When we are faced with the onerous task of counting a large number of things we generally count in multiples such as ten or twelve to make the task a little easier. I knew a certain gentleman who was extremely fond of counting in multiples. This story is about him. I don’t wish to disclose his real name, so for the sake of the story, I’ll call him Khyát́andás.

Khyát́an is an indigenous Bengali word whose Sanskrit equivalent is bhuribhojana (glutton). It is said in the scriptures, Shráddhe ca bhuribhojanam, that is, a sumptuous feast must be given during a memorial ceremony. The bhuribhojana I’m referring to literally means eating so much that one can’t eat another morsel. Khyát́an is even more descriptive. Khyát́an means eating greedily with both hands. It also implies – and herein lies its uniqueness – the act of forgetting to wash ones hands after eating. Everyone likes to eat, and our Khyát́andás liked to eat more than most.

One day Khyát́andás was feeling dejected. He was the only person in his neighbourhood who had not been invited to the memorial ceremony of Etwari Sao’s father. Khyát́andás decided to go and see Etwari, a rice merchant, in his shop, and put one paisa in his pocket. “Please give me one paisa worth of myrobalan,” he requested Etwari. Those were the days when everything was very cheap. With one paisa you could buy twenty myrobalan seeds.

While Etwari Sao was counting the myrobalan seeds, Khyát́andás took out his sacred thread and muttered, “Today, I’ve cleaned my sacred thread with wood apple gum. Oh, how spotlessly clean it is.” He repeated this three or four times but as Etwari was busy counting the myrobalan seeds he didn’t hear a word Khyát́andás said. This disappointed Khyát́andás, but he didn’t lose hope. Showing the sacred thread was not the easiest way to extract an invitation. There were other ways he could try…

Etwari handed Khyát́an a paper bag full of twenty pieces of myrobalan. “Could you please give me one or two more free of charge?” asked Khyát́an. Etwari placed two extra myrobalan seeds in Khyát́an’s open palm. “Oh, I’ve changed my mind,” said Khyát́an as he returned the paper bag. “I don’t need to buy any myrobalan seeds after all. Please give me back my money. The two seeds you gave me free will be enough, thank you.”

“By the way,” he continued, “do you know why I need some myrobalan seeds? I’m surprised you didn’t ask.”

“I’m sorry,” replied Etwari, “please excuse me. What are you going to do with the myrobalan seeds?”

“Perhaps you know that in ayurvedic medicine myrobalan seeds are prescribed as purgatives. They’re completely harmless. That’s why the scriptures say,

Hariitakii manuśyáńáḿ máteva hitakárińii;
Kadácit kupyate mátá nodarasthá hariitakii.

“Myrobalan seeds are as beneficial as a mother. A mother sometimes gets angry with her child, but a myrobalan seed never gets angry with a patient.”

“So you see, Etwari,” Khyát́andás continued, “I need the myrobalan seeds to make a special decoction. There’s a memorial ceremony coming up soon – it’ll be quite a feast, I hear – and I’ll need the myrobalan purgative to enjoy it to my heart’s content.”

Etwari suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to invite Khyát́andás to his father’s memorial ceremony. He humbly folded his hands and said, “Today I’m giving a feast on the occasion of my father’s memorial ceremony. I’m terribly sorry, but I completely forgot to invite you. I owe you an apology. Please honour me by placing your holy feet in my house.” This was the invitation Khyát́andás was eagerly awaiting.

The feast was well under way. From time to time voices saying “give me some more of that please” or “may I serve you more, sir,” surfaced and rose above the general hustle and bustle of the feast. Suddenly there was an uproar. Khyát́andás had flown into a rage. Everyone crowded around him as he shouted, “Such impudence cannot be tolerated. How tragic that even in the twentieth century we are not worthy of the name ‘human being’. This young waiter – can’t be more than nineteen or twenty years old – has been serving luchi like a brute. He’s an ill-mannered fellow who has no idea whatsoever about common courtesy. He doesn’t even know how to speak to a gentleman.”

“What’s all the fuss about?” asked the crowd. The young waiter was terror stricken. He repeatedly wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel covered with vegetable stains. Unrelenting, Khyát́andás continued to scold him. “How dare you insult one of the guests by asking, ‘How many pieces of luchi would you like, sir?’ Is this the way to address a gentleman? Has anyone anywhere in the universe ever heard such a thing? Is there any precedent for this in history?”

The other guests tried to pacify him. “Please don’t get so angry,” they pleaded. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

“It’s an inexcusable offense.” he declared. “Such things cannot be tolerated, no, never.”

I realized that Khyát́andás was deliberately creating an atmosphere of suspense, and I was reminded of a certain Nirmal Ghosh of Ebonkatna, who excelled in the art of suspense. Nirmal Ghosh had two distinguished friends: Harikeshab Ganguli and Phani Mazumder. The former was a devout Vaeśńava, a charitable fellow who was always happy to feed others. Phani Mazumder was a good man, no doubt, and a devotee of the goddess Kali, but was so tight-fisted that even water wouldn’t pass through his fingers. Once Harikeshab Ganguli did a commendable job for which he received a cash reward from the government. Phani Mazumder received a similar amount, although he had got someone else to do the job for him. The moment Harikeshab Ganguli received his money he decided to organize a sumptuous feast.

One day Nirmal Ghosh was visited by his friends and relatives. “Nirmal,” they asked, “Harikeshab Ganguli is going to spend all his money on a feast. Why don’t you ask Phani Mazumder what he’s planning to do with his money.”

Nirmal Ghosh brought up the matter with Phani Mazumder. “I don’t have any right to touch that money,” said Phani Mazumder. “I’d love to invite everyone to a feast – there’s nothing I’d like more – but since I can’t even touch the money there’s nothing I can do except wipe the tears from my eyes with a handkerchief.”

“But you earnt the money without lifting a finger,” Nirmal Ghosh pointed out. “You’re reaping the benefits of someone else’s labour. Is it not ill-gotten money?”

“I agree,” said Phani Mazumder, “not once, but a hundred times. It is ill-gotten money. That’s why goddess Kali keeps reminding me, ‘Phani, don’t touch that ill-gotten money. Don’t bring it into your house.’”

“What!” exclaimed Nirmal Ghosh, “Yesterday I saw you putting the money into your wallet. Don’t tell me you didn’t take it home.”

“Yes, what you saw is correct,” said Phani Mazumder. “I did put the money in my wallet, but instead of going home I went straight to the post office. I put the money in my savings account and returned home empty handed. I didn’t take that ill-gotten money with me.”

A grand feast was arranged at Harikeshab Ganguli’s house. The host requested Nirmal Ghosh, “You are a connoisseur in many walks of life, Nirmal. Please eat with the first group and give us your opinion about the standard of the menu.”

When the first group had been served the last dish, Harikeshab Ganguli asked Nirmal, “Well, Nirmal, did you relish the food?”

“What can I say?” replied Nirmal Ghosh. “Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear. How could anyone do such a thing after inviting guests to his home?” “Nirmal, please don’t create any suspense,” said Harikeshab. “Tell me what’s wrong. If the vegetables are too salty I’ll have them boiled again with a whole betel leaf. If they’re too spicy I’ll have them cooked again with a few jackfruit leaves. If they were burnt on the bottom of the pan I’ll have them cooked again with crushed ginger. I beg you, Nirmal, tell me quickly what needs to be done.”

“What else can I say?” replied Nirmal. “Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear. Is this the way to treat your guests?”

Harikeshab Ganguli was about to burst into tears. “Nirmal, no more suspense, please,” he pleaded. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“Harikeshab, what can I say?” said Nirmal Ghosh. “Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear. Is this the way to treat your guests? You served enough food to feed a man for a week. How can I possibly eat all that in a single sitting. I only have a human stomach, you know.” Everyone heaved a sigh of relief.

Khyát́andás was trying to create the same type of suspense. After the young waiter recovered from the initial shock he folded his hands and asked Khyát́andás, “Sir, can you please tell me how I should address you?”

Khyát́andás was delighted. Satisfaction was written all over his face. “Listen young man,” he said. “I think you know that to count people [[saying ‘One person, two persons, three persons’ is very bad manners. Rather one should say, ‘One cow, two cows, three cows,’ and so on. Do you understand?”⁽¹⁾]]

“I understand,” replied the young boy. “Well, in exactly the same way,” continued Khyát́andás, “you should never ask a gentleman how many pieces of luchi he would like to eat. Rather, you should ask how many dozen pieces of luchi he would like.”

“Sir, how many dozen pieces of luchi would you like?” asked the waiter. “Five dozen in the first instalment,” replied Khyát́an, “I’ll let you know how many more I’d like in the next instalment after I’ve had a chance to study the menu.”

I didn’t notice how many dozen luchis Khyát́andás managed to eat during the feast, but I did see that after the feast was over he was having the greatest trouble standing up.

Khyát́andás’s abortive attempts to leave his chair reminded me of the famous writer Sarat Chandra Chatterjee. In those days many of the country’s leaders would wear the finest dhotis, made by the Raleigh Company, no less, whenever they were invited to a feast. However, whenever they attended a political or business meeting they made a point of wearing homespun clothes of simple style and cut, especially half-sleeve or punjabi shirts and kneelength dhotis. That attire was popularly called “meeting clothes”. Once I asked Sarat Chandra, “How come I’ve never seen you wearing meeting clothes?”

“Personally, I don’t mind wearing homespun clothes,” he replied, “but my domestic servants don’t like them at all. They say its easy to dip them in a bucket but extremely difficult to lift them out again as they absorb water like a sponge.”

Khyát́andás faced a similar dilemma. He had no difficulty sitting down at the table, but had to struggle against impossible odds to get up again. It was only with the help of his two sons, Katu and Citu, who lifted him up by the armpits, that he was able to stand on his own two feet again.

Katu and Citu were nicknames. Their actual names were Katraiṋjan and Citraiṋjan. Katu wanted to change his name to Kupakatranjan, which means one who falls down after being hit by an opponent, but Khyát́andás objected because kupa is a foreign word. He was reluctant to give his son a foreign name but had no objection whatsoever to consuming imported foreign food. He could never deprive himself of the pleasure of eating delicious food, whatever its origin.

“Dad, why do you always overeat?” asked Katu and Citu after lifting him to his feet. Khyát́andás replied dispassionately, “I eat whatever lands on my plate to my heart’s content. What I don’t get I can’t eat. Do you understand?” Khyát́andás then gave a short speech in honour of the glutton.

“Respected ladies and gentlemen, there was once a greedy man who ate so much that he was unable to move. ‘Take three or four drops of this homoeopathic medicine,’ advised his doctor. ‘It’ll help you digest everything.’ The greedy man retorted, ‘If I had enough space for a few drops of medicine, I would have already filled it with some more sweetmeats. Why should I use up valuable space with your horrible medicine?’

“I’m not like that fellow,” said Khyát́andás. “No, I follow the same principle as the Moghul emperor of Delhi who, like all Moghul rulers, was extremely fond of the richest Persian dishes from the royal kitchens. That appetizing food was so spicy and cooked with so much ghee that the emperor often suffered from constipation. Whenever his doctors came to administer medicine he said irritably, ‘If your medicine is palatable I’ll take it, otherwise I’ll slit your throats.’

“One day the emperor was suffering from such acute constipation that he was unable to perform his official duties. The courts for both commoners and aristocracy were closed down, and the ministers were instructed to send only the most urgent files to his bedroom. The emperor’s personal physicians were perplexed as no medicine for constipation is palatable. Then one of the physicians had a flash of inspiration. One of the emperor’s favourite dishes was mohanbhog,⁽²⁾ a delicious dessert made of wheat, ghee, sugar, milk, pistachio nuts, almonds, and raisins. The doctors cleverly mixed a laxative with the emperor’s mohanbhog. He ate it unknowingly and was cured of his disease. The physicians had been saved the discomfort of having their throats cut and were well rewarded into the bargain. This mohanbhog mixed with medicine was known as halva.

“Yes, I prefer to follow the example of the Moghul emperor,” said Khyát́andás. “Whenever I get some stomach trouble, I eat halva.”

A certain Mr. Chamru Sao, another rich merchant, was organizing a memorial ceremony for his deceased father. One day he happened to meet a famous Kashmiri pundit whom, it was rumoured, could find a place in heaven for even the worst sinner. Chamru Sao was quick to seize his opportunity. “Panditji,” he said, “my illustrious father violated the moral code of conduct once or twice to make a little more money – times were hard, you know. I was wondering if you have any places left in heaven where he can remain in eternal peace. It would be very unfortunate if he was denied entry to heaven. I’d be put in a very embarrassing position if he returned to earth and checked the business accounts.”

“That service costs fifty asrafis,”⁽³⁾ said the pandit.

“That seems to be a little excessive,” said Chamru Sao. “Won’t forty asrafis be enough, panditji?”

“With forty asrafis,” replied the pandit, “I can construct a palace for your father in heaven using a few mantras, but I can’t provide any servants. He’ll have to cook, wash the dishes, clean the beds and do all the other household chores himself. Won’t that be too difficult for a frail old man?”

“Well panditji,” continued Chamru Sao after a pause, “what will I get for thirty asrafis?”

“For thirty asrafis I can get your father into heaven but I can’t promise a palace,” relied the pundit.

“And if I only give you twenty asrafis?” asked Chamru Sao.

“Well, I’ll probably be able to get him through the gates, but he’ll have to travel to the centre of heaven by his own means.”

“And for ten asrafis?” persisted Chamru Sao. “Your father will have to wait outside the gates just like King Trishanku.”⁽⁴⁾

“Fifty rupees?” asked Chamru Sao.

“Fifty rupees!” exclaimed the pandit. “It’s hardly worth contemplating.”

Khyát́andás had overheard the entire conversation and felt duty-bound to free Chamru Sao from the evil influence of the pandit. “Chamru Sao you don’t need to pay for the services of a pandit while I’m here. I’ll get your father into heaven without asking for a single rupee. I’ll perform your father’s memorial ceremony and prove that it can be done. Be sure to invite the most distinguished guests, though.”

The memorial ceremony was well under way. Chamru Sao was in a jolly mood because his father was going to heaven and would never ask to see the business accounts again. “The auspicious moment has arrived,” declared Khyát́andás. “It’s time for your father to go to heaven. Let me see what the conditions are like in heaven at the present time… My goodness, the place is an arid desert, there’s not a tree in sight. Your father will die in the heat. Moreover there’s nothing to eat. I can’t see a single chocolate tree or cake tree. If he doesn’t die of heat-stroke, starvation will certainly finish him off. Chamru Sao, are your accounts ready for inspection?”

“Isn’t there any other option?” asked Chamru Sao nervously.

“There’s always another option,” said Khyát́andás optimistically. “It shouldn’t be difficult to find. Let me see… Ah, there’s a desert of chickpea sweets about twelve miles north of the place where your father is waiting. If your father crosses the desert – but it won’t be easy – he’ll reach a mountain range of milk sweets as high as the snow-capped Himalayas. If he manages to cross the treacherous mountain pass he’ll see a vast ocean of milk to the west and another monotonous desert of chickpea sweets to the east. There’s another snow-capped mountain range of milk-sweets beyond the desert and a cream lake beyond that. Would you like your father to travel east or west? It’s up to you. But remember, being so old and frail he won’t be able to walk that far. The only other way to travel around heaven is by chartered rocket. A single ticket costs fifty asrafis. I think it’s your only option.”

Chamru Sao could hardly refuse to pay for his father’s comfort in front of so many distinguished ladies and gentlemen. He handed over fifty asrafis to Khyát́andás. “Will your father be able to climb into and out of the rocket himself, or should we send a young man along to assist him?” asked Khyát́andás.

“Yes, we should definitely send along an assistant,” agreed Chamru Sao.

“So, we’ll need another fifty asrafis for his ticket,” said Khyát́andás. Chamru Sao gave him another fifty asrafis.

“Well, we can’t send a ghost to heaven, can we? We’ll have to send someone from earth who will have to return after his mission is over. That’ll be an extra fifty asrafis for his ticket.” Chamru Sao was obliged to hand over another fifty asrafis.

The next scene took place in Amodpur railway station. I was travelling to Daskallgram by narrow-guage railway. An upcountry sweet-seller was standing on the platform with almost one hundred kilos of bonde, a sweet made from chickpeas. Suddenly Khyát́andás appeared on the scene and asked for five kilos of bonde. The unfortunate sweet-seller asked Khyát́andás for payment. “Are you out of your mind,” said Khyát́an. “I’ve given you an excellent opportunity to make a donation at the crack of dawn, and you’re asking for money! Don’t you realize the virtue you’ll acquire is equivalent to hundred holy dips in the River Ganges. Only an idiot would ask me for money.”

The sweet-seller was dumbfounded. Then Khyát́andás approached the tea-boy and asked for a cup of tea. The tea-boy had witnessed the sad plight of the sweet-seller and was reluctant to give Khyát́andás any tea. So Khyát́andás returned to the sweet-seller. “Have you forgotten?” he said. “If you don’t give a sacerdotal fee after a donation you won’t attain all the virtue. It was very nice of you to donate five kilos of bonde to me, but unfortunately you didn’t give me any sacerdotal fee.” The sweet-seller was about to weep and asked, “Well, what should I do?”

“Give me just one paisa as a sacerdotal fee,” said Khyát́andás. The sweet seller threw down a one paisa coin. Khyát́andás eagerly picked it up, bought a cup of tea, and boarded the train. He travelled in the same compartment as I. He was going to Páchundi village.

The ticket collector came to the compartment a number of times but didn’t like to disturb Khyát́andás as he was eating his meal. Finally, near Kirnahar station, Khyát́an finished eating. The ticket collector summoned enough courage and asked him for his ticket. Khyát́andás was infuriated. “You dumb idiot,” he shouted, “don’t you have any common sense. When you noticed me finishing my meal you should have given me a rolled betel leaf. Instead you are demanding a ticket! How rude! Besides, I’m feeling quite miserable. Didn’t you hear about the recent demise of my wife?” The ticket collector was humiliated in front of everyone and quickly left the compartment, fuming within. Soon after the train reached Daskallgram and I got off. I don’t know what Khyát́andás did between Daskallgram and Páchundi. I did notice him speaking with another sweet-seller on the platform at Daskal station but due to the noise of the steam engine I couldn’t catch a word of the conversation.

Footnotes

(1) There is a belief that if people are counted, it will shorten their lives. Hence Khyát́andás makes the unintentionally comic suggestion that one should say “cows”. – Trans.

(2) It was called mohanbhog because Mohan, that is Krishna, loved to eat it. Bhog means religious food. In Punjabi it is called karháprasadá. –Trans.

(3) The asfrafi is a gold coin that was legal tender in India in the nineteenth century. –Trans.

(4) See “The Plight of King Trishanku”. –Trans.