Master Moshai

It was that time of the year yet again. It was the evening before Mahalaya. I had to run a few household chores and ran down to Chandu’s store to get my supplies for the next day. Chandu was busy and this time of the evening was his peak hour. I waited for my turn and was growing impatient by each passing minute when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Master Moshai. 

Through the years I had lost touch with him and hardly ever met him. I first met him when I was in eight grade and my parents thought it prudent to have me under his tutelage given, he had a great reputation as a teacher. I was marched off, somewhat against my own wishes to join his tutorial. The final approval came after an hour-long interview that my grandfather had with him to satisfy himself of his credentials. My grandfather christened him Master Moshai and I grew up knowing him as that. Otherwise, Mori Road knew him by a different name.

 

“How are you?” he asked in his booming voice. He still stood to his full height of six feet two inches, his moustache curled up at the ends to make him look like an army general and the kurta pajama he wore was impeccably ironed. Age had painted his face with some wrinkles, and he wore his trademark thick rimmed glasses, giving him that air of gravity that drove fear and respect in the hearts of his students. 

 

“I am fine sir, good to see you. Has been a long time. Do you remember me?” I said stepping back in reverence. “Yes, I remember all my students. The memory still works. Of course, many of them may have forgotten me. You look older than you are. Stay well” he said, with that he ordered his supplies, and I gave Chandu my list too. Chandu ran around and had two of our bags on the counter soon and ushered us out of his shop. 

 

I went back home and having handed over the bag to my wife, settled down with the TV remote. “What have you got? This bag has none of the items I asked for!” she exclaimed. I jumped out of my couch, only to find that it was true. “Chandu must have made a mistake. Let me check with him.” I said in defense. Before she could respond, I grabbed the bag and ran down to Chandu. “You are back again?” Chandu asked. I expressed my disappointment to Chandu and told him that his mistake had caused me a great deal of domestic stress. Chandu looked inside the bag and after a few moments burst out laughing “My dear fellow, you took the bag of the tuition master! And I am sure he has taken yours as well.” 

 

While Chandu found it amusing I did not. I decided to head to Master Moshai’s house and ask him if indeed he had taken my bag. At the very least, I could return the things that belonged to him. I rang the doorbell, and he opened the door. “Oh! What a surprise. You really came to visit me?” he asked. “Yes, but…I mean I think we had our shopping bags exchanged. I got yours and I guess you may have mine.” I said sheepishly. “Ah! That explains it. Wait here and I will go and check. I have not opened the bag as yet.” he said and disappeared inside.

 

The drawing room was quite the same as it was almost 40 years ago. I had spent many evenings here sitting at the dinner table pouring over my books. The old grandfather clock that I always stared at blankly when I could not solve a problem was still ticking away. The room was sparsely furnished as always, with the cane sofa set that had a old world charm, the rocking chair where Master Moshai used to sit often in deep contemplation, and the antique fan on the ceiling. The only modern amenities, a television and a refrigerator, also seemed to keep a watch over time and seemed decades old. One of the walls had shelves full of books of various kinds and on the other wall was a world map which he used often when teaching us geography. The only addition to this map I noticed was a set of pins placed at different parts of the world map - as if someone had visited them.

Master Moshai was back and he had my bag in his hand. “You are right, and age is getting to me. Here is your bag. But at least this bought you to my house after decades” he said. “Yes, I used to sit on this chair, and you at the head of the dining table” I said pointing to my chair. “I see the world map, with all the pins on them. Have you been traveling to these places?” He threw his head back and there was that booming laugh “In a sense yes. But through my books and research. Since I lost your aunt some years back, I started visiting them, one place every six months. These are places I always wanted to visit with her.” With that he led me to the shelf where he showed me the most rare collection of books and traveler guides that I had ever seen. “Once I have finished with a place, I mark it on my map. These books are my window to the world and it’s history. For a retired person, this is the best way to travel the world.” He proceeded to show me all the detailed notes he had made for every place on the map, filed away neatly in his cabinet. 

“I remember Auntie used to make us the most delectable Kheer around this time of the year. I have very fond memories of her” I said. “Yes, she loved the festival time.” For a fleeting moment a tinge of sadness crossed his stern countenance and then he said “Your aunt loved Bengal and Durga Puja. Come let’s visit Bengal today” 

I did not want to disappoint him. We sat down and he pulled out a few books from his shelf. I was in the same chair and he at the head of the table. It seemed we had traversed forty years back and I was in his history class. We went through the times of Job Charnock, Suraj-ud-Dualah, the battle of Plassey and the eventual establishment of British rule through the East India company, the origins of the Durga Puja and the establishment of the first community Durga Puja, and much more filled with the nuances and contradictions of history in between. He kept shooting questions at me, most of which I did not know but managed to answer some.

I had finished two cups of tea and it had been over an hour now. I had to head home and I got up to bid him good bye. “You must be traveling given you are in the software field. What is the place you would like to visit next ?” he asked. “Africa, I find it fascinating, never been there” I said, as I exited his door. 

I got back and my wife was curious as to where I had disappeared in search of my shopping bag. I triumphantly held the bag up and said “Got the right one”. She was not impressed given I had little explanation for the time it took. 

It was the morning of Mahalaya. We got up to hear the chants of Chandi ringing in the spirit of Pujo with the glow of dawn. As we sipped our morning tea, my doorbell rang. It was the boy who worked at Master Moshai’s place. He was carrying a tiffin-box full of kheer, a book about Africa and “Smiley”sticker. 

And a hand written note “Son, here is your window to Africa. And while the Kheer will never be as good as your aunt made it, I still follow her recipe. And the sticker - you forgot, I gave them to you and all my students who managed to save their pride. You did well last night !”  For all those years I knew Master Moshai, my image of him as a stern personality, a strict  disciplinarian, almost incapable of emotion melted away. 

My wife asked “What is all this?” I replied, “Our ticket to Africa dear” “Every Mahalaya something weird always happens with you. Come we have work to do. But the kheer is really good” she said as she tasted it. 

Pujo was here again and the magic of Mori Road continues to live on. This time it was Master Moshai. Happy Pujo folks !