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RasagollasSyed Mujtaba Ali

Translated by Miah Rashiduzzaman

ince 'chungighar' was never very. customary in Bangla language, there is no

reason to be hurt if most of the present dayBengalis have forgotten the term. It is called'customs house' in English, 'douanes' in French,'ZollamI' in German, 'gumruk' in Persian and soon and on. The reason why I cite the synonyms forthis wanton institution in so many languages liesin that nowadays my fellows Jack and John roundthe alley-all and everybody more than oftentravel to Cairo, Kandahar, Paris,

Venice-everywhere, to attend variousconferences on governmental, semi-governmentaland non-governmental expenses, let alone thetravels between Hindustan and Pakistan. If thatword is known and if that place is sought outhurriedly and reached earlier than others, thepossibility is greater to be relieved sooner. Donever try to evade it; better you might make aneffort to dismay Rahmat the Kabuli of his rightfulwages but never try to escape the 'gumruk' of hiscountry. I have not watched the 'Kabuliwala' film.

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Perhaps, Rahmat has not tried to avoid his'gumruk' in it.

Why? It'll be gradually unfolded.It is difficult to say who among the doctor, the

advocate, the slaughterer, the editor and (the editorwill say) the writer was first born. Whoever, Idon't cherish even a stint of doubt in my mind thathe is not older than the customs house. Certainly,trades between men began along with the creationand on the same moment a third person called out,'Hey, don't forget my tax, 6nn'

-'g7[6ever thisthird person might be: the headman of his village,leader of a bunch of fifty villages, even a king orhis official. Let him take the toll, I have noobjection since I haven't sold anything else thanold newspapers by far. But when the chungigharproceed to ask unreasonably for their unlawful tollwhere there is not the faintest question of ahalfpence profit, our minds hatch the prudentnotion: how to hoax them.

Well, let's suppose that you were making a tripto Dhaka. While packing, you found that only twoof your shirts somehow managed to preservethemselves escaping the bashing of thelaundryman. On your way to the station, youbought a new shirt. Now, you are done for. Assoon as you reached Darshana, the Pakistancustoms house would raise a hullabaloo asking forfees. They would rub fingers over your shirt, smellthe mantelpiece and in the end, clutch to theirbosom in the same manner as Dhritarashtraembraced Bheem.

The few of your ribs would have begun tosputter, yet with a barren look you would make apeeping plea, 'Oh, that one I've been taking withme for my own use; it shouldn't be taxable.'

Law also says the same thing.O for that law! The customs officer would say,

'Of course, but if you sell it at Dhaka, what then?'For reason's sake let us suppose that your great

grandfather had been a tarkabageesh andtherefore, you would idiotically begin to argue,'But at Dhaka, you could sell your old shirt too.'

There you've done the mistake. If only winningdebates would mean the ultimate win in thisworld, then Socrates would not have to takepoison or Jesus would not have to poise upon thecross.

The customs officer knows it very well that thefirst law of life is to keep silent. The bad habit ofarguing is not worth the money at all. The use ofintellectual power remains absolutely nil in it.

Looking blank at the farthest horizon beyond

the long airstrip, meditating over some unknownthing he would say, 'Yes, you may do that.'

Then he would tap some god-knows-whatMorse codes with pencil and paper and say,'Fifteen taka only.'

You yourself knew your mental state at thattime-what would I say about that? When youcame to grasp the matter wholeheartedly, youwould retort with the faintest voice, 'But thatshirt's worth only four.'

The customs officer would skim through ayellow sheet of paper. You signed it and didn'tmention the new shirt. This plainly meant to theofficer that you had been smuggling it; youwanted to black-market it. The fine for beingcaught red handed during illegal activities is tentaka. You could be jailed if there had been opiumor cocaine-you've escaped this time.

It would be useless to study that yellow sheet ofpaper, for the first question on it was,

1. What size were the scissors used to cut theumbilical cord during your birth? And the last one:

2. What's the date of your death?Then you would forget your passions for the

shirt and say with slight abjection, 'Okay, thenyou keep it.'

But that is quite impossible. You got a threemonths' jail for stealing a watch. Now if youreturned the watch, the judge would not certainlyspare you. So, no escape even if you wanted toretum the shirt.

Then the shirt would be auctioned. If you getone taka back you are tremendously lucky. But thefine would not, of course, change a bit.

Again, say, on your retum from Dhaka, theIndian customs officer somehow caught sight ofyour newly bought Pelican fountain pen. It'suseless to repeat the tale. You would think thatboth India and Pakistan are new in this businessand so needlessly harass the passengers. Perhapsin England and elsewhere, the customs house ismeant for mere entertainment. Then hear.

One of my friends roams to Europe or Americaevery now and then, so much so that one cannotsay, after meeting him somewhere, whether he isgoing abroad or coming back. Like that kutticoachman from Dhaka who asked a gentlemanwearing a v-cut t-shirt with its back on, 'Master,are you coming or going?'

One day he disembarked from ship at theVenice harbour. A seasoned businessman, Jhandureasonably answered all the questions on thementioned yellow paper and in the end wrote,

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'One tin of vacuum-packed Indian sweetmeat,price ten taka.' When Oscar Wilde travelled to theAmerican land, the customs house asked,'Anything to declare?' He tapped the cage of hisbrain several times and answered, .My genius.,Among my acquaintances, the only person wasthis Jhanduda who could not only tap his head, butnone would object if he tapped his heart also.

The ship was a mighty big one-those whohave observed the bulk of Jhanduda with theirown eyes would agree that it was not the job ofany shitty ship to keep him afloat-hence theregathered a crowd like Mohanbagan versusFilm-stars' Team match in the customs house.Jhanduda got tired waiting on tiptoe. By a chancehe remembered that Chianti of Italia is very softand savoury. A guard stood at the wooden corralof the customs house. He gave the guard athousand lira note and directed him to collectsome bottles of Chianti from the shop on the otherside of the street. Assuming that he had come incontact with a genuine blue-blood, the guardcollected the product proper in three minutes. Ihave already mentioned that Jhanduda was bornwith a bulky heart-he began to distribute Chiantiamong the known and unknown people of the shipalong with guards, porters, orderlies and every oneof the customs house with magnanimity. Beforethe health-toast began, Jhanduda was called at thecounter. His time to release his goods was ripe. Hestretched out his ample hands like a bird and saidto all invited people and gatecrashers, ,pleaseyourselves. I'll be right back.' It's a great sin tokeep Queen Chianti waiting.

Jhanduda usually had his baggage decoratedwith labels of so many hotels of higher and lowerstrata that even a very stupid customs officer couldfeel that the owner did not care for a homeboundlife-he spared his days in hotels. But this time,the officer began to check those labels minutely,as a nursery student who reads his book spellingout erroneously. This man had an uglyappearance. His was an awfully slender figurewith a sunken cheek with two bones spreading outlike yokes. The eyes from the depth of theiipitssuppressed the nose like a panchon. A tuft ofHitler's moustache grew like toothbrushundemeath the nose. I've mentioned earlier thatJhanduda is a seasoned businessman; so he doesnot judge man from his appearance. But this timehe too had to trample that rule. He doubtfullyglanced at the man from the comer of his eye andwhispered to my ears, 'They say, Shakeipeare

advised to handle a thin man with care., I believe,the name and fame Shakespeare enjoys todaybegan spreading from that very day becauslJhanduda, a self-reliant great of heart, has neverborrowed even halfpence from anybody. Since heaccepted his debt, Shakespeare's fame got going.

The customs officer inquired, ,What,s in thetin?'

: Indian sweets.: Open it up.: How's that possible? I'm to take it to London

with me. It'll be spoilt if I open it.The way the officer stared at Jhanduda and the

command that look bore to open the tin, noemperor could possibly have proclaim equallyeven with the beating of five hundred drums.

Jhanduda, being desperate, posed an agonisedlook and delivered, 'Bro, I'm taking it to Londonfor the daughter of a friend of mine-a mereminor. It'll all be damaged if I open it.,

As the officer looked at him this time, I heard athousand drums.

Huge man Jhanduda gave the look of an antand, in an anguished tone, pleaded, ,Alright then,mail it to London. There I'll release it.,

We joined in chorus, 'But that will cost dearly.Five pounds-at least.'

He released a quick sigh and said, .What elsecould be done?'

But surprisingly, the customs officer refused.We too were astonished, for everyone knowsabout this rule.

With a slight clatter of his teeth Jhandudaclarified the gist of the rule in easygoing language.This meant lion-bear, cocaine-heroine whateverthere might be inside the tin, since the whole thingwas travelling straight to London, his holy landItalia would not be stained anryay.

All of us tried to make the butcher understandthat Jhanduda's proposal was very justifiable andlawful too. Our party by then accumulated aformidably large size. The admirers of queenChianti never suffered in numbers in Italy-ifaffluence were granted then they wouldn,t in theworld too. A French advocate who travelled fromCairo and embarked the ship at port Said-evenhe delivered a lecture without fees. The officerseemed that he didn't comprehend any languageof the world.

Now Jhanduda became furious. He mumbled,'rllEtl, E(< :@ r fu

in English, 'But you have to taste it yourself andexamine whether it is really Indian sweets or not.'

The devil took no time to draw out the tin-cutterfrom under the counter and gave it to Jhanduda.Jhanduda held the cutter in his hand and onceagain warned the officer, 'I again say, youyourself have to taste the sweetmeats.'

The customs officer offered an arid smile. Thelikeness of it we do with cracks on our lips inwinter.

Jhanduda cut the tin open.What else could come out? It was rasagolla.

Jhanduda has distributed numberless rasagollaswith his own hands on the occasions likeweddings-son of a Brahmin that he is also.Caring not a jot for forks Jhanduda took therasagollas out of the tin and distributed themamong the Bengalis in the first place, then amongall types of Indians and then among all else, Imean, French, German, Italian, and Spaniards.

Since I've failed after lots of efforts to managemy mother tongue Bangla well enough, how couldI render the photograph of the choric hymnchanted in a dozen languages to rasagolla,Bengal's prize property of many ages?

Frenchmen said,' appatantl'Germans, 'kdstlichel'Italians, 'Bravol'

Spaniards,' delicioso, deliciosot'The Arabs, 'Ya salam, ya salam!'The whole customs house was swallowing

rasagollas then. Heaven and earth were filled withrasagollas. You can paint a picture of this onlywith the techniques of Cubism and Dadaism. Alland everybody at the customs house-police,guard, peon, spy-had rasagollas in their hands.They had Chianti at first and we had rasagollas.The scenario altered in a single moment.

A Christian Negro once sadly shared with me,'When the Christian missionaries came to our landthey had the Bible and we had landed property.Only after some days we got the Bible while theyhad the landed properly.'

We had 'Chianti'.At the other corner, Jhanduda was seen pressing

his tank hard on the counter, bending down at theofficer and telling him in Bangla, 'qa$[ 6r;6q 6q'r11(Have one please!)' He had a delicious rasagollain his hand.

The customs officer pushed his neck a littlebackwards and wore a grim look. Jhanduda wasnot to give up. He stressed a little forward andsaid, 'See, everybody is enjoying it. It's notcocaine, nor opium. Taste and learn what it islike.'

The officer withdrew his neck fartherbackwards. A very uncouth man; he didn't evenutter 'sorry' for a single time.

All of a sudden, without any caution, Jhandudaweighed his whole potbelly on the counter, withan unfailing dash clutched the officer's collar withhis left hand and slammed a rasagolla on the tip ofthe poor man's nose with his right. At the sametime he went on roaring in thick voice, 'Won't eat,fellow? Your full family will eat! Man, you makea joke of it? Thousand times I warned that therasagollas would be spoilt, yet you wouldn'tlisten!'-and continued to say many more likethis.

The whole customs house turned into a chaoticplace. The thin sound that came out of the officer'sthroat indicated that he had been beseechingeverybody from the peon to Il Duce Mussolini andall that come between-consul, legation minister,ambassador, plenipotentiary-with all his effortsengaged, for a rescue. Of course Mother Mury,Holy Jesus, and the Venerable Pope were alsoincluded.

And why shouldn't there be chaos? Such a deedwas in every way illegal. Creating hindrance in theduty of a Government official and then trying to

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feed him with either rasagolla or arsenicsuppressing him with your twenty-stone body, jailis the general destination of the doer. In ltaly, aman is hanged for even much less a crime.

A handful of us captured Jhanduda by the waistand attempted to drag him down from the counter.He was becoming louder and louder every time,'Won't eat? O dear heart, won't you eat?' Theofficer was calling for the police in tiny voice. Thevoice sounded as though I had been listening to atrunk-call from my golden motherland India. Butwhere was the police? The guards, gunmen,cudgel bearers, all types of servants along withtheir foremen of the customs house completelyand imperceptibly vanished. What witchery, whatan illusion!

I saw the French advocate with both hands risenskywards and eyes half closed saying in a sobbingvoice, 'O blessed land of Italy! O blessed city ofVenice! So blessed is this land that even theheathen rasagolla can perform a miracle here. TheMiracle of Milan cannot stand against it-the trulywatchful deity that it is, that it has swept everylaw-enforcer away from hence! O, ho, ho! It willbe named, Miracle de Rasagolla.'

An advocate that he is, he cannot say anythingstraight, without twist. The main theme of hispassionate outburst is that the Italian police andgunmen did not pay off adverse to rasagolla. So,they hid themselves.

We agreed unanimously. But some dry-witintervened, 'It's not rasagolla, it's Chianti.' Somebrutes around supported him.

In the mean time, Jhanduda had been draggeddown to this side of the counter after a lot ofefforts. He screamed at the sight of the customsofficer's attempt to rub the patch of rasagolla off,'Don't rub it; it'll be an evidence at thecourt-exhibit number one.'

On the other side of the scene, there began abetting concerning whether rasagolla or Chiantiwas responsible for the hiding out of the Italians.But who would decide? Therefore, there was norisk in this betting. Everybody got in it.

Somebody gave away a good advice toJhanduda, 'Police may come back; you ratherhasten off.'

He replied, 'No, the man is on phone there. Lettheir big guns come.'

In three minutes, the Big Boss got in throughthe crowd. Perhaps, bribe was the greatestargument to the French advocate; he wasadvancing towards the Big Boss carrying a bottle

of Chianti. 'No,' Jhanduda intervened.He then moved forward to the Big Boss and

said, 'Signor, before you proceed-that means,before the investigation gets going-please taste asweetmeat.' Saying this he took one anddistributed among all of us another round.

Perhaps, the Big Boss was knowledgeable andexperienced since he had already accepted manytypes of bribes; or perhaps, he had never takenbribes. When one can be 'il frtc-s o.mtcr{ :fi(Krishna's mother without conceiving)', and sinceIshwarcandra himself used this saying, it may bepossible to become an inspector of police withoutaccepting bribes.

The Big Boss kept his eyes shut for two and ahalf minutes taking just one into his mouth.Keeping his eyes in the same disposition hestressed forward his hand. Then again.

This time, Jhanduda said, 'A drop of Chianti,Sir?'

The answer resembled the grim sound of theclash of heavy clouds, 'No. Rasagollas, please.'

The tin was void of anything by the time.The customs officer placed his appeal.The boss answered, 'It's well done that you've

opened the tin. Otherwise, how could we have it?'Then turning to us he insisted, 'Why are youstanding idle here? Go and get more rasagollas.'While going out we heard him scolding theofficer, 'You too are quite a blockhead, I see. Youcut the tin open but didn't care to taste thisdelicious thing?'

The bet concerning either Chianti or rasagollawas at last resolved.

The renowned female poet of Italy, Filicajasang,

'Italia, Italia, O tu cui feo la sorte,Dono infelice di bellezza, ond' haiFunesta dote d'infiniti guaiChe infronte scritti per gran dogha porte'(Italia! O ltalia! Why hast thou borne the fatal

gift of beauty,Which became a funeral dower of perennial

woes inscribed on mien)I sang remembering her,O juicy orbs! Wy have you borne suclt

succulence within,The ltalian land losing its nature at your feet

gave in. EChungighar/ Ras agollas

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