Globalizing Puffed Rice: Our Very Own Medinipuri Muri

[Our every day journey from Calcutta to Haldia and back, occasions so many interesting stories that a crazy writer would joyfully suffocate under the pressure of material that is available in abundance. At least that is what I feel. All you need to do is keep all your senses wide awake, and wind your brains in registering whatever is happening around you. A blue-print of a short story can be prepared everyday, without fail. The material that you gather only needs a little bit of structuring…that’s all.]

Three of my colleagues, Debnath, Krishanu and Sagar arrived at the Mecheda station at 9.50 am. They were just in time to catch the 10 o’clock bus that would drop them at the college gate at the desired time. Selection of the right kind of bus is of utmost importance; for there are quite a few buses which can extend your 1 hour 10 minutes journey blissfully beyond two hours or more, stopping now and then and pulling sleeping passengers out of their mosquito-nets to join you in the bus. So the threesome hurried past coolies and teeming thousands on the foot bridge to catch the ‘superfast’.

Sagar, the shortest and the most gullible of the three, ran ahead for he was iron-willed to take a window-side seat, while Debnath and Krishanu, as they always did, followed him in their typical ‘bindas’ way, joking and jeering. Sagar in his jet-plane speed bumped into people who welcomed him with the most unspeakable abuses much to the joy of the other two who always revelled in such things…they were like school boys newly educated in the birds and bees of life.

Finally, however, they succeeded in boarding the bus they had been targeting to catch. Due to a traffic jam on the highway, the buses were delayed. Debnath, Krishanu and Sagar thanked their luck; for the first time in life, a traffic jam seemed to have worked in their favour. More so, for Sagar; for he found a two-seater empty, which meant, his much sought-after window-side was waiting for him. He elbowed his way through the passengers to grab the seat, while Debnath and Krishanu were not left with better choices but to opt for the long back-seat that assured, if not anything else, a good amount of jerky rocking. They hardly knew that all wasn’t too well, after all. The right bus, seats, and on-time arrival in college are a bit too much to ask for when it came to travel up and down Haldia highway.

Sagar, too happy with his window-side, ventured into mimicking living room comfort by opening the “Ananda Bazar Patrika” and munching on ginger biscuits. He was, as it were, shaken back to reality, when a man with an intimidating gruff voice charged him, “Hey mister, that’s my seat. Leave it.” Sagar was flummoxed but he soon collected himself and retaliated, “What the hell, ah? What do you mean? What’s the proof that this is your seat?” The man was too smart to be put off; he retorted in a cool voice, “I had left the newspaper on this seat, which you are currently reading, as a proof that the seat belonged to me.” Sagar was at his wit’s end already. He was not intelligent enough to carry on arguments intelligently. Debnath and Krishanu, always on the look-out for fun, came to his rescue. Krishanu said, “Dada, how dare you accuse him of taking your newspaper? You are actually calling him a thief indirectly”. The man with a gruff voice was incorrigible: “What do you mean by ‘indirectly’? I am directly calling him a thief. Not only has he robbed me of my seat, he has also taken my newspaper without my permission.” Sagar was infuriated. He had bought the newspaper at Howrah station. He could not believe that such a low class man was suspecting his dignity. He fumbled and mumbled aloud his anger, not knowing exactly what to say: “Hey, you…how dare you? You are crossing your limits…I have bought this newspaper myself…no two ways about that…do you know who you are talking to? I am a lecturer of a college…how dare you talk to me like that?” Krishanu quietened him, taking the lead in the quarrel: “When I boarded the bus I saw a few puffed rice on the seat. Did you reserve your seat with puffed rice? If that is so, then I must say it was indeed a novel idea!” Debnath nodded his agreement adding, “Yes, yes…he is right! There wasn’t any newspaper, there were a few puffed rice scattered on the seat. But we did not know that those could indicate that the seat was already reserved.”

Before the man with the gruff voice could protest, an older man belched out his exasperation, “Naughty idiotic chaps! Calling Medinipur muri (puffed rice)? These guys from the city would come to Medinipur for work, and would insult the natives also? Just imagine how horribly ungrateful these guys are!” Both Krishanu and Debnath, known for their biting tongues, were rendered speechless. They could not really get a hang of what this man was trying to say. What was the connection, anyway? The quarrel revolving around the window-side and the newspaper suddenly took a completely different direction. The man with a gruff voice was also diverted. However, he soon joined the old man for he suddenly realized that he had got a supporter: “You are right, baba…these chaps from the city are a bit too smart.” It was not long before that Debnath verbally pounced on this old man, demanding an explanation: “Hey, what do you mean? What Medinipur and muri are you grumbling about? Did we tell you anything?” The old man was not to be put down: “Hello! Don’t pretend innocence, okay? You know very well what you said. Didn’t you try to make fun of us? I mean the people of Medinipur? You know very well that we love muri…don’t you?” Krishanu, who was the originator of the muri-dastaan, got the point, “O you mean to say we equated you Medinipuris with muri? O my God, believe me this metonymy was unintended!” Debnath was annoyed limitlessly, for he was himself born and brought up in Medinipur: “You know, I also belong to this place…what crooked people, I must say…This Medinipur-muri equation did not strike me once…and look at you, you old bones, so much narrow-mindedness!” The old man got one more point to lash out at Debnath: “Look at yourself. I am ashamed that being a Medinipuri you are not stopping your city-bred colleague from insulting us. Look, what the city has done to your sensibilities!” Debnath was dumbfounded; yet he was not the one to be defeated. He was about take the man to task, when a man from the back shouted out something that silenced everyone for a while before the whole bus was in splits: “ Dada (addressing the old man), why are you making a nuisance of yourself by making muri a regional food? Such regionalism is a punishable offence. Muri is an international snack and you are hell-bent on regionalizing it by confining it to Medinipur only? What a dire offence, dada! Such regionalism would not be tolerated in this global world.” He winked at Debnath, “What do you say?” Debnath was more than inspired to take off from there. But the whole bus burst into a choric laughter, sweeping away Debnath’s anger. He too joined in. The old man realizing his defeat, turned away, grumbling to himself. By that time, the bus had traversed quite a long distance down the highway. The man with a gruff voice had already forgotten what he had been quarrelling about, much to the relief of Sagar, who had been apprehending more humiliation. The man got down for his destination had come, leaving Sagar in his imagined living room comfort. Debnath and Krishanu busied themselves with the man who had plunged into their delightful rescue. It was not long before they would reach college and begin another day.