrace. One corner had a small stockpile of antacids and pain balms, because, as Purnima reminded everyone, “Who knows what will happen after eating biryani and sitting on the ground at this age?” Tublu fashioned a flag for the “Team Ghosh Picnic Squad” using a broken badminton racket and some chart paper. Even the parrot, Nitu, seemed excited, screeching “Cholun cholun!” every time someone mentioned Babughat. In the final family meeting held Thursday evening, Biswajit made a speech about “upholding picnic traditions against the tides of modern laziness.” No one quite listened, but everyone clapped. The madness had begun, and whether they liked it or not, the Ghosh family was now fully committed to a picnic that promised to be anything but peaceful.
2
By Friday morning, the Ghosh household had transformed from a quiet Lake Road flat into something resembling a war camp with culinary overtones. The living room, normally reserved for watching soap operas and drying socks, was now a maze of tiffin carriers, plastic bags, steel flasks, empty water bottles, folded mats, and a mysterious box labeled “emergency pickles” in red ink. At the heart of this culinary battleground stood Mrs. Purnima Ghosh—clad in her blue cotton saree with white flowers, her hair tied in a bun as tight as her nerves—directing operations like a general with a pressure cooker whistle as her baton. “No one touches this raita. It’s resting,” she barked, slapping away Chotka’s hand, who had tried to sneak a taste while pretending to search for tissues. She had been cooking since 5:30 a.m., having already finished one round of alur dum, a batch of khichuri, and now moved to rolling out luchis with the speed and focus of a street magician. Even her usually philosophical husband had been put to work—polishing the bottoms of the tiffin boxes, folding extra gamchas, and labeling utensils with Post-it notes. Tublu, meanwhile, had declared himself “Chief Security Officer” of the picnic, and was marching around with a toy binocular and a cowboy hat, periodically blowing a plastic whistle every time someone dropped a spoon. His pet parrot, Nitu, now free from its cage, was creating aerial havoc by repeatedly attacking a packet of cashew nuts meant for dessert. “Ei, Nitu! Stop this instant!” shrieked Purnima, as Nitu gleefully flew into the chandelier, raining coriander leaves like confetti.
Elsewhere in the house, a parallel madness was brewing. Jhimli, the family’s reluctant social media representative, was furiously hunting for the perfect picnic outfit. Her room looked like an influencer’s suitcase had exploded. Dupattas hung from ceiling fans, oversized sunglasses peeked out from under her maths guide, and every five minutes she screamed, “I have NOTHING to wear!”—despite having tried on seventeen outfits since breakfast. Her mother, overhearing the outburst, yelled back, “Wear that green kurti with the elephants! You wore it only once during Subho Mahalaya!” “That was in 2023, Ma! I’ve grown as a person!” Jhimli replied dramatically. Meanwhile, Chotka was sitting cross-legged near the balcony, oiling his guitar like it was a temple idol, occasionally testing chords and shouting to no one in particular, “Should I start with ‘Purano sei diner kotha’ or something more atmospheric like ‘Hotel California’ in Baul rhythm?” No one answered. He took it as support. He also began compiling a list of ‘probable requests’ that no one was ever going to make—starting with Rabindra Sangeet and ending with something called “Baulified Billie Eilish.” Kakima called on the landline twice to reconfirm if she should bring extra mosquito coil and her battery-operated hand fan. “Just in case there’s a load-shedding beside the river,” she said solemnly, as if Ganga’s banks were inside CESC’s jurisdiction. She also hinted at bringing her “Asthma Friend” Sukumar Da along, “Just for fresh air”—a prospect that caused Biswajit to knock his own forehead in resignation. Somewhere around noon, Tublu managed to tie a banana peel to Chotka’s guitar string, setting off a chase that ended in two broken teacups and a vow from Purnima to cancel the entire picnic if one more item broke. But it was too late. The house had already taken on a life of its own—no longer functioning by human logic but by a higher law of picnic preparation chaos.
By the time Friday evening arrived, exhaustion hung over the house like a slightly overcooked shorshe ilish—sharp, heavy, and somehow still comforting. The final checklist was read out in a family circle after dinner, led by none other than Biswajit, who had created a laminated “Master Picnic List” using an old voter ID pouch. “Food?” he asked. “Check,” responded Purnima, sipping her Boroline tea with pride. “Music?” “Double check!” replied Chotka, dramatically strumming one chord from ‘Blowing in the Wind’ and accidentally cutting his fingernail. “Entertainment items for children?” “YES!” shouted Tublu, pulling out his handmade “Picnic Protection Kit” that included a catapult, bubble bottle, roll of cello tape, a single slipper (identity of second unknown), and a threatening note written in crayons that said “No Frogs, No Fun.” Even Nitu the parrot seemed ready, now perched solemnly atop the fridge, repeating “Cholun cholun cholun!” as if preparing for political rally duty. As the family quietly admired the organized chaos they had conjured together, a rare silence settled over them—part exhaustion, part anticipation. Somewhere, the idea of the picnic had shifted. It was no longer just a getaway. It was a mission, a mad yet memorable family undertaking that would either be a disaster or an epic saga for the ages. And as Biswajit blew out the last candle and said softly to himself, “Tomorrow, at sunrise, the picnic begins,” no one noticed that Tublu had already packed Nitu into a laundry bag with a biscuit and a note that read “Picnic VIP Guest – Handle with Love.”
3
Saturday morning dawned with the kind of enthusiasm that only exists inside families determined to have fun at all costs. At 5:30 a.m., while Kolkata still slumbered under its light fog and sleepy tram bells, the Ghosh household was already alive with a symphony of mismatched urgency. Biswajit Ghosh, draped in a monkey cap and muffler like a retired revolutionary, paced the living room shouting, “Where is my leather diary? The one with the plan! Someone check near the Boroline tin!” Purnima was simultaneously yelling instructions to the maid, frying kochuris, stuffing tissue packets into handbags, and fixing her gold-plated clip that kept slipping off her bun like a rebellious gooseberry. Jhimli emerged from her room wearing a kurti that matched the mat, holding a power bank and her personal selfie light like a soldier heading for war. She yawned theatrically and complained, “The light is bad today. My whole picnic aesthetic is ruined.” Kakima arrived sharp at 6:00 a.m., armed with a windbreaker, a tiffin full of nimki, two packets of glucose biscuits, and a newspaper-wrapped thermos that she handed over like a sacred offering. “Just halud doodh,” she whispered. “In case someone’s blood pressure drops from excitement.” Tublu appeared riding a suitcase as if it were a horse, wearing a cape made from an old Durga Puja banner. He had painted ‘Commander Ghosh’ on his forehead with sketch pen and declared he’d lead the march to Babughat. Amidst this circus, two things became painfully clear: (a) no one remembered to book a car in advance and (b) the parrot, Nitu, had eaten half a packet of cumin biscuits and was refusing to return to its cage.
Panic broke out at 6:30 when Biswajit opened his ride-booking apps and discovered all Ubers within a 5-kilometer radius were mysteriously “unavailable.” Ola, too, refused to cooperate. “See, this is what happens when we rely on mobile phones instead of pre-booking a yellow taxi the night before, like in the old days!” he thundered. “Modernity is a disease!” His voice echoed through the neighborhood, waking up a family of street dogs and possibly a local hawker. Jhimli called it “a sign from the universe to cancel the picnic and go to Park Street café instead.” Chotka, surprisingly helpful, ran out in chappals to find a taxi manually and returned breathless with a victory cry, “Got two autos! Not great, but they’ll do!” What followed was the great loading debacle—five people, two bags of food, a guitar, a picnic mat, a Bluetooth speaker, a plastic stool, and a rogue parrot divided between two rickety autos. Biswajit, insisting he would ride with the food to ensure ‘temperature control’, ended up sitting with three tiffin boxes on his lap and the thermos wedged under his knee. Tublu refused to sit unless he could control the “autopilot,” which was just him shouting “Go left! Go right!” at the auto driver, who looked like he hadn’t slept since Durga Puja. The convoy began moving, slowly, with a slight lean to the left due to the weight imbalance caused by Purnima’s chutney container. And just as they turned near Deshapriya Park, disaster struck: one auto suddenly spluttered, coughed, and stopped mid-road like a dramatic actor exiting stage left.
The family stood in a small cluster on the side of the road, food repacked, tempers high, and Kolkata traffic brushing past them like annoyed bees. “This is a cosmic test,” declared Biswajit solemnly, trying to adjust his position to avoid straining his lower back. But as he bent to pick up a fallen thermos, there was a distinctive rip. His trousers—white linen, worn thin from years of ceremonial usage—had split across the seat in a magnificent crescent. There was a stunned silence, followed by a soft “Oh bhagoban” from Purnima and a suppressed giggle from Tublu. “Why me, always why me?” Biswajit muttered as he stood frozen, holding onto a hot flask and half a papad packet. A generous street tailor, who had set up a folding chair under a flyover nearby, came to the rescue, beckoning Biswajit like a war medic. “Asun, asun, ami aachhi. One minute e fix kore debo,” he said, pulling out a needle with the flair of a magician revealing his wand. Chotka took over crowd distraction duty by strumming random Baul tunes on his guitar and even got a few claps from passersby. Jhimli recorded none of it—too embarrassed—but secretly took a selfie with the hashtag #KolkataCrisis. Repairs completed, trousers stitched, egos slightly frayed but spirits intact, the Ghosh family climbed back into the lone functioning auto. They reached Babughat an hour late, missing the sunrise, but right on time for the unfolding chaos. The picnic had not even officially started, yet it was already a legend in the making.
4
The auto sputtered to a final halt near the southern gate of Babughat, wheezing like a tired rickshaw-puller after crossing College Street in June. The Ghosh family emerged like a circus troupe on tour—Biswajit with one hand on his tiffin tower and the other gripping his freshly mended trousers, Purnima carrying a plastic bag full of napkins, chutney jars, and anxiety, Jhimli clicking selfies against anything that looked rustic enough to pass as “heritage,” and Chotka walking two steps behind strumming a folksy version of “Ekla Cholo Re” that made at least one monkey stare in confusion. Tublu, of course, was already dashing ahead wearing his cape and dragging a kite string he had fished from the footpath, while Nitu the parrot squawked enthusiastically from its position inside a grated fruit basket that had been repurposed as a travel cage. “This is it,” Biswajit declared with the pride of a man discovering the banks of the Ganges for the first time. “This very spot—just beside that cement bench with ‘Vote for Ratan Sarkar’ written in red paint—is where we shall set up our picnic camp.” But destiny, like Kolkata traffic, had other plans. A loud drumbeat shattered the peace, followed by the unmistakable wail of a rally announcement. To the left of their chosen patch of grass, a swelling crowd in red scarves began chanting slogans. Banners waved. Loudspeakers crackled. And before anyone could say “luchi-alur dom,” the family was surrounded by what appeared to be a full-blown political demonstration.
At first, there was denial. “Maybe it’s just morning yoga,” Kakima suggested optimistically, her windbreaker zipped up to her chin. But then came the placards, the slogans about employment rights, and a man on a cycle rickshaw distributing samosas to marching protestors. Purnima clutched the tiffin carrier protectively and whispered, “I knew it. Today was not an auspicious day. The luchis will absorb negativity.” Biswajit tried to maintain his composure, insisting they move “a little to the right,” but every square foot of open ground had been claimed—either by lovers seated under umbrellas, students rehearsing street plays, or pigeons holding territory with feathered menace. The family finally squeezed into a narrow patch near the railing, beneath a semi-defunct lamp post and in direct view of the Ganges. “This view is priceless,” Biswajit insisted, though the family could barely hear one another over the sounds of conch shells and loudhailer instructions. Tublu, unfazed, declared the area his “Command Base Alpha” and began building a fort with two bags and a hand towel. Meanwhile, Jhimli, ever the Instagram opportunist, posed dramatically with her sunglasses and captioned it “Vibes be like – picnic but make it political 🧺✊🏼 #BengaliMadness #GangaGrams.” Nearby, Chotka had wandered toward a group of Baul musicians who had set up near a banyan tree and was already harmonizing with a man named Dijen da, who played the ektara with divine commitment and smelled vaguely of roasted peanuts.
The real chaos began when a man with a whistle, three pamphlets, and a badge that read “Red Voice Rising” walked up to the family and asked if they were there to support the march. “We’re here for biryani,” replied Kakima without hesitation, earning a confused nod. Tublu then offered him a spoonful of chutney in solidarity. Eventually, the march shifted slightly to the west, creating a corridor of relative calm, enough for Purnima to begin laying out the spread on the mat—a red-and-yellow wonder that had once belonged to Biswajit’s college debating society. Just as she opened the tiffin layers with the pride of a magician revealing a secret act, a stray dog ran by with a protest flag in its mouth, followed by a child in flip-flops chasing a football that landed directly onto the chutney. “It’s cursed, I tell you!” Purnima wailed. Biswajit fetched mineral water and tried to wash the chutney off the lid while repeating calming phrases like “We must adjust with life, much like chutney adjusts with luchi.” The family sat down eventually, balancing plates on their knees and food on their laps, while the sun peeked through the fog and boats floated past, honking gently. Amid the commotion, discomfort, and mat-jumping pigeons, something unusual happened—they laughed. Together. Loudly. Like they hadn’t in months. And just as Chotka returned with a stolen harmonium and a plan to perform “Baba Ei To Jibon,” everyone sighed in surrender. This wasn’t the picnic they planned. It was better. It was Bengali. It was beautifully absurd.
5
For approximately twenty-seven minutes, the Ghosh family achieved something bordering on serenity. The biryani had been uncovered, Purnima’s chutney salvaged (though emotionally scarred), and Chotka was midway through a soulful rendition of “Tumi Robe Nirobe” on a harmonium he claimed was “on loan from a revolutionary,” when the atmosphere changed with the suddenness of a switched off fan. It started with a small question from Kakima, her mouth half full of nimki: “Ei, where is Tublu?” The words landed like thunder. Purnima dropped her spoon, Biswajit froze mid-chew, and Jhimli instinctively reached for her phone to check if he’d posted anything strange online—he hadn’t. For a brief, almost spiritual second, all sound in their picnic perimeter ceased. “He was playing with his red kite, right?” Purnima asked, already rising to her feet. “He tied a dupatta to it and said he was inventing aerial messaging,” Biswajit muttered. “No, no,” said Chotka, scratching his head. “Last I saw him, he was offering biscuits to a man with a boat.” That did it. Purnima shrieked. “A boat?! You let my child board a boat?! Is this the Ganga Picnic or Titanic Part 2?!”
And just like that, the picnic turned into a full-blown manhunt. Biswajit ran toward the ferry terminal shouting, “Tublu! Commander Ghosh! Respond immediately!” as if the boy had joined the navy. Kakima stood on the stone ledge of the ghat, squinting into the water like a suspicious grandmother in a crime drama. Jhimli ran up to random kids, showing them pictures of Tublu with dog filters and asking, “Have you seen this boy? Answers to snacks and mischief?” Chotka, meanwhile, formed a search party of two Baul singers and one sweet-seller, promising a free nimki packet for every clue. At the height of this madness, a boatman casually rowed up near the ghat steps and asked, “Is one of you looking for a boy with a cape and a biscuit box?” A chorus of yeses erupted, and the man pointed toward his small boat, currently bobbing mid-river—where Tublu sat calmly under a torn umbrella, feeding puffed rice to pigeons and chatting with a white-bearded man who looked like a cross between Tagore and Santa Claus. “Who is that?” whispered Purnima. “Is he a baba? A saint? A boat-dwelling ghost?” The boatman laughed. “Na na, he’s just my uncle. He gives river history lessons to tourists. The boy said he was his new intern.” Within minutes, the boat returned to shore, carrying Tublu, smiling and soaked in knowledge. “Ma, did you know this ghat was built during British time, and one side was used to unload potatoes?!” he beamed. Purnima didn’t know whether to hug him or hit him with a luchi.
Back on the mat, the family sat around Tublu as if he had returned from a voyage around the world. Even Nitu the parrot looked impressed. Kakima fed him nimki as a reward for “his historical thirst,” while Biswajit sat in silence, possibly questioning his life choices. “You all panic too much,” Tublu said, sipping from his juice box. “I had a guide. His name is Shibnath Kaku. He taught me the difference between a ghat and a jetty.” Purnima massaged her forehead. “Great. My son is ten and already doing unpaid internships on the river.” Jhimli, unable to resist, posed for a selfie with the ‘Return of the Legend’ caption. Chotka turned philosophical, declaring, “Children don’t get lost. They just find what they were looking for.” “And sometimes that’s a free boat ride and puffed rice,” added Biswajit. The sun moved higher, the political slogans faded into the background, and the family sat a little closer, a little quieter, around the boy who had temporarily gone missing but returned with stories of potato ports and British boats. The picnic was no longer just an outing—it was becoming a saga. A saga of luchis, lost children, and unexpected boatmen with a passion for history.
6
With Tublu safely back on dry land and everyone’s blood pressure hovering somewhere between relief and exhaustion, it was unanimously decided that the only cure was food—proper food, ceremonial food, the kind of meal that could silence a political protest. Purnima opened the royal tiffin with the reverence usually reserved for unlocking temple doors. There it was—fragrant, glistening mutton biryani, still warm, its golden grains clinging to soft chunks of potato, tender meat, and perfectly caramelized onions. The aroma alone could’ve stirred emotion in a stone. Biswajit adjusted his spectacles and whispered, “This is heritage in a handi.” Everyone gathered like pilgrims. Plates were pulled out. Aachar jars uncorked. Paper napkins fluttered in the wind. Even Chotka stopped tuning his harmonium. But destiny, as always in the Ghosh family’s tale, had a slightly different plan. Just as Purnima was ladling out the first spoonful into Jhimli’s palm-painted melamine plate, a lean, hungry-looking street dog—sensing divine opportunity—darted in from behind the banyan tree like a four-legged ninja, snatched the entire biryani box in its jaws, and bolted toward the ghat stairs. There was a moment of paralyzed silence. The parrot screamed “Cholun! Cholun!” as if cheering. Purnima let out a sound that was not quite a scream and not quite a sob—it was a mother’s primal grief for a lost child, except this time the child was two kilos of Biryani and a boiled egg.
What followed was not just chaos—it was culinary heartbreak. Purnima dropped to her knees, holding the now-empty tiffin lid. “This… this is sabotage,” she said, stunned. “I soaked the rice overnight. I marinated the meat in mustard oil and patience. That dog… that dog has no respect for tradition!” Biswajit tried to comfort her by offering a cucumber slice, which only made things worse. “Why did you only bring ONE biryani box?” Jhimli demanded. “This is what happens when men make the plan.” Kakima sighed and handed out glucose biscuits like she was distributing relief after a cyclone. “No use crying. Eat this. It tastes like regret.” Chotka ran toward the ghat steps in a heroic but ultimately symbolic attempt to chase the dog, only to return breathless with a single alur dom that had rolled under a bench. “I found this survivor,” he announced. Tublu, clearly more amused than heartbroken, asked, “Can we order from Zomato?” which earned him a collective glare that could curdle dahi. Then, as if summoned by the picnic gods, a nearby chaiwala appeared with his portable stove and said, “Want some muri and beguni, dada?” Desperate, the family agreed. They bought five begunis, two paper cones of muri, and four cups of tea in plastic cups with handles so flimsy they looked philosophical. As they sat on the mat, nibbling soggy snacks, their laughter slowly returned. It was absurd, it was unfair, but it was unforgettable. Even Purnima cracked a smile when Nitu tried to eat a beguni and fell off the thermos.
And then came the story-swapping. Every Ghosh present began to recount the incident in dramatic fashion. Biswajit insisted it was a “coordinated dog attack,” possibly orchestrated by anti-biryani forces. Jhimli claimed she almost saved the biryani and would’ve gone viral if she had filmed it. Chotka composed a short two-line song about “a biryani lost but not forgotten,” which he sang with a wobbly voice and a harmonium tone too emotional for the situation. Tublu drew a picture of the “biryani thief” and declared he would make a ‘wanted’ poster. Purnima, slowly regaining her spirit, said, “Next time, I’ll cook khichuri. Even dogs won’t steal that.” Laughter erupted. The biryani was gone, but something else was restored—an odd, resilient joy that only truly dysfunctional but loving families know how to cultivate. The mat was sticky, the chutney slightly contaminated, and the sun too harsh now—but they sat together, sharing chai, crumbs, and complaints like a team that had survived war. The picnic had reached its low point, but the Ghosh family? They were just warming up. Babughat had tasted their madness, and there was much more to come.
7
The biryani loss had been mourned, processed, and musically immortalized by Chotka’s tragic harmonium dirge, and just when the Ghosh family had begun to lean into a lull of post-chaos recovery, fate decided the picnic needed a twist. It began subtly. A man in his mid-40s, dressed in suspiciously crisp cargo pants, a sleeveless safari jacket, and aviator sunglasses, appeared beside their mat holding a plastic packet of guavas and a water bottle labeled “Bisleri” with a faded sticker that read “Purulia Mela 2012.” He smiled politely and asked, “Is this the Ghosh family of Lake Road? Biswajit-babu’s family?” The family stared at him as if a refrigerator had just introduced itself. “Yes?” Biswajit replied slowly, half-shielding Purnima with his elbow. “I’m Pratik,” the man said with confidence. “We’re related. Distantly. My great-aunt was your grandfather’s niece-in-law from the Dhakuria branch.” Silence. Even the parrot froze mid-peck. “Oh! You mean Monorama-r didi’s youngest brother’s son?” Purnima guessed. “No no,” Pratik said, waving his guava for emphasis, “Monorama-r didi’s husband’s uncle’s cousin’s niece-in-law.” Biswajit blinked. “I see,” he lied. No one actually saw. But the man sat down on the edge of the mat as though a royal invitation had been extended.
From the moment Pratik joined, the atmosphere on the mat became both awkward and fascinating. He came armed with facts about the Ghosh family no one remembered sharing. He knew the name of Biswajit’s first tuition teacher (“Basu Sir, who had the lisp!”), the brand of face cream Kakima used in 1998 (“Boroline gold!”), and even that Chotka had once failed Class 9 math due to a “carrom addiction.” Suspicion turned into quiet unease. “He’s either a long-lost cousin or a former detective with a passion for tiffin gossip,” whispered Jhimli to Purnima, who responded by slowly rotating the chutney box away from him. Meanwhile, Pratik made himself comfortable, offering unsolicited advice about picnic hydration (“Drink before you’re thirsty”) and discussing the emotional value of boiled eggs. “They ground you,” he said solemnly. When Tublu asked how he knew so much, Pratik replied, “I study people. And I listen to parrots.” Which only increased Nitu’s squawking. “He’s definitely CIA,” muttered Chotka. “Or maybe from Ananda Bazar Patrika doing a human-interest story on bizarre Bengali families.” What made matters worse was that Pratik had also brought gifts—a mystery tupperware labeled ‘Home-made Moshla Tikki’ and a small bottle of paachforon pickle which he claimed was “fermented in Kalimpong air.” He insisted everyone try it. Purnima, ever the food snob, refused politely. “We don’t eat anything pickled beyond Andul.”
Eventually, unable to endure the suspense, Biswajit quietly pulled out his mobile and called their family WhatsApp group: “Ghosh Dynasty (Original)” and asked if anyone remembered a Pratik from Dhakuria. Within three minutes, a flood of voice notes arrived. One declared, “We’ve never had a Dhakuria branch!” Another said, “Pratik? Wasn’t that the name of the plumber we hired in 2011?” Finally, Kakima, after squinting at Pratik’s face and doing a mental forensic scan, declared: “This is the boy who once sold me shoe polish at Gariahat crossing!” Pratik laughed awkwardly, then confessed—his real name was Subho, and he was not related by blood but had been at the ghat for a reunion that got cancelled. “I just wanted company,” he mumbled. “And your parrot looked friendly.” For a brief moment, everyone stared at him. Then, to his utter surprise, Biswajit patted the empty mat beside him and said, “Well, any man who respects boiled eggs and chutney deserves some muri.” The tension broke. Pratik—or Subho—smiled sheepishly and stayed on. After all, what’s a Bengali picnic without a surprise guest who may or may not be part of the family tree? The Ghosh family didn’t just accept madness—they welcomed it with mustard oil and tea.
8
After the surprise cousin-impostor incident, the Ghosh family could have easily called it a day, packed up their chutney jars, and returned home to resume regular programming involving serials, carrom boards, and late-afternoon arguments over tea. But no. The picnic must go on. “If the British didn’t give up after Plassey, why should we?” declared Biswajit, who had now assumed the role of both picnic commander and spiritual cheerleader, despite having lost one sock and most of his patience. As the golden afternoon sun slanted across Babughat, a sudden surge of enthusiasm took over the group. “Let’s explore a bit!” said Jhimli, already reapplying her lip tint for a ‘sunset reel.’ She pulled out a selfie stick that looked more like a miniature telescope and led the march with her mother, father, and reluctant guitar-wielding Chotka trailing behind. Nitu the parrot, now partially freed and perched on Tublu’s shoulder like a pirate’s companion, squawked slogans of support. “Cholun! Cholun!” As the Ghoshes meandered across the ghat’s weathered stones, they passed familiar Kolkata characters—a flower seller balancing a tray on her head, an elderly uncle reading the Anandabazar Patrika aloud to nobody, and a group of boys doing push-ups dramatically close to the riverbank. “Careful, beta,” Kakima warned one of them. “The Ganga listens, and so do sprained ankles.”
The selfie session quickly descended into controlled madness. Every pose turned into a mini-war of aesthetics. “Angle toh bhalo nei!” shouted Jhimli. “Ma, stop blinking like someone’s shining torch into your eyes!” Purnima, trying to smile while shielding herself from a pigeon, posed stiffly with a thermos in hand. “I’m not a heroine, baba,” she muttered. Biswajit, who insisted on including “historical context,” posed dramatically beside a mossy stone pillar and captioned his photo “Where heritage meets hydration.” Chotka tried playing a tune in the background of a video, but tripped on a discarded packet of Chanachur, landing flat on his harmonium. “This is what happens when music meets mismanagement!” he cried. Tublu, meanwhile, began choreographing what he called a “picnic dance,” involving wild flapping of arms and random jumps that made several foreign tourists stare in both alarm and admiration. Just then, disaster struck again—Kakima lost her slipper. Not in the dramatic river-floating sense, but in the more frustrating way of having it get jammed between two ancient stone steps. What followed was a ten-minute operation involving a selfie stick, a spoon, Chotka’s belt, and the moral support of three nearby hawkers. The slipper emerged victorious but slightly bruised, and Kakima vowed never to forgive the municipality for “stone gaps of such villainy.” Everyone limped back to their mat, dusty and sore but somehow refreshed. Because in Kolkata, walking through chaos is just another kind of meditation.
They returned to find their mat partially occupied by two sleepy protesters and a puppy curled up on the pickle jar. “Eto din picnic korechhi, but today is history,” sighed Purnima as she gently shooed the puppy and wiped the jar with a tissue from her emergency pouch. The family flopped down with the grace of overcooked potol, nursing sore backs, bent slippers, and deep philosophical questions like “Why do selfie sticks never cooperate with middle-aged men?” Pratik/Subho was still there, sipping chai and chatting with Nitu like they were old friends. Tublu flopped dramatically across a plastic stool and declared, “I’ve seen things today.” Even Jhimli, usually glued to her feed, sat quietly watching the river shimmer in the orange light. “You know,” she said softly, “this was kind of nice.” Biswajit nodded and looked at his wife, who despite all her protests, was now humming “Esho he boishakh” under her breath. The sun dipped. The pigeons flew. The river flowed without commentary. And for one rare moment, no one needed a phone, a post, or even a plan. They just sat together—tired, dusty, ridiculous—and completely at peace. Even sore feet, they discovered, can be a kind of memory. Especially when made beside a river, with a missing slipper, and a very opinionated parrot.
9
As the golden hues of the setting sun spilled over the Ganga, turning the waters into rippling sheets of melted brass, the Ghosh family reluctantly began the sacred ritual of “pack up.” This stage of a Bengali picnic was as layered as the biryani they lost—filled with dramatic sighs, missing Tupperware lids, repacking anxiety, and endless blame circulation. “Who kept the cucumber knife inside the pickle jar?” demanded Purnima, holding up a soggy, mustard-smeared weapon like a forensic detective. “And where is the lid for the chutney box? Don’t tell me the puppy took it!” Meanwhile, Biswajit had already entered what he called “Departure Discipline Mode,” wherein he checked and rechecked his spreadsheet of items with religious fervor. “Mat – rolled. Thermos – accounted. Parrot – alive. Harmonium – injured but present.” Every family member had their role: Chotka was in charge of musical equipment and leftover snacks; Jhimli oversaw delicate selfie gear and napkins that looked too pretty to use; Tublu was supposed to guard the remaining biscuits but was now emotionally attached to the puppy and refused to leave without it. “We’ll name him Chutney,” he declared solemnly. “He’s family now.” Kakima, already exhausted, simply clutched her retrieved slipper and muttered, “Chutney o thak, pet amar ja kichu digest koreni!”
The real chaos began when it was time to find transport back. The sun may have softened, but Kolkata traffic had not. Babughat was now a humming ecosystem of returnees—families carrying musical instruments and broken mats, college students practicing dance routines near parked buses, and a wedding group accidentally performing a flashmob near the garbage bin. No autos were available, the yellow taxis were all “on meter but not mood,” and the family was split between Uber Pool, divine intervention, and “Let’s just walk till we faint.” Pratik/Subho, ever resourceful, announced, “I know a guy who rents out paddle-vans. Eco-friendly and nostalgic.” Before Purnima could protest, he had summoned a man in a lungi and a shawl riding what appeared to be a hybrid between a van rickshaw and a post-apocalyptic grocery cart. “Maximum four people,” the man grunted. “Rest can run behind.” In the end, they split up—Biswajit and Purnima in one auto (with the parrot), Chotka and Jhimli in a paddle-van holding musical equipment and stale muri, and the rest flagged down a passing Tata Sumo that had “Bapi Travels” painted in glitter font. Inside the auto, Biswajit waxed philosophical about the beauty of shared discomfort, while Nitu pecked at the driver’s seat cover. In the Sumo, Tublu made Chutney wear sunglasses, and Kakima lectured the driver on the history of road repairs in South Kolkata. By the time they reached Lake Road, the family looked like survivors of a very musical, slightly unhinged spiritual trek.
Home had never looked sweeter. The Ghoshes entered their flat like returning heroes—mud-splattered, emotionally stretched, but oddly glowing with joy. Purnima immediately began boiling water “to sterilize the memory of the chutney incident.” Jhimli uploaded three reels titled “Babughat Breakdown”, already garnering heart emojis from friends who thought it was all aesthetic. Chotka set his harmonium down with a dramatic sigh and announced, “I have seen the future of Baul music and it lives beside the river.” Tublu fed Chutney biscuits under the dining table while Nitu jealously screeched from its cage. Biswajit poured himself a glass of Horlicks and sat down with his leather diary, where he wrote, “Today we did not picnic. Today we participated in life, in all its chutney-splattered, biryani-less brilliance.” The doorbell rang—twice. Pratik/Subho had returned, holding a forgotten handkerchief and a smile. “You forgot this,” he said. “And I forgot to say—thank you for letting me be Ghosh for a day.” Purnima took the cloth silently and handed him a small tiffin with leftover muri. “You’re always welcome,” she said, “but next time, bring your own pickle.” They laughed. The madness had ended. The story had not.
10
Two weeks had passed since the Babughat escapade, but its aftershocks continued to ripple through the Ghosh household like echoes in a marble corridor. Every time the doorbell rang, Purnima instinctively checked if it was Pratik/Subho with a new Tupperware. Nitu the parrot had developed a strange habit of screeching “Cholun! Biryani!” at 4 p.m. daily, traumatizing the milkman and entertaining the neighborhood children. The dining table, once a neutral zone, had become the official debriefing center for the Ghosh family, where memories were served hotter than tea. “Remember how that dog looked me in the eye before stealing the biryani?” Purnima would say, dramatically pointing her spatula like a courtroom prosecutor. “There was malice in its soul!” Tublu, meanwhile, had taken to drawing comic books titled “Commander Ghosh vs. The Babughat Bandit,” complete with illustrations of Nitu launching mustard missiles and Chutney the Puppy wearing a cape. Even Kakima, despite initial resistance, had joined in on the legacy, recounting the slipper-retrieval saga to anyone who entered the house—including the gas delivery man, who listened to the entire story twice and left without delivering the cylinder. And Chotka had composed a new Baul-fusion song titled “Lost Luchi, Found Love” which he insisted he’d perform at the next para cultural evening.
What no one admitted, but everyone felt, was how that one picnic—chaotic, chutney-stained, and borderline catastrophic—had somehow knit them closer. The photos from that day were now printed and framed awkwardly across the house. One featured Biswajit trying to smile while adjusting his ripped trousers, captioned lovingly by Jhimli: “Our Captain, Our Hero.” Another had Purnima chasing the dog in a blur, with “Mission Biryani” written in glitter gel pen underneath. Even the group selfie—taken during the moment Nitu landed on Kakima’s head—was now laminated and magneted onto the fridge, next to the grocery list and a faded bill for last year’s water purifier. Friends, neighbors, and even distant relatives began to drop by, curious about “the picnic.” Some brought snacks, some brought stories of their own picnic disasters, and one even brought an insurance brochure “just in case you people ever go again.” It became folklore. “You haven’t heard about the Ghosh picnic?” people would whisper. “It involved a runaway parrot, a protest rally, and someone claiming to be a cousin from Dhakuria.” In a city that feeds on stories, the Ghosh family had become a buffet of laughter, confusion, and oddly precise tiffin references.
On the fifteenth day, as per Bengali tradition of marking special days with something sweet, Purnima made payesh. It was garnished with raisins, cashews, and just a pinch of nostalgia. They all gathered that evening—Biswajit in his balcony chair with his diary, Jhimli editing yet another reel with overly emotional Rabindra Sangeet in the background, Chotka tuning a harmonium that still smelled faintly of protest pamphlets, Kakima holding Chutney in her lap like a prize goat, and Tublu planning a sequel to his comic. Even Pratik/Subho dropped in—this time with no lies, just a bottle of bel juice and an honest grin. They sat together, spooning payesh, laughing at exaggerated memories, and rewriting mishaps as miracles. The picnic hadn’t just been a day out—it had been a family reboot, a reminder that plans can fail spectacularly, but if laughter survives, everything else is garnish. As the lights dimmed across Lake Road and a cool breeze carried the scent of someone else’s cooking from the neighboring flat, Biswajit looked at his family and said, “Next time, we try Victoria Memorial.” Everyone groaned in chorus. And just like that, the next legend was born.
—
The End
