It’s Not That Sweet After All
It was almost 6 pm. The air was cold and balmy, and it was beginning to get dark. Mr. Mullik, the short stout owner of the most famous mishti’r dokan (sweet shop) in the heart of Calcutta, dipped his finger in the wet sponge on his table before counting the last few rupee notes. He proceeded to put a yellow rubber band around the rather large bundle, some crumpled and bent, some perfectly flat, which he then put neatly in his cash drawer. The long, rather uneventful day was drawing to a close but the anticipation among the residents began rising with every passing minute that brought them closer to the store’s closing time.
These residents and their ancestors had made the store famous, yet they couldn’t let Mr. Mullik be aware of their life beyond their mere physical presence. Just then, as if on cue, he received a call from Mrs. Mullik, his lovely wife, and answered with “Hyan hyan ashchi! Ami ashchi! (Yes, yes, coming! I’m coming!)”, and hung up before she could get a word in. Quickening his pace, he proceeded to pick up his bag after stuffing the last few stray items on his desk and made his way to the shutters before switching off the lights. The jangling of the keys and the squeaky annoying sound of the shutter making its way down the store entrance sent a chill down the residents’ spines, but they held their breaths and waited.
In the darkness, the residents blinked. Their vision had returned, yet they stayed still till all proof of Mr. Mullick’s presence had disappeared. The Jol Bhora Sandesh, who had the best hearing ability, gave a small whistle to signal that the coast was now clear. There was a sudden surge in excitement amongst the residents as they all moved towards the center — the Mishti Dois rolled on their earthen bellies, the large Sandesh family made their way at a brisk pace and the elderly Nolen Gur dragged itself with some difficulty, leaving a sugar trail in its wake. The meeting had been called by Mr. Ras, the white, privileged and elite Rasgulla. Once he had been informed of everyone’s assembly, he walked in like the boss of the mishti’s that he was.
Taking his place at the top of the earthen handi (large cylindrical container) that was his home, he cleared his throat before speaking, “My dear Mishtis, a rumor has been heard and it is not a pleasant one, that will lead to a great deal of discomfort for all of us collectively. Today, someone overheard Mr. Mullik say that the store would soon be introducing a very famous abangali (non-Bengali) sweet, the Gulab Jamun. It is a nationwide favorite and could potentially displace our client’s preferences — even those who have been loyal to us all these years. We, each of us, together, make up the original idea of what Bengali sweets truly are. No bohiragoto (no outsider), no matter who it is, can infiltrate our community. No matter what happens tomorrow, I will protect you with all that I have. All I need is for you to trust me with all you have. I will sacrifice whatever it takes but in return, I will need you to trust me with your life”. He paused, before asking, “Do you have faith in me?”. A loud cheer erupted through the store. Everybody looked at their leader with glassy eyes filled with admiration. He was truly selfless to have devoted his life to their cause. Could they have been any luckier than to be led by someone like him?
She arrived with a flourish. Reminiscent of a bulletproof car, she arrived in dark blue plastic craters while the others arrived in clear plastic containers from the factory. It was a Thursday - stock replenishing day - and this difference made it very clear who Mr. Mullik’s new favorite was. He handled her with utmost love and care, such that none of the other sweets had ever seen before. While the rest looked on in awe and envy, it was Ras who was significantly irked. His ancestors were the reason why Mr. Mullik grew so popular in Calcutta, yet, with the arrival of Gulab, he was suddenly completely neglected. Sometimes in his desperation, he would sway around in his large container trying to spill some of the sugar solution over the brim. While he was largely unsuccessful in this activity, on the rare occasion that he succeeded, he would get an agitated stare from Mr. Mullik followed by a frustrated “ki hocche ki (what’s going on)” from him.
What made things worse for him was how Mr. Mullik behaved every time a customer walked in, “Arrey Maheshwari saab, aap hamesha toh Rasgulla lete hai, iss baar main aapko kuch naaya chakata hoon. Yeh specially Dilli se mangvaya hai maine. Ek baar isse try karke dekhiye, aap har baar yehi demand karenge fir (Maheshwari sir, you always buy the Rasgulla. This time I’ll get you to try something new, I have specially ordered it from Delhi. Once you try it, trust me, you will demand this every time)”, while presenting a beautifully scorched piece of Gulab Jamun, glistening in chashni (caramelized sugar syrup), on a special golden foiled plate.
One day, one of the regular customers of the store Mr. Banerjee, succumbing to Mr. Mullik’s new sales promotion strategy, bit into the Gulab Jamun with some skepticism, but within seconds his expression changed. His eyes lit up and there was a new sense of bright happiness on his face. He looked at Mr. Mullik, while savouring the melting Gulab Jamun in his mouth, and said “Mr. Mullik, you have made my day! This is by far the best mishti I have ever had! Please, please give me a dozen! I can’t wait to get my family to try this marvel”.
“And what about the other mishtis? The Rasgulla and the Sandesh? Ogulo o kota die di? (let me pack those as well)?”, an eager Mr. Mullik asked.
“Umm… hyan theek aache din, kintu roj ja den, tar ardhek deben (Yes, I guess. But just give me half the usual quantity)”, he paused before adding, “I’m only taking it because my wife asked for it”, leaving Ras fuming.
And so it continued, each passing day turning into an even more painful experience for Ras. What made it worse was Gulab’s personality. She was beautiful and she knew it. While Ras was pale and plain in texture, she had a gorgeous tan. Unlike his round unfit body, she had an oblong shape, perhaps attributed to the hours of effort in work out (molding) to maintain her shape. She was vivacious and cheerful, while he was stubborn and classy. Since he seemed to no longer have Mr. Mullik’s favor, Ras strove to ensure he retains the support of the other sweets. Calling her the outsider and the threat to their existence, the other sweets had believed him willingly, having been privy to the ‘injustice’ of Gulab’s popularity meted out to them. He would use his words and charismatic personality, to make them believe that they would soon be overthrown by Gulab and her other outsider friends and would cease to exist on the face of this earth.
Driven by this fear, they accepted his order for a boycott of Gulab with no sign of protest or hesitation or questioning.
Every time she tried to strike up a conversation with any of the other sweets, she was met with hostility. While she did not think of it much initially, it eventually began to affect her self-esteem and she decided to challenge Ras’s leadership. But it wasn’t easy, for she had no one by her side. She tried talking to Nolen Gur, the wisest of the lot. But he was reticent and difficult to approach. The younger mishtis, the Lobongo Latika and the Patishapta would stick their little legs out as she would try to make their way past them, often causing Gulab to fall flat on her face, much to their amusement. Once, when she did manage to hoodwink them and get to Nolun Gur with a great deal of difficulty, she heard him snoring, bang in the middle of his afternoon siesta. Disappointed, she reached out to Kheer Kodombo, her immediate neighbor. “I really admire you, Kheer”, she told him that day, “You’re smart, articulate and are perfectly capable on your own. I wonder why you have to be so subservient to Ras’ orders. We could have a fair election and decide who our true leader should be — democratically!”.This infuriated Kheer a bit, but, being the composed Bengali sweet that he was, he decided to explain the situation to Gulab, patiently.
“Look Gulab, Ras has devoted his entire life to further our cause — the cause of Bengali sweets. Every night he spends hours trying to improve our tastes and flavors, reading and experimenting. He took it upon himself to sweeten us and he is the one we go to when things don’t go our way. He is our uncontested leader. You can’t just walk in one day and demand a seat at the table. We know how this works; we’ve heard enough of this. Today, you will demand one seat, tomorrow, you will get all your non-Bengali friends and we will slowly be pushed out of our own table. We will not let this happen. Never!”.
One night, Gulab overheard a discussion between a bunch of the younger mishtis. She heard the high-pitched voice of Cham Cham exclaim, “Look at the unfairness of it all! Gulab gets twice the number of boxes that we do! She even gets replenished far more often than us”
“What?! What are you saying? My box is quarter the size of yours! Your facts are wrong!”, Gulab blurted out before she could stop herself. For damage control, she added, “Since I am new here, Mr. Mullik is still trying to estimate what my demand is, he is still in the pilot stage because of which he orders me in small quantities, therefore, the smaller boxes and twice as often because he doesn’t want to commit to a larger order without knowing the demand.”
“I don’t care about all of that! You’re still a bohiragoto (an outsider) and you want to take our jobs”, a flushed Cham Cham screamed, leaving Gulab confused and exasperated.
“Arrey baba that is not even what I’m saying!”, she cried. “Don’t you see, if we get more popular by introducing new mithais and the store does well, it’s good for all of us, right? It will make us improve upon ourselves and meritocracy will prevail. Why don’t you all see it that way?” Gulab tried to explain, only to see the others’ turned backs walking away from her whispering, “Ras is right”, “Her agendas are clear. She really doesn’t care about anyone but herself.”
Nonetheless, Gulab was not one to be easily defeated. She persisted propagating her pro-immigration, capitalistic stance to whoever cared to listen. In fact, she would speak about these things to even people who would not heed in the hope that some might be converted. While she did have some people express curiosity in her ideas, only a couple of them actually changed sides. She invited Ras to an evening of “Prime Time Mishti Debate” to discuss their vision for the residents of the store, but when Ras heard about it, he brushed it away; “Chaatar matha! (Nonsense!)”, he said, “my time is too important to waste on all these silly things”.
Yet, Gulab did not give up. She kept at it till he eventually came around, making it amply clear that he would only spend five minutes on this tomfoolery. “Gulab, let’s put an end to all this, shall we? Some of us have real jobs to do”, he sighed before continuing, “All I know is that you are an outsider. That’s all there is to it”. He paused. All the mishits looked expectantly at their leader willing him to continue.
“My dear Mishtis, it is out of sheer frustration that I am indulging her. As you all already know, I have a ton of work to do — the work I do for your benefit.” He waited for this to sink in. “Wise comrades, it is based on the experience and knowledge that I have gained from our cultured and educated ancestors, I say, a bohiragoto (an outsider) can never — I repeat — never, do justice to this role”, he emphasized, with a deep conviction in his voice. “It is a major responsibility — the life of Bangali mishtis is at stake — and a huge risk. She is not a part of us — she has no skin in the game. We are, after all, a community. She is trying to pollute our pure-blooded lineage. Can we ever entrust our faith in someone whose background we know nothing about?”, he paused. “It is, after all, a selfless job. She might just be a traitor, pretending to be concerned, like all outsiders are. To be honest, I am really disappointed that you were even considering her as your leader”, he concluded, sounding rather concerned, making the mishtis feel absolutely terrible for not putting their complete faith in their beloved leader and instead questioning his ability to discharge his duties. They all voiced their allegiance to him loudly, telling him how much they needed him to prevent going astray.
After a speech like that, Gulab realized that she had a very slim chance with the sweets. She kicked herself for making him even more adored and loved and for putting him on a higher pedestal than he already was. She had started sensing that she had lost her audience. Crumpling the little piece of paper that contained her pro-immigration speech in her shaky hands, she steadied herself. Her strategy had to change. She had made multiple attempts in the past to end this demagoguery, ignoring Ras’ remarks, using humor to counter them and trying to be empathetic in her approach to him, but none of this had worked.
With steely resolve, she steadied herself and climbed onto the makeshift platform comprising the stacked plates where Ras had only just finished delivering his speech. Drawing a deep breath, she looked directly at Ras and said in a controlled voice, “Ras, you are simply an entitled prick” before adding “You do not understand the pains of the masses.” Suddenly, for the very first time, she felt that everyone stopped to listen to her. It made her feel powerful. She basked in the gaze of the other mishtis before continuing, “What have you really done for the rest of us? You have only used your white privilege to perpetuate what your family has been doing for years.”
She paused before adding, “You are basically a tyrant! An attention-demanding, authoritarian jingoist!”
Enthused by the attention she was receiving, she went on, “All you have done is use emotions and fear to get everyone to follow you. You are rude and hostile. Even questioning you is a crime! You are not one of us. You don’t care about this community” She turned to look at the other mishtis, “Comrades, why is Ras your leader? He doesn’t even look like the rest of you. He doesn’t think like the rest of you. He only exploits you. Trust me friends, he will drop you faster than a hot potato as soon as we are no longer useful to him. This is all a façade. Think about it, whenever someone thinks about Bengali sweets, the first thing that comes to their mind is the Rasgulla. All these years all that he and his ancestors have done is colonize the mind-space of the naïve customers.” She paused to see her audience’s reaction. There were looking at her with their mouths open, in rapt attention, a sign for her to continue. It was as if their world had suddenly changed. “We — you and me collectively — are the Indian mishtis.”, she continued, “We all have the same history, the same blood! Our histories are intertwined together. He is the white man! God forbid, Ras may even have a hidden agenda — trying to establish British rule over us just like his predecessors did! What will we do then?” She paused again. This time there were noisy whispers around the room.
“What is she saying? “British rule!?”
“That is ridiculous”
“But she does have a point…”
“…Ras has never treated us as equals”
“It has always been about him..he has only always popularized himself”
“Shotti baba (its true), we’re always called the ‘other’ m”
“Yes, he has always tried to colonize the Bengali mishti landscape”
“Look at him — He is so white!!”
“Why didn’t we ever see this before?!”
“Orebaba British Rule!”
“What if??”
“Na na!”
Gulab cleared her throat loudly to draw back their attention towards her. “Therefore, I plead with you my dear friends, be wise. We need to save the existence of Indian mithais, our existence! And so, it is mighty imperative that we take power away from the real outsider — the white man. We shall no longer be victims of this tyranny! Together, we will put an end to this!” By the time she had finished, the mishtis began clapping excitedly and clamored around her. Their savior had arrived. What a pity they treated her so badly! If only they could go back in time and make amends. She was so nice. A far cry from Ras, who they only now realized was a white man out to keep them as his slaves. They were indeed lucky that realization had finally dawned upon them.
“Gulab”, Ras drew closer to her after all the commotion and excitement had died down and the residents had gone to bed. There was a sense of defeat in his voice. “You were right. Let’s do this democratically. Let’s have an election! We should let them choose who they want as their leader after proper campaigning and creating election manifes — ” Gulab’s shrill laugh cut him off mid-sentence. Ras looked utterly confused. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”, he asked. “What I wanted”, smiled Gulab, “was to be their leader. And now I have that. Initially, yes, I did think of going the democratic route. But I learned from none other than you and changed my ways. And see — I succeeded. I am willing to thank you for this but I’m not willing to give this up.” “But you don’t even care about them”, protested Ras. Gulab shrugged, “Perhaps I don’t, but I do care about being in this position of power, from which I have only just unseated you”, she winked. Much to her surprise, Ras’ lips curved into a smirk. “You little bitch! You accused me of using your identity to defame you.” He broke out in a maniacal laughter, “Could you really say it was your victory then? Or was it mine?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Saania is a fellow at Ashoka University’s Young India Fellowship Program. She has a degree in economics and a keen interest in impact investing and social sector consulting. In her spare time, she enjoys dancing, trekking and camping.
ABOUT THE STORY
This is a political satire that traces the events in a sweet shop in the heart of Calcutta, where the balance of power is disturbed with the coming of a new, non- Bengali sweet. It explores the themes of identity politics and contrasts the use of the two prominent forms of dialogue that take place in both political spheres as well as in our daily lives: Democratic rhetoric — where one engages with fact and evidence to drive a point using fair argumentation, debate and discussion — and demagogic argumentation — where the exploitation of identity politics, othering through creation of an in-group and out-group, victimization and playing on people’s fear is used to convince them.
This story aims to make the reader realize that sometimes, no matter how rational or democratic we try to be, it is very easy to slip into demagogic rhetoric because of how easily it persuades the audience. To that end, it seeks to make the reader realize that it becomes imperative that we be extra careful and pay close attention while reflecting on our own style of debate and argumentation and never settle into a sense of comfort and complacency for we may unintentionally be falling for the easier, but insidious, demagogic rhetoric. The use of a satire is adopted to increase the accessibility of the story and to further the user’s ability to engage with the events in the story without seeming to pontificate from a pedestal.
