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This is the last in the series of my surreal recollections from Narayanganj, and I
assure you, the most mysterious of them all. It involves one of the most fascinating
characters that I had met in my life, a cook to be precise, at least up until that time.

This was Narayanganj in the early fifties when half the population in the port town
was from the Hindu community. This is important to note as that period there were
many restaurants and cafes that were ran by the Hindu community, several of them
having Brahmin cooks. It was interesting also that Muslims patronized these eating
places perhaps more than Hindus since they were far superior in taste and quality.

Among the Hindu owned eating places there was a place called Adarsha Hindu Hotel
in Tanbazar, near our apartment house. For reasons that I have not never fathomed
all restaurants that served regular meals (such as lunch and dinner) were known in
then East Pakistan as ´Hotelsµ, although very few of these offered nightly
accommodations. That is why in Dhaka we had eating places such as Delhi Muslim
Hotel, Gulsitan Hotel, Salimabad Hotel, all of which were actually restaurants, but
none had guest accommodations for any length of time.

Adarsha Hindu Hotel was a favorite not only of the Hindu community but also a good
number of muslims who swooned over food prepared by its famous cook, Taraknath
Das. (Unlike Bengal where Das is a surname for lower caste Hindus, in Orissa Das
surname is used for a particular sect of Brahmins.) He was called Tarak Thakur so
that his last name did not create any confusion in the minds of the restaurant·s hindu
clients. Famous among Tarak Thakur·s culinary creations were his Ruhi Kalia, Ilish
Paturi, Fried Koi Fish, Muri Ghanta (Ruhi Fish Head cooked in Moong Daal), and a
delicious mixed vegetable that he called Devatar Bhog (Food of the Gods). Tarak
Thakur·s Muri Ghanta was so popular that the restaurant daily went through three to
four pots of the item, and yet there would be unmet demands in the evening. Although
the restaurant was owned by another Hindu businessman, the owner left the
operation of the restaurant to Tarak Thakur who ran the place almost like an owner.
He had several assistants who helped him in the kitchen and with serving of food.

Tarak Thakur lived in a small room adjacent to the restaurant alone. He had no
family. He was a spell binding character, both in appearance and his engaging
conversations. He was spry but tall, sharp eyes, with a shaven head and a pigtail
hanging behind. His forehead was always smeared with Chandan. He had stories to
tell his customers of his days in Calcutta restaurants where he learnt his lessons in
Bengali cooking, robberies he had encountered in restaurants, and near death
experience from these incidents.

Adarsha Hotel had two types of clients; those who came to eat at the restaurants, and
others who carried food away to their homes. In both groups there were the regulars
who either ate their two meals daily at the restaurant or carried these homes in their
own Tiffin-carriers. The regulars paid their bills monthly. There were no chairs or
tables in the restaurant. Customers who ate there squatted on rattan mats, and had
their food served on a stool in a big brass plate. The curries were placed in small cups
around the plate, with a heaping of steaming rice in the middle. The patrons washed
their hands from water taps in a small room before entering the restaurant, and after
eating. The non-regulars paid to the cashier before eating based on the food they
ordered. Customers who ordered take away usually waited in a bench in front of the
cashier. Some regular customers had their food carried to their homes under special
arrangement.

My delicious introduction to the culinary delights of Tarak Thakur and later addiction
to his creations was due to my uncle, who was single at that time. Uncle had just
come to Narayanganj to start a business of his own in jute after giving up his
government job. He was young and eager to make money in a new world (this was
about six years after partition of India). Since father wanted uncle to remain close to
him, uncle rented an apartment in the same building as ours. We were in the third
floor, and he was on the second.

Uncle had a servant named Zaman (Zaman Bhai to us children)who also part timed as
a cook. Uncle soon tired of his servants· cooking since Zaman bhai was at that time
was only a novice cook. Therefore, Uncle often relied upon restaurant food for
sustenance. He discovered Tarak Thakur on a lark. One evening while strolling in
Tanbazar area he saw a large crowd lining up before a restaurant. He did not know
the famous place as he was new in town. On enquiry he learnt that the crowd had
formed to get into the restaurant for dinner. Since uncle was looking for a place to
buy his food from, he joined the line. Until then he had no idea about Adarsha Hotel·s
cooking or Tarak Thakur. After eating there on evening uncle came to father
exclaiming eureka as though he had found salvation. He said he had never ever eaten
such delicious cooking.

Next day he ordered meals for all of us in the family. An assistant from Adarsha
Hindu Hotel arrived at noon with several containers. Even mother was impressed by
the sights of the curry. It was heavenly delight when we put those delights in our
mouth. Father agreed that the food was truly great. Right then and there uncle ran to
Tarak Thakur and enrolled himself as a regular customer. The arrangement was for
two meals a day with menu changing according to whatever was offered in the
restaurant that day. The food would be carried by one of Thakur·s minions twice a
day. Each meal would be for three persons, uncle, the servants, and a third person as
uncle always had a relative or friend visiting him. On days that the third person did
not show up, uncle would call me to give him company. Thus I would develop a
permanent memory of the dishes that the magician cook from Orissa would serve us.

One memorable aspect of this dining arrangement with Adrasha Hotel was that every
Sunday Uncle would have a sort of feast at lunch that was attended by all of us and
invited friends and cousins. I still recall that we would have this meal sitting on a
carpet and it would typically last an hour. Tarak Thakur would himself be present
dishing out the goodies from the pot that included fried fish, two or three dishes of
curry that would include Galda Chingri (large prawns), and of course his signature
dish ²Muri Ghanta. One of my father·s cousins, who was a frequent visitor from
Sylhet, loved this cooking so much that he would lick all his fingers at the end of the
meal, and fall asleep right on the carpet after eating.

However, as has been the case in my other experiences, this joyful journey to food
paradise came to an abrupt halt after two or three months. One afternoon a very
distraught uncle came to our apartment and reported to father that he had not been
receiving his daily supply of meals for two days in a row. He wanted to go to the place
and asked whether father would accompany him. In an excitement I begged both of
them to allow me to go with them. Uncle agreed, father also gave in.

When we arrived at the place³it was close to evening³we found the restaurant shut
down with lights out. There was a big lock on the main door. Usually at this time of
the day the place would be humming with customers with aroma of food filling the
lane. Uncle went behind the restaurant only to find the back door locked also. He
then went to the small cabin adjacent to the restaurant to see if Tarak Thakur was in
his lonely room. The cabin was also locked. Uncle wanted to peer inside from the
backyard, but father asked him not to enter private property.

The owner of the restaurant³one Narayan Chatterjee³had a warehouse nearby. But

the warehouse was closed as it was Sunday, and therefore, we could not ask anyone
why the place was closed.
We left the place rather forlorn. Uncle was lamenting the fact that he had given Tarak
Thakur an advance payment for one month, and there were at least seven days left in
that month. He perhaps might not receive any more meals. I do not know which
prospect made Uncle sadder, the one where he would no longer eat Tarak Thakur·s
cooking or the other where he would have to endure Zaman·s cooking adventures.

Next morning there was a big surprise for us. Around noon Zaman Bhai came up to
our floor all excited. He reported to mother that someone had left a tiffin carrier at the
door step. He had heard a knock on the door, and when he opened it he found the
tiffin carrier but no one standing at the door. He had brought the tiffin carrier to show
us, which mother opened. Lo and behold, the tffin carrier held all the stuff that Tarak
Thakur used to provide lunch time to uncle. Mother said there was no doubt that
Tarak Thakur had returned from wherever he had gone. She asked Zaman Bhai to go
and inform uncle at his office to tell him the good news. I was both thrilled and
relieved at the prospect of eating the delectable dishes of Tarak Thakur. All was well
with the world.

At dinner time I went down to uncle·s apartment in the hope of getting a share of the
food. The same routine followed in the evening. There was a knock on the door. This
time I also rushed to the door along with Zaman Bhai. Sure there was the tiffin
carrier, but there was no sign of a carrier. Zaman Bhai picked up the tiffin carrier.
Uncle and I ate later, with uncle wondering a little about the fast moving carrier of
food.

It was after another three days of these surreal occurrences of mysterious carrying of
food that uncle decided to go to the restaurant and ask Tarak Thakur why his carrier
was behaving in such strange fashion. Zaman Bhai and I accompanied him to the
restaurant. To our utter amazement we found the place locked out the same way as
we had seen a few days before. As uncle was pondering next steps, we found to our
relief that the warehouse of Narayan Chatterjee³the real owner of Adarsha Hotel was
open. We rushed there, and to our delight found the owner sitting there.
Uncle introduced himself to the owner and narrated his business with Adarsha Hotel.
He asked about the whereabouts of the cook. The owner gave a long sigh and said that
Tarak Thakur had been missing for last one week. He was last seen at Shitalakhya
bathing ghat in a morning week before. He always offered a puja every morning after
bathing in the river, and came straight to the restaurant. That morning he did not
come to work after bathing, nor did he go to his house in the back. In fact he had
been missing since that day. Nobody had seen him. Chatterjee had scoured the town
in search of him, but no one had seen either his hide or hair. Thakur had no relative
in town that he could go to. Chatterjee had to close down the restaurant as the place
was really run by Tarak Thakur.

Now this time it was our turn to be surprised. If Tarak Thakur had mysteriously
disappeared and the restaurant had been shut down since his disappearance, how do
you explain the food that uncle had been receiving last three days? Who cooked it,
and who delivered it? Uncle asked Chatterjee. Chatterjee in turn was equally puzzled.
Are we sure it was Tarak Thakur·s cooking, he asked? Uncle replied no one knew
better than him Thakur·s cooking. All of us were in great disbelief. It was real food
that we ate, but who cooked it? Above all, who was the delivery person? Was Tarak
Thakur operating from a secret location? But why?

After reaching home that evening uncle asked Zaman Bhai to wait near the door for
any knock, and to call him immediately after the knock. We all waited inside with
baited breath while Zaman Bhai stood guard. Indeed there was a knock at the strike
of eight, and Zaman Bhai rushed out without calling uncle. We also went out, but
Zaman Bhai had gotten out like a bolt. There was no tiffin carrier. What we saw,
however, was water running from the stairs as though someone had put out several
buckets of water from the upper floor. We could not explain the water as there was no
leaking ceiling unless someone from one of the floors above had accidentally dropped
water. We went inside and waited for Zaman Bhai who returned within a few minutes
gasping for breath. He said immediately after he had opened the door he saw a
heavily soaked person in white robe carrying a tiffin-carrier. The person was dripping
water all over. However, as soon as Zaman Bhai had seen him, the person almost
leapt out of the floor in a lightning speed. Zaman Bhai ran down the stairs only to find
no one around. Uncle was not pleased to hear this. In fact, he became somewhat
fearful thinking perhaps something supernatural was happening in our midst. He
asked me to go up to our flat, and advised Zaman Bhai to bolt the door after me.

Extreme curiosity got the better of me next day. I had no school that day, so next
morning I slipped down to uncle·s flat after he had left for work. I found Zaman Bhai
cooking as he knew that Tarak Thakur·s food delivery had probably stopped for good. I
told Zaman Bhai rather playfully that this time I would run after the mysterious
person if he dared knock the door again. Zaman Bhai laughed at my offer and said it
was highly improbable that the mysterious food deliverer would come again. He
jokingly added that it could be a ghost. But I insisted and he agreed to let me by his
side if the person again came.

A little before noon we both stood near the door hoping to hear a knock. This time
Zaman Bhai unbolted the door ahead of time so that it could be opened swiftly.
Minutes clicked by, but there was no sound. Zaman Bhai said he was right; the
mystery person would never come again. He was about to leave the door when the long
awaited knock was heard, and immediately Zaman Bhai flung open the door. What
followed next was surreal. The instant he opened the door, Zaman Bhai seemed to be
engulfed by a white shroud. From behind I saw only a face part flesh and part bone,
with no eyes. Zaman Bhai fell to the ground with a thud, and I was crushed under
him. A tiffin carrier flew from nowhere and crashed to the floor. I lost all
consciousness.

When I regained my senses I found myself in my own bed upstairs with parents
anxiously looking at me and uncle by my side. I heard from them that both Zaman
Bhai and I were found by uncle lying senseless on the floor when he came home.
Zaman Bhai had regained consciousness immediately after uncle had returned. But
they had to carry me upstairs and bring me back to consciousness running water over
my head. Uncle said Zaman Bhai had already told him the eerie experience, and that
he was thankful to God that we were alright. I would spend two days in bed trying to
recover.

Three days later uncle came back with the news that the mystery of Tarak Thakur·s
disappearance was resolved in a very tragic manner. Tarak Thakur was apparently
drowned in Shitalakhya while bathing. Although he bathed in the river, he did not
know swimming. He would take a dip in the shallow part of the river and offer puja.
That ominous morning there was a big storm, but Tarak Thakur had gone for his
ritual bathing nonetheless defying the weather. While bathing huge waves caused by
the storm lashed the shore, and he was carried away by one such wave. His body was
found a few days ago floating in the river.

The news of Tarak Thakur·s accidental death was tragic, but it did not explain the food
apparently prepared by his hands that appeared in uncle·s doors mysteriously even
after he had evidently died. And that was not once, but for several days. Was Tarak
Thakur trying to redeem the advance money he had taken in life from uncle? We
would never know.

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