The Fair-Ground Sweets

Since I arrived in Kishoreganj, among all the things I've eaten, the finest has been the jhal puri from the open-air stand in front of Guruddyal College. I've never tasted jhal puri of such quality. As for food standards, this one scores a perfect ten out of ten! More often than not, I skip dinner and treat myself to two or three plates of this ambrosia.

He sets up his stall after evening. There's something captivating in the way he speaks, in his manner, in his professionalism—a personality that shines through unmistakably. Simply seeing him fills me with a strange contentment; I find myself wanting to chat with him the way one does with someone close and familiar.

His self-respect runs deep as well. Sometimes he insists on taking five rupees less from me, reasoning that I'm a regular customer, and every so often he ought to treat me to tea with that difference. What a precious gift of affection—I accept it with a smile, hands outstretched. But the greatest thing is this: he doesn't know me as Sushant Pal, and there's a comfort in that nearness I cannot describe. The fawning devotion of admirers has always irritated me profoundly. It's only those who know how to blend in with effortless simplicity that I follow, step by step.

Ah, there on that open ground by the embankment of the Norsundar, near the circular plaza, standing straight in threadbare clothes with such richness hidden in his chest—who would believe that someone like him sells such first-class jhal puri? Long may he flourish!