Rohan Banerjee
It was a bright Sunday morning in Kolkata, which meant two things: the neighborhood cricket match would block all traffic, and Auntie Shukla would be out in full force, armed with gossip and a rolling pin.
Benson Lane wasn’t famous for anything—unless you counted its residents’ Olympic-level ability to interfere in each other’s lives. The star of this story was Mr. Debu Mukherjee, a retired bank officer with too much free time and a suspicious interest in everyone’s grocery shopping.
That morning, Debu Babu spotted something alarming at the lane’s corner tea stall. His long-time rival, Somnath, was buying milk from a different dairy. This was a scandal on par with someone switching political parties mid-speech.
“Somnath!” Debu called out dramatically, “Since when do you betray Ghosh Dairy?”
Somnath adjusted his gamcha like a warrior preparing for battle. “Their milk is watery. This is from Banerjee Dairy. Richer, thicker, better.”
By now, five other uncles had gathered. Opinions flew faster than mosquitos after rain. Soon, the great Milk Debate had spread to Auntie Shukla’s balcony, where she loudly declared, “Banerjee Dairy is fine, but you don’t know what their cows eat.”
Within ten minutes, the cricket match had been abandoned. Players, aunties, uncles, and random passersby all joined the argument. Even the chaiwala had to mediate.
In the end, they reached a democratic conclusion: they’d buy milk from both dairies for one week and hold a tasting session at the Sunday adda.
And thus, Benson Lane prepared for the first-ever Milk Olympics—because in India, no quarrel is too small to turn into a full-scale community event.
The Sunday of the Milk Olympics arrived with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for India–Pakistan cricket matches.
By 9 a.m., Benson Lane was buzzing. Plastic chairs were dragged onto the street. Someone had borrowed a folding table from the local club. Two giant steel jugs—one labeled Ghosh Dairy, the other Banerjee Dairy—sat in the middle, guarded like crown jewels.
Debu Mukherjee had appointed himself Chief Judge, naturally. Somnath was his Co-Judge, which both men insisted was proof of their fairness (and which everyone else knew was a recipe for disaster).
The rules were simple:
- Each person would taste both milks without knowing which was which.
- Scores would be given for taste, thickness, and “emotional connection” (a category invented by Auntie Shukla).
The first sip went smoothly. People nodded, smacked their lips, murmured appreciation. Then came the second jug. Someone whispered it tasted “too creamy.” Someone else insisted it was “watery but in a comforting way.” A heated argument broke out about whether milk should be creamy.
Then, chaos. Little Bappa, age six, proudly announced, “I added sugar to this one!” Before anyone could stop him, the judges had taken another sip, making Debu cough and Somnath splutter like malfunctioning geysers.
By noon, no one remembered the scoring system. The adda had dissolved into three separate debates:
- Whether tea made with creamy milk is better than tea made with watery milk.
- Whether cows should be fed banana leaves or watermelon rinds.
- Whether Bappa’s sugared milk was actually the best.
In the end, they voted for a tie, because choosing a winner would have caused open war.
As everyone left, Auntie Shukla declared, “Next week—Paneer Olympics.”
Benson Lane groaned, but deep down, they all knew they’d be there.
The announcement of the Paneer Olympics spread through Benson Lane faster than a power cut during IPL.
This time, the stakes were higher. Paneer wasn’t just milk—it was milk with ambition. Every household had a secret recipe, passed down through generations or stolen from a YouTube video.
The Sunday adda ground was transformed into a full-blown arena. Banners (handwritten on old newspaper) declared: Paneer Olympics – May the Best Curd Win. The competitors arrived with stainless steel tiffins, each filled with their family’s prized paneer cubes.
Debu Mukherjee had once again declared himself Chief Judge, but this time, Auntie Shukla insisted on a guest judge to “avoid bias.” That’s how Dr. Saurabh Banerjee from Delhi—Auntie Shukla’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s friend—found himself seated at the judging table, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else.
Round One: Softness Test. Paneer was poked, prodded, and squeezed with the intensity of a diamond inspection. Somnath claimed his paneer was so soft it could double as a pillow. Nobody volunteered to test this.
Round Two
The announcement of the Paneer Olympics spread through Benson Lane faster than a rumour about gold prices. By midweek, aunties were hoarding milk in suspiciously large quantities, and the lane’s only dairy delivery boy, Paltu, had developed the stamina of a marathon runner.
But this time, there was a twist. Auntie Shukla’s niece from Delhi, Mitali, was visiting. She had a food blog called Paneer & Poetry with a grand total of 72 followers, but she introduced herself as a “culinary critic.” Everyone immediately decided she would be the Guest Judge.
Mitali arrived at the event wearing oversized sunglasses and carrying a leather notebook. She spoke in English so polished that even the crows went quiet for a moment. “We shall begin with texture analysis,” she declared, poking at cubes of paneer with a gold-plated fork she’d brought from home.
The competitors were:
- Team Ghosh Dairy – proudly presenting “Classic Kolkata Soft Paneer.”
- Team Banerjee Dairy – offering “Extra-Firm Delhi-Style Paneer.”
- Wildcard Entry – submitted by Somnath’s cousin from Bardhaman: “Mystery Paneer” (no one dared ask why it was slightly green).
The tasting began. Mitali scribbled furiously in her notebook, nodding like she was judging Michelin-star restaurants. “The mouthfeel is… evocative,” she said at one point, leaving everyone confused but impressed.
Then disaster struck. Little Bappa, still high on his Milk Olympics fame, decided to “improve” the Mystery Paneer by sprinkling it with chaat masala. Mitali took one bite, her face froze, and she exclaimed, “This tastes like betrayal.”
Arguments erupted instantly: Aunties debated whether chaat masala on paneer was genius or blasphemy. The uncles weighed in about Bardhaman cows versus Delhi cows. Someone accused Team Banerjee of using imported lemon for curdling.
In the end, Mitali awarded the trophy to herself “for maintaining culinary dignity under pressure,” packed up the leftovers, and announced she would blog about it under the title The Paneer Wars of Kolkata.
As the crowd dispersed, Debu Babu muttered to Somnath, “Next week—Lassi Championships. At least that’s harder to ruin.”
Somnath just stared at Bappa, who was already holding a packet of jaljeera powder.
The Lassi Championships were supposed to be a calm, cooling affair—a sweet conclusion to the chaos of the Milk and Paneer Olympics. But calmness, as Benson Lane had learned, was not their strong suit.
Preparations began at sunrise. Plastic tubs of curd were lined up on Debu Mukherjee’s verandah, and the air was thick with the scent of cardamom and rosewater. Every household claimed to have “the authentic recipe,” which mostly meant adding more sugar than medically advisable.
The rules, set by Auntie Shukla, were simple:
- Lassi must be hand-whisked, “because machines destroy the soul.”
- Toppings could include pistachios, saffron, or malai—but “no foreign nonsense” like chocolate syrup.
- No bribing the judges with samosas (this was aimed directly at Somnath).
The event started peacefully enough. Team Ghosh Dairy presented a thick, creamy sweet lassi that made everyone sigh in satisfaction. Team Banerjee Dairy countered with a salty, frothy version served in chilled clay cups. Then came Little Bappa, who had been suspiciously quiet all morning.
His entry? “Super Power Lassi,” made with curd, sugar, jaljeera powder, and—God help us—half a packet of green chilli pickle.
The moment the first sip touched Mitali’s lips, she yelped and dropped the glass. Auntie Shukla’s sari pallu flew into action as she tried to save the tablecloth, knocking over two more lassi glasses in the process.
Cold lassi splashed everywhere—over the chairs, onto the ground, across Somnath’s kurta. Someone slipped, someone screamed, and within minutes, the championship had transformed into a full-scale lassi water fight. Children ran wild, uncles used steel plates as shields, and Bappa stood on the sidelines, chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!” like a cricket stadium crowd.
By the time peace returned, the lane was sticky, everyone smelled faintly of sour milk, and the only “winner” was the colony’s stray dog, who had licked up enough spillage to fall asleep in bliss.
As the sun set, Debu Babu sighed and said, “Next week—no food. Just a singing competition.”
Bappa’s grin widened. “Good idea. I’ve got a whistle.”
After three weeks of dairy-fueled chaos, Benson Lane was ready for a change. Or so they thought.
The Singing Competition was Auntie Shukla’s idea. “No food this time,” she declared. “Just pure culture.” She also appointed herself Chief Cultural Officer and designed hand-written invitations on the back of old electricity bills.
The rules were set:
- Any song in Hindi, Bengali, or English was allowed—except “Baby Shark,” banned after last year’s trauma.
- Contestants had exactly 90 seconds to perform.
- No live animals on stage (this was aimed at Somnath’s cousin, who once tried to bring a goat for background vocals).
The stage was a large blue tarpaulin tied between two guava trees. The “judges’ table” was an old charpai with three mismatched chairs.
Round One began with respectable performances—Rabindra Sangeet from Mrs. Sen, a Kishore Kumar medley from Debu Babu, and a surprisingly soulful “Pal Pal Dil Ke Paas” by the colony’s electrician.
Then came Little Bappa. Armed with a toy microphone, he announced, “I will perform the remix version of ‘Mere Sapno Ki Rani’… with sound effects.” Before anyone could stop him, he launched into a mix of singing, train whistle noises, and random cricket commentary. The audience was in stitches.
Things took a turn during Somnath’s performance. He had secretly hired a dhol player from the next neighborhood to “add power” to his song. The problem was, the dhol player only knew one rhythm—and it was the baraat beat. Within minutes, the competition had morphed into an impromptu wedding procession.
Children started dancing, aunties pulled out imaginary flower garlands, and someone brought a box of laddoos “just in case.” The electrician tried to plug in fairy lights, but managed to short-circuit the stage, plunging everything into darkness.
The winner? Nobody knows. The event ended with the entire lane dancing to “Disco Dancer” under the faint glow of a single emergency bulb.
As they dispersed, Auntie Shukla clapped her hands and said, “Next week—Drama Festival!”
Bappa looked delighted. “I call dibs on being the villain.”
The Drama Festival was supposed to be a celebration of “theatre arts.” Auntie Shukla had even typed the announcement on her ancient typewriter, adding so much red ink for emphasis that it looked like a murder note.
Each group in Benson Lane was given a week to prepare a 10-minute play. Costumes were “strictly homemade,” props were “recycled household items,” and the theme was Truth and Lies.
Group 1: Debu Mukherjee, Somnath, and two reluctant teenagers attempted a courtroom drama. Unfortunately, Somnath’s “judge’s wig” was made from an old mop, which kept shedding into his chai mid-dialogue. By the third scene, everyone was more concerned about the mop hairs than the plot.
Group 2: Auntie Shukla directed a melodrama titled The Betrayal of Rani Laxmi, starring herself in the lead role (naturally). The problem was, she fainted for dramatic effect in Act Two… and forgot to get up. The audience panicked, someone fetched glucose water, and the “rescue” scene turned out to be more entertaining than the actual script.
Group 3: Little Bappa staged a one-man show called The Thief Who Stole My Lunchbox. He played all 11 characters, changing “costumes” by wearing different caps. Midway through, he forgot which character he was, leading to a heated argument with himself that had the audience in tears—of laughter.
The evening’s highlight came in the final performance—a romantic tragedy staged by the local youth club. The hero was supposed to die nobly after delivering his final monologue. Instead, his phone rang loudly in his pocket, blaring the Kacha Badam ringtone. Half the cast broke character, the audience erupted, and the hero answered the call with, “Bhai, abhi stage pe hoon!” before dramatically “dying” again.
The judges (three senior aunties armed with clipboards) declared the whole festival a “draw” to avoid neighborhood feuds.
As people packed up, Debu Babu muttered, “Next week—Sports Day. Let’s see if they can ruin kabaddi.”
Bappa grinned. “Already bought my whistle.”
Sports Day in Benson Lane was meant to be a simple, sweat-filled break from all the theatrical chaos. But “simple” and “Benson Lane” had never been on speaking terms.
The original plan was straightforward: kabaddi, gilli-danda, and a sack race. But Auntie Shukla insisted on adding “creative games” to “include the less sporty types.” This is how the infamous Kabaddi-Musical Chairs Hybrid was born.
Here’s how it worked: two kabaddi teams circled a cluster of plastic chairs while the dhol played. When the music stopped, everyone—raiders and defenders alike—had to dive for a seat. Points were awarded for sitting down and tagging opponents without breaking the chairs. Nobody knew what the actual rules were, but the chaos was magnificent.
Round One lasted all of 12 seconds before Somnath tripped over a chair leg, taking two aunties down with him. Round Two saw Debu Mukherjee refusing to let go of his chair even when the music started again, claiming “strategic defense.”
Meanwhile, Little Bappa had taken the role of referee far too seriously. Armed with his infamous whistle, he kept stopping play mid-action to issue imaginary yellow cards for crimes like “suspicious breathing” and “excessive smiling.”
By the time the sack race began, people were already nursing bruises. Halfway through the race, the sacks ripped, turning the event into a chaotic dash with people hopping, limping, or just dragging the cloth like exhausted superheroes.
The final kabaddi match was the most dramatic. Somnath, trying to impress the crowd, attempted a flying tag and landed straight in the refreshment table, sending samosas and chutney flying into the air. Auntie Shukla’s pristine white sari caught the brunt of the green chutney splash, creating what she later called “a modern art masterpiece.”
The day ended without a clear winner. Everyone went home clutching “participation” certificates printed on the back of old political flyers.
As the sun dipped, Debu Babu announced, “Next week—Pet Show!”
Bappa’s eyes lit up. “Can I enter my neighbour’s goat without telling them?”
The Pet Show was billed as “a celebration of animal companions,” but in Benson Lane, it was just another excuse for competitive chaos.
By 10 a.m., the ground outside the community hall looked like a cross between a village fair and a zoo-on-tour. There were dogs in sweaters, cats in baskets, three suspiciously quiet rabbits, and, to everyone’s shock, Somnath’s cousin arriving with a turtle on a plate like it was a VIP guest.
But the real showstopper was Little Bappa, who had—true to his word—entered his neighbour’s goat without informing them. The goat, apparently named Shivani, wore a tinsel garland and had the unpredictable energy of a Bollywood extra desperate for screen time.
The categories were:
- Best Groomed Pet – Won instantly by Mrs. Sen’s Persian cat, who glared at the crowd like royalty forced to mingle with peasants.
- Most Obedient Pet – This went horribly wrong when a parrot shouted “Idiot!” right after Debu Mukherjee gave his command.
- Special Talent – Auntie Shukla’s Labrador fetched the newspaper, the turtle… continued being a turtle, and Shivani the goat decided her talent was eating the tablecloth mid-performance.
The real disaster began when someone’s Pomeranian barked at Shivani. The goat took it personally, yanked free from her leash, and began a slow but unstoppable chase. Dogs scattered, cats leapt onto laps, and the turtle was accidentally kicked under a chair (don’t worry—it was fine).
In the pandemonium, Bappa was seen running behind the goat, shouting, “Shivani! We can win this if you calm down!”—which did nothing to calm her.
Finally, Somnath’s cousin lured Shivani back with a packet of Marie biscuits, restoring peace. The judges, too exhausted to continue, declared every pet a winner. Certificates were hastily handed out, some even signed by the parrot (or at least pecked on).
As people left, Debu Babu, still holding the turtle like a sacred relic, said, “Next week—no animals, no food, no sports. Just a QUIZ.”
From the back, Bappa’s voice rang out: “Good. I’ve got trick questions.”
The Benson Lane Grand Quiz was marketed as “an intellectual evening of mental challenge.” Auntie Shukla promised “no chaos, no cheating, no goats.” Everyone knew that was a lie.
Debu Mukherjee appointed himself Quizmaster, wearing his old bank blazer for authority. The questions were supposed to be general knowledge, but somehow leaned heavily towards topics he was personally obsessed with—train timetables of 1984, obscure cricket matches, and the history of stamp duty in Bengal.
Teams formed quickly:
- Team Ghosh Dairy – loud, confident, terrible at listening.
- Team Banerjee Dairy – quiet, suspiciously holding an old encyclopedia.
- Team Bappa & Friends – which was just Bappa, his whistle, and a notebook labeled “Top Secret Quiz Hacks.”
Round One started smoothly enough. Then Bappa struck. For the question, “Which Mughal emperor built the Taj Mahal?”, he loudly whispered “Akbar” to Team Ghosh Dairy. They, of course, wrote it down. When the correct answer (Shah Jahan) was revealed, half the team accused Bappa of sabotage.
Round Two descended further when Somnath tried to Google an answer under the table. Unfortunately, his phone’s Bluetooth speaker was still on, and the whole hall heard, “Searching for ‘capital of Sri Lanka’ on Google’ in a robotic voice.
By the time they reached the picture round, things had gone off the rails. One blurry image of a politician sparked a 15-minute debate about whether it was actually the politician or the politician’s driver. In the music round, the audio clips wouldn’t play, so Debu Babu sang the tunes himself—off-key—which somehow made the game harder.
The final question was supposed to decide the winner, but the scorekeeping had collapsed after Round Two when the parrot (yes, the same one from the Pet Show) flew onto the scoreboard and erased half the numbers with its claws.
In the end, Auntie Shukla declared “Knowledge is the real prize” and handed everyone a boiled sweet.
As the crowd left, Debu Babu announced, “Next week—Benson Lane Awards Night!”
Bappa’s grin was immediate. “Perfect. I already made my acceptance speech.”
The Benson Lane Awards Night was supposed to be the crown jewel of the season—a glamorous evening to honour the best (and worst) moments of the past nine weeks. Auntie Shukla took full control, declaring herself “Chairperson of the Jury” and “Hostess of the Red Carpet.”
A red bedsheet was borrowed from Mrs. Sen’s terrace and spread across the lane to serve as the carpet. A grand stage was built from two dining tables pushed together, covered with a slightly suspicious-smelling bedsheet. Debu Mukherjee wore his wedding sherwani from 1982, which still fit “if you didn’t breathe too deeply.”
The categories included:
- Best Performance in a Competitive Setting (Paneer Olympics)
- Most Dramatic Entrance (tied between the goat, Shivani, and Somnath falling into the refreshment table)
- Lifetime Achievement in Chaos (everyone knew this was going to Bappa)
- Special Jury Award for Emotional Impact (given to the parrot for shouting “Idiot!” during the obedience round)
The ceremony began with a cultural performance: Mrs. Sen’s nephew reciting poetry while the parrot heckled from its cage. Mitali from Delhi returned as the celebrity guest, wearing oversized sunglasses despite it being 8 p.m.
When the goat’s name was announced for “Most Dramatic Entrance,” she trotted onto the stage like a true diva, knocking over one of the dining tables in the process. The audience roared with applause.
Bappa’s Lifetime Achievement in Chaos speech was everything people expected—half thank-yous, half plans for next year’s mischief. “I promise to make next season even more unforgettable… maybe with fireworks!” he declared, to which Auntie Shukla shouted, “NO FIREWORKS!” without much hope.
The night ended with everyone posing for “press photos” taken on Somnath’s old phone. Most of them were blurry, half had someone’s thumb in the frame, but they were perfect—just like the people of Benson Lane.
As the crowd dispersed, Debu Babu raised his glass of sweet lassi and said, “Same time next year?”
The cheer that went up could probably be heard in the next neighbourhood.
And thus ended Season One of the Misadventures of Benson Lane—until, of course, someone came up with a new, ridiculous idea.
