Saugata Chakraborty

After a brief Amazonian adventure (blame the Great Indian Festival, not us!), Mostly Mundane is NOW AVAILABLE!

Grab your copy before it disappears again! (Just kidding…we hope!)

The scene opens in Saugata’s cramped study, the air thick with the scent of panic and stale coffee. Saugata, a nervous wreck, is pacing back and forth, his phone clutched in a death grip. Shantilal, the picture of nonchalance, is sprawled on the lone armchair, his feet propped on a teetering pile of manuscript pages.

“Shantilal, this is a disaster!” Saugata wails, his voice reaching an octave that would make a soprano jealous. “The book is out there, but it’s not out there! It’s like a literary Schrödinger’s cat!”

Shantilal yawns, unperturbed. “Yes, yes, I have seen the Hans India today. They have put it up on their Bookshelf. I thought good press on the day of release was what would make you happy.”

Saugata raises his head, his eyes bloodshot. “Shantilal, have you seen Amazon? The book’s not there! People are asking, and all that I can say is that’s the missing link!”

Shantilal chuckles, reaching for a half-eaten samosa on the desk. “Saugata, my friend, relax. A little chaos is good for the soul, and excellent for book sales.”

“Chaos? This is beyond chaos! It’s like we’ve launched a rocket without the fuel!” Saugata sputters, his voice reaching a fever pitch. “And it’s all thanks to that blasted Great Indian Festival on Amazon! They’ve delayed the release, and now we’re stuck in limbo!”

Shantilal leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Think of it as a treasure hunt, Saugata. The readers are the intrepid explorers, and your book is the elusive prize. Besides, a little delay might just build up the anticipation.”

“Explorers? They want to buy the book, not scale Mount Everest to find it!” Saugata explodes, stopping on his tracks. “And anticipation? More like frustration! We’re losing sales to that festival frenzy!”

“Patience, my friend,” Shantilal says calmly. “Remember, you only have made me write that the greatest successes are often born from the most chaotic beginnings. Even Amazon’s festival will end, and then ‘Mostly Mundane’ will have its moment in the sun.” He adds with a wink, “Besides, haven’t you always said you wanted your book to be ‘Mostly Mundane’, but its launch to be anything but?”

Saugata pauses, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You have a point there, Shantilal. But next time, can we aim for ‘Mostly Mundane’ in all aspects, including the launch?”

Shantilal chuckles. “Where’s the fun in that, Saugata? Now is the time to embrace the chaos. It’s where the magic happens. And who knows, this Amazon delay might just turn out to be the best marketing strategy we never planned.”

The audit gods continued their mischievous streak with Shantilal. Ink was barely dry on his Muchipara report when a new assignment landed on his desk. This time, fate deposited him in the sleepy town of Dinnaguri in North Bengal, a place famed for its royal palace, its lush green stretches, and a lingering suspicion that the laws of nature bent slightly within its borders.

Shantilal was no stranger to the quirks of small towns, but Dinnaguri was in a league of its own. The designated guest house was a former colonial bungalow, complete with faded portraits of stiff-necked Englishmen that seemed to follow his every move. The first night was an assault on the senses. A raucous frog concert erupted in the overgrown garden, a family of rats squabbled enthusiastically in the ceiling, and a ceiling fan with the ominous wobble of a helicopter about to crash kept him wide awake.

The morning offered little improvement. Dust whirls were a particular Dinnaguri spectacle, locals called them ‘djinns’ – playful spirits with a penchant for wreaking havoc. Shantilal was tasked with auditing the local college’s use of an obscure scholarship fund, and the rambling explanations of the principal had him chewing the end of his pencil into a nervous pulp.

Seeking respite, Shantilal escaped for a walk that afternoon. It was then fate, with its usual disregard for Shantilal’s sanity, intervened. A dust djinn, like a swirling dervish, was heading straight down the road, scattering papers and panicked chickens in its wake. And charging right into its path was a young woman. She was clad in a vibrant sari, her long braid flying out behind her. Plunging straight into the heart of the swirling dust, she vanished for a moment, only to reappear a few steps later clutching a sheaf of what looked like exam papers.

“Silly thing,” she said to herself, tucking the recovered paper into her bag.

Shantilal, utterly baffled yet oddly charmed, found his voice. “That… that was quite dangerous!”

She regarded him with calm amusement. “It wouldn’t be the first time I chased down a runaway exam thanks to these djinns. Children will be children, even when they are made of dust.”

“You… you teach?” He blinked, the image of her fearlessly battling a dust whirl seared into his brain.

“Higher Secondary. English and History.” Her eyes sparkled. “My name’s Anjali.”

Thus began the most peculiar interlude of Shantilal’s life. There were hurried walks between classes, shared cups of tea on a rickety tea-stall bench, and halting conversations that navigated Anjali’s gentle laughter, and Shantilal’s fumbling attempts to decipher the local dialect. He discovered that Anjali was as fierce in the classroom as she was when battling dust whirls, with a passion for literature and an iron will that seemed at odds with her petite frame. His audit became a backdrop to these rendezvous. In Anjali, he found a counterpoint to his ledgers and lists. She taught him to see the town beyond its dusty façade – its vibrant markets, the crumbling remnants of an old fort, the unexpected beauty of sunsets over the tea gardens.

All too soon, his assignment ended. It was time to pack up his ledgers, thermos, and mosquito coils. On his last day, Anjali walked with him to the run-down bus station. There were no grand declarations of affection, no promises etched in stone. Just two shy smiles and a touch of lingering warmth where their hands brushed as she helped him with his eternally battered briefcase.

As the bus rattled away, Shantilal stared out at the blurring green landscape and felt an emotion he hadn’t in years: hope. It was a fluttery, absurd thing, as delicate and unexpected as a butterfly in a ledger book.

Routine tried to reclaim him in Calcutta. But it found him distracted, his curries bland, his ledgers curiously less engaging. Then, one Tuesday, an envelope arrived from Dinnaguri. Its contents? A letter from Anjali, written in a flowing hand. She mentioned an opening for an Accountant, a desperately needed administrative position at the District Inspectorate of Schools. And a subtle hint – wouldn’t a man of his meticulous nature be an asset to their little town?

Shantilal, accountant and accidental romantic, smiled for the first time in weeks. It seemed Dinnaguri, with its djinns, its defiant schoolteacher, and its strangely enchanting chaos, wasn’t quite done with him yet.

(Note: Dinnaguri, like Malgudi can’t be find on the map. That doesn’t mean the rest of the story is imaginary. In ‘Mostly Mundane’, you shall find Shanti and Anjali, years later, in the maximum city of Mumbai. Their journey from Dinnaguri to Mumbai is yet to be chronicled.)

Is your daily grind feeling like a rerun of yesterday’s to-do list? Does the thought of folding laundry make you yearn for a meteor shower? Fear not, weary traveller of the ordinary! Mostly Mundane is here (well, not yet) to inject a shot of laughter into your life that’s stronger than your morning coffee.

This book doesn’t preach about productivity or finding your Zen. It reveals the hilarity hidden in the seemingly mundane aspects of daily life.

From an epic hunt for organic veggies to the existential dread of the never-ending parent-teacher meetings, Mostly Mundane transforms the ordinary into side-splitting adventures. Get ready to laugh out loud and emerge with a fresh perspective that will leave you chuckling at the world- and yourself- in a whole new way (as Tagore on the wall does here)!

[Note: Mostly Mundane is an eagerly awaited {no tall claims there, the author is waiting for it with fish eyes (that is without blinking)} book of 19 odd (without the hyphen, the oddity stands out) slice of life stories from the life of Shantilal and Anjali. The next post in the site would feature the story of their first meeting that got it all started.]

“I would like you to work on the cover of my new book. It’s a humorous account of the life of one Shantilal Biswas, who frequents those facets of life where neither shanti (peace) nor biswas (trust) resides. Shanti and Anjali live in a Mumbai suburb with their 12-year old son Monty (the Mischievous). Would you be interested in doing the work?”

From that first query to this first “rough sketch” for the cover sent over WhatsApp, the three-week journey had only one pit stop- prompt for the cover. It went like this:

“Cartoon illustration of Shantilal’s family in their suburban Mumbai flat. Monty is seen holding a frog in both his hands, ready to release it on Anjali’s head. She is seen wearing a saree with flowers in her hair bun, carrying a cup of tea to Shanti, who is poring over a bunch of papers with an oversized magnifying glass.”

After Jayanta Biswas quietly changed the overspilling Bournvita into aamchi Mumbai’s cutting chai, and we (me fueled by Anirban Choudhury’s eye for the detail) both agreed on the shadow speed of the text bubble/ ribbon and the glittering celestial objects on the cover, I remembered the requirement of that expensive piece of retail space for displaying the logo of the publisher.

Of course, Redgrab Books, like I suspect not many publishers would, have backed the madness that went beyond ‘Mostly Mundane’ and they fully and any other appropriate adverbially deserved the place in the quietest corner of this raging cover. That they did not leave the back cover to chance or to me

But then, like every good things in life, the cover story also began much before I requested Jayanta to play King Midas. The prompt for the cover came from my significantly better half, Sharmi. Still earlier, the inspiration to create a cover that stands out came from some of the best book covers that I have seen in recent times, designed by the brilliant team at The Book Bakers and the man at the helm of affairs there, India’s best known literary agent these days, Suhail Mathur. Now the world would know who led me to Prayagraj, the home of Redgrab Books.

Coming next: The Mostly Mundane Blurb

Malgudi, bathed in the laziness of a humid afternoon, thrummed with the cicadas’ incessant song. Venkatrao, draped in a threadbare dhoti that clung damply to his limbs, sat with his forehead creased against the rough grain of a wooden bench. In his right hand, he gingerly fingered a crumpled rupee note, its crispness an affront to the sun-bleached monotony of his life.

The money sat heavy, a lodestone attracting a swarm of justifications. It wasn’t a stolen windfall, no sir. Merely a misplaced offering, a stray feather from the temple goddess draped upon his humble doorstep by a careless crow. A celestial nudge, surely, not a temptation.

Venkatrao, a man of modest needs and even more modest means, had dreamt of this note’s possibilities. A fragrant cup of filter coffee at Supposedly Coffee House, the clink of its stainless steel tumbler a symphony against the mundane clatter of his existence. Perhaps even a single, plump samosa, its oily heart bursting with spiced potatoes – a forbidden luxury.

His wife, Saraswati, stirred within him like a reproachful ghee lamp. Her bony fingers, etched with the maps of their shared austerity, would count the wrinkles on the note with disapproval. Her tongue, sharp as a curry leaf, would dissect his flimsy justifications, leaving him stripped bare in the sun-drenched courtyard.

Yet, the note persisted, whispering of possibilities. Venkatrao could almost smell the coffee, its bitter aroma weaving through the dust. He could taste the crispness of the samosa, feel its greasy warmth slide down his throat. A shiver of longing danced down his spine, a rebellion against the monotonous thrum of the cicadas.

He reasoned with himself, the arguments tumbling forth like poorly stacked mangoes. It was a loan, he’d convince Saraswati. A temporary indulgence, to be repaid with the next meager pay from the mill. Besides, wasn’t happiness a right, even for a threadbare soul like him?

As the sun dipped towards the mango trees, casting long shadows across the dusty lanes, Venkatrao’s resolve began to fray. The note crumpled in his fist, a talisman against the gnawing guilt. He rose, his dhoti flapping like a moth’s wings, and took a tentative step towards Supposedly Coffee House.

But just as he crossed the threshold, a small hand slipped into his. His daughter, Lakshmi, eyes wide and hopeful, looked up at him. “Papa,” she chirped, “Can we buy jalebis today?”

The question, innocent and pure, shattered the mirage of his justifications. Venkatrao looked at the crumpled note, the samosa and the coffee dissolving into smoke before him. In his daughter’s eyes, he saw not just hunger, but trust, an anchor in the turbulent sea of his desires.

With a sigh, he crumpled the note further and tucked it back into his pocket. This loan, he knew, would have to wait. Happiness, he realised, wasn’t just a cup of coffee, but the shared sweetness of a jalebi with his little girl. And as they walked towards the jalebi vendor, the cicadas seemed to sing a different tune, one of contentment and simple joys, sweeter than any stolen sip of coffee.

Thus, Venkatrao returned home, the rupee note a reminder of his victory over temptation, a silent pact with the goddess and his own conscience. The samosa remained a dream, the coffee a distant aroma, but in his daughter’s smile, he tasted a sweetness that lingered long after the jalebis had vanished. And the cicadas, finally, seemed to sing in perfect harmony with the quiet contentment of his heart.

(The third in my series of pastiche is dedicated to none other than R.K. Narayan)

It all began, as these pickles invariably do, with a spot of bother with Aunt Agatha. You see, the annual Ganymede Club bake-off loomed upon the horizon, casting a shadow of trepidation upon the normally sun-dappled brow of my esteemed chum, Bingo Little. This year, Aunt Agatha, a woman with a pastry pan for a heart and a rolling pin for a soul, had devised a particularly fiendish pie. A Moroccan Apricot Surprise, she called it, positively brimming with saffron, cardamom, and enough chili peppers to send a battalion of Cossacks into a tango.

Now, Bingo, like myself, wouldn’t know a cardamom pod from a cricket bat, but when Aunt Agatha, eyes glinting like a magpie in a chutney jar, declared his entry vital to Ganymede Club glory, he was putty in her flour-dusted hands. And so, I found myself enlisted as his culinary co-pilot, navigating the treacherous shoals of this gastronomical Everest.

The baking commenced in a flurry of whisking and rolling, with Agatha barking orders like a Sergeant-Major on a sugar high. Eventually, the pie emerged from the oven, a golden behemoth wreathed in a fragrant cloud that made my eyebrows do the Charleston. “Voila!” declared Agatha, puffing out her chest like a pouter pigeon. “One bite of this, darling Bingo, and the Ganymede trophy is as good as ours!”

Bingo, bless his cotton socks, was never one to disappoint an expectant relative, especially one armed with a rolling pin. He sliced the pie with the reverence of a surgeon dissecting a priceless truffle, and popped a generous wedge into his eager gob.

For a moment, he chewed in contemplative silence. Then, his eyes bulged like poached gooseberries. A strangled gurgle escaped his lips, followed by a cough that would have cleared a fogbank off the Thames. His face contorted, turning the colour of a prize beetroot, and sweat beaded on his brow like diamonds on a duchess’s décolletage.

“Agatha, my good woman!” I cried, leaping up as he clutched his throat with the air of a man being strangled by a boa constrictor with a particularly spicy temper. “What, in the name of all that is holy, have you put in this monstrosity?”

“Why, just a dash of my secret chili paste, darling,” chirped Agatha, oblivious to the inferno raging within Bingo. “Gives it a bit of a kick, you know.”

Kick? This thing wasn’t kicking, it was doing the Highland Fling in a volcano! Bingo, meanwhile, was gurgling like a drain, his eyes watering like a tap left on in a monsoon. I rushed to his side, visions of St John’s Ambulance sirens flitting through my mind.

“Don’t panic, old bean!” I cried, desperately fanning him with a tea towel. “There must be something we can do!”

Just then, inspiration struck me like a custard pie to the kisser. “Milk, Bingo! Milk! Drown the fire!”

With the grace of a hippopotamus on roller skates, I dashed to the fridge and poured a gallon of the white stuff down Bingo’s protesting throat. It was like throwing petrol on a bonfire, but in reverse, I hoped. Miraculously, it worked. The flames in Bingo’s eyes subsided, replaced by a watery gleam of relief.

“By Jove, Bertie,” he gasped, wiping his brow with a trembling hand. “You saved me from a fate worse than Aunt Mildred’s fruitcake!”

The Moroccan Apricot Surprise, alas, never saw the light of the Ganymede bake-off. But that night, over a soothing cup of chamomile tea, Bingo and I vowed never to trust Agatha’s “secret ingredients” again. And as for me, I’ll stick to my tried-and-true jam sandwiches – at least I know what’s in those. After all, one can never be too careful when it comes to the culinary creations of our dear aunts. You never know what fiery surprises might be lurking beneath that golden crust.

(The above piece is the second pastiche I have ever tried, imitating the inimitable P. G. Wodehouse.)