Roshgolla[1] (Sweet Ball)

Main: Syed Mujtaba Ali

Translated by: Md. Saber -E- Montaha

A friend of mine frequently travels across Europe and America. He visits abroad so frequently
that seeing him anyone might get confused whether he is leaving or returning.

Jhanduda is a thorough businessman. He had just got down the ship at the port of Venice in Italy
that day. After answering all the questions in the customs house, he had finally written, “a tin of
vacuum-packed sweets. Price ten Taka[2].”

Jhanduda’s luggage used to have so many tags attached to them from all kinds of hotels that even
a dumb customs officer could easily understand that their owner does not bother for a permanent
abode- his days are spent from hotels to hotels. But the customs officer that day started checking
them thoroughly just as a little boy would read a book with difficulty in figuring out the
spellings. He also looked frightful with a very sickly lean figure and battered cheeks.

The officer asked, ‘what is in that tin?’

- ‘Sweets’

- ‘Open it’

- ‘How come? I will take it to London. If I open it now, they’ll all be ruined.’

The officer’s cold look seemed to be commanding Jhanduda to open the tin so fiercely that even
a king commanding with five hundred drums beating would have been no match to it.

With desperation, Jhanduda replied, ‘brother, this tin of sweets is meant for my friend’s daughter
in London. They’ll be ruined if I open it now.’

The officer’s look this time seemed to resound the beating of a thousand drums.

Jhanduda replied helplessly making small eyes, ‘then send it to London by post, I’ll have it
discharged from there.’

The officer, to our utter surprise, did not agree even to that proposal. We tried to convince that
inconsiderate brute that Jhanduda’s proposal was thoroughly justified and lawful as well. He,
nevertheless, remained unconvinced as if he did not understand any earthly language.

Jhanduda had started to be annoyed now. He murmured, ‘but you have to taste them yourself
whether they’re really sweets.’

That devil immediately produced a tin-cutter from beneath the counter. Taking the tin-cutter
Jhanduda again told the customs officer, ‘I am saying it again, you must taste those sweets.’
The officer returned a dry smile, the kind we usually put on when we have extremely withered
lips in winter.

Jhanduda cut the tin open.

What else will be there? There was roshgolla. Without bothering for forks, Jhanduda used his
bare hands to bring out roshgolla and at first distributed them to the Bengalis, then to all the
Indians and then to everyone, that is to say, to the French, the Germans, the Italians, and the
Spaniards.

The whole customs house was devouring roshgolla then; roshgolla was in the air. The police,
security staffs and orderly of the customs house, all had roshgolla in their hands.

We saw Jhanduda with a roshgolla in his hand, leaning towards the customs officer over the
counter, saying in Bengali, ‘Taste one’.

The officer had turned grave, slightly retreating to the back. But Jhanduda seemed to be
obstinate. He repeated, moving further towards him, ‘See, everyone is having them. Just taste
one, at least to see what it actually is.’

The officer turned back his shoulder. He is a stark fiend, did not even say a simple sorry.

Suddenly, without any clue, Jhanduda threw himself on the counter to hold the officer’s shirt
collar with his left hand and with the right one smashed a sweet on his nose. In a hoarse voice he
blurted out, ‘you won’t have one? Even your whole family will have. Is it a joke, you moron?
Told you all the sweets will be ruined, but you won’t listen to me!’

The customs house had become chaos by then. And why won’t it be? It is downright a serious
offense. People often go to jail for it.

We four or five were already trying to get Janduda off the counter. He was going louder and
louder, ‘won’t you eat, oh sweetie, won’t you eat, you blockhead’. The officer was calling the
police in a feeble voice. But where were they? All the police and security staffs of the customs
house seemed to have vanished! What sorcery, what magic was it!

Jhanduda had been brought down the counter in the meanwhile. Seeing the officer wipe his nose
with a handkerchief, Jhanduda shouted out, ‘don’t wipe, it will help you in the court’.

Someone advised Jhanduda to leave immediately, as police would come anytime. Jhanduda
replied carelessly, ‘I see a man calling someone. Let their chief come’.

The chief came within three minutes through the crowd. Jahnduda stood before him, saying,
‘Signor before you proceed, I mean, before you start investigating, please have a sweet’. He then
had one himself and distributed among all one more time. The chief, having one, stood
completely still closing his eyes for two and a half minutes. He then stretched his hand for one
more, keeping his eyes closed. Then one more time.

The tin had become completely empty already.

The customs officer presented his pledge.

The chief replied, ‘Thank god you opened the tin, how would we taste that heaven otherwise?’
Looking at us, he said, ‘what are you doing here? Go, get some more of those sweets. While
leaving the place stealthily, we heard the chief rebuking the customs officer, ‘You are an
absolute idiot. You opened the tin, but did not even taste one of those juicy delicacies?’

I sang along,

‘Oh, thy ball of sweet, why have you swallowed so much elixir
The whole of Italy kissed your feet, forgetting religion and empire’

[1] An Indian sweet consisting of a ball of paneer (curd cheese) cooked in syrup.

[2] Currency in Bengali