It was the evening before Mahalaya, and Mori Road was once again bedecked like a bride—resplendent with rows of shining lights and people rushing about, putting the finishing touches on the pandal that was getting ready to welcome the Goddess. The evening before is always busy, and as usual, I was delayed with chores. I eventually found myself at Chandu’s kirana store, asking for a long list of things—much to his disdain, as he hates being rushed.
“You’re always in a hurry,” he admonished while attending to a demanding customer.
Nearby, a boy of ten or twelve was negotiating hard with Chandu for a few pieces of chocolate.
“It’s my father’s birthday tomorrow—can you give me a discount?” he asked.
Chandu was not one to part with discounts, but I suppose the boy had been at it for a while, and finally, he gave in.
“I don’t have change,” Chandu said, as the boy handed him a fifty-rupee note.
The boy turned to me and asked, “Uncle, can you help with change?” I obliged and settled his bill with Chandu.
With that done, the little fellow grabbed his chocolates and scampered away. I finally had Chandu’s attention.
“So you do have a heart after all,” I teased.
“Let’s get your business done,” he replied curtly.
As I walked back home, the sound of drumbeats grew louder. My ten-year-old self resurfaced, pulling me to the balcony, from where I could see the Goddess arriving. That sight still makes me want to play the drums and dance with the crowd. Among them, I spotted my young friend from Chandu’s shop, dancing joyfully as the idol entered the pandal.
Dinner was served, and I was called back to the table. Just as we finished, the doorbell rang. To my surprise, it was the same boy from Chandu’s shop, standing with a bag full of laundry. Behind him stood a petite woman, presumably his mother, her saree drawn modestly over her head. She looked shy, eyes cast down, while the boy spoke.
“I’ve come to collect your laundry, sir.”
I looked at the boy and his mother, confused. It was true that my laundry man had not come for several days.
“I am his son, and this is my mother,” the boy explained. “My father has been unwell for some time. My mother and I are helping with his work.”
It struck me that, though his father had served me for years, I did not even know his name. Our relationship had been purely transactional: he collected my clothes, pressed them, took his money, and left. We had never exchanged a word.
“What is your father’s name? And yours?” I asked, guilt tugging at me.
“My father’s name is Topon, and I am Khokon,” he said.
Their names sounded distinctly Bengali. Curious, I asked, “Where are you from?”
The boy hesitated, but his mother spoke softly: “Sir, we are from a village in Bengal. My husband and I came to Mumbai after marriage in search of work. It has been fifteen years now.”
I was stunned. Never had I imagined Topon was from Bengal.
“We are Bengalis too,” I said.
“Yes, my husband had mentioned that,” she replied.
“What has happened to Topon?” I asked.
“He has had fever and weakness for many days. The doctors haven’t been able to diagnose anything. He taught my son and me the work, and now we are managing as best we can,” she said, her eyes lowered. Almost apologetically, she added, “If our work isn’t good enough, please bear with us. We will get better.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I have some clothes to be pressed for tomorrow. No rush, just deliver them anytime tomorrow. And don’t worry—Topon must have trained you well.”
“Can I have a glass of water?” Khokon asked.
I fetched one. He handed it first to his mother, and together they shared a few sips before thanking me. I returned with a few chocolates.
“Here, these are for you—and wish your father a very happy birthday,” I said.
The boy’s eyes lit up as he thanked me.
“Can I deliver the clothes early tomorrow morning? Around 7 a.m.? I have to drop my son to school before heading to my other jobs,” his mother asked.
“Of course, 7 a.m. is fine. And if it’s difficult, no problem—just bring me two pairs for tomorrow’s Mahalaya. The rest can wait,” I assured her.
With that, they tied up the clothes neatly. The boy helped load the bundle onto his mother’s head, and as she balanced it gracefully, they made their way down the stairs.
The next morning, sharp at 7, the doorbell rang. It was Khokon, holding my freshly pressed clothes.
“I’ve got all your clothes, sir. And these two pairs you wanted for today,” he said.
“Thank you so much.”
As I counted the money, I asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
He paused and then said, “I want to open my own dry-cleaning shop and have my own business. And, sir, Baba said not to take money for your Puja clothes. He thanked you for the chocolates. And since last night, his fever is gone!”
The boy’s happiness was infectious. But he was in a rush, so he darted off to school.
As is tradition every Mahalaya morning, we gathered to listen to the Chandi. I strolled onto the balcony with my cup of tea. As the chants floated through the air, I saw Khokon and his mother walking to school. She held his hand, dressed in a white saree with a red border. A light drizzle had begun, and she shielded his head with the edge of her saree.
“What are you staring at? Come and eat your breakfast,” my wife called.
“She is here,” I said instinctively.
My wife looked at me, puzzled.
“I mean, Pujo is here, darling,” I corrected.
The clothes were pressed to perfection. "The laundry man is not coming but your clothes are pressed to perfection. Dont tell me that happened by divine intervention !" she said. I smiled.
The magic of Mori Road continues… This time, it was Khokoner Maa.
Happy Pujo, folks. I hope this Pujo brings you loads of joy and happiness.
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