The Fairy Tale Of The Bengali Tea Stall

There is no greater fairy tale in a Bengali라이브 바카라 life than a roadside tea stall. Sometimes I wonder if Rabindranath Tagore라이브 바카라 song ‘Kothao Amar Hariye Jawar Nei Mana’ (Nowhere is it forbidden for me to get lost) was actually written about a tiny tea stall. Those who know the secret of a tea stall understand that a tea stall is the fairy tale place described in that song. I, too, have entered fairy land many times, thanks to some humble tea stalls. In such tea stalls, I have met Byangama and Byangami (mythical talking birds from Bengali folklore) and also many a prince and princess.

A few years ago, I went to the Bodo Literature Festival with a renowned Bengali poet, Mridul Dashgupta, and a young poet, Palash Dey. The day after the festival, the organisers took us to a park surrounding a lake to treat Mridul-da with a divine local drink called Jouthang. We set off in a car, passing through forests. The surroundings were so enchanting that I felt Nandan Kanan and the Parijat flower must be nearby. Suddenly, I spotted a tiny tea stall. A black plastic sheet stretched over four poles, with just a single table holding a few tea-making essentials. A plump woman was making tea, assisted by an elderly man. The moment I saw them, I thought, They are Byangama and Byangami! They must know the path to Nandan Kanan. I desperately wanted to sit there for a while, sip a cup of tea, and ask them the way to Nandan Kanan. But we were in a hurry. I never found out which path led to the Parijat flower. It remains one of the greatest regrets of my life. Even today, I regret not speaking to them.

I did, however, manage to exchange a few words with a princess while attending a Sahitya Akademi event in Gangtok. My roommate Shrijato was stung on his finger as soon as we entered our hotel room. As he writhed in pain, I quickly fetched an ointment from poet Pinaki Thakur라이브 바카라 room. Once his pain subsided, I took him and Pinaki-da out for a walk. That라이브 바카라 when I saw the princess. She was at a small tea stall, making tea and selling momos. Her beauty was beyond comparison with anything earthly. To me, she was the Parijat flower of Nandan Kanan. I found myself returning to that tiny stall again and again during that three-day stay at Gangtok. Not all the visits were physical, some were in my dreams too! I never learnt her name. But then, a princess is a princess—if you lock her in the cage of a name, she loses her halo and becomes just another girl.

I, however, do know the name of the prince I have met. He, too, makes tea. His name is Moyna. Without revealing his gender, I once praised his tea to my colleagues. A senior colleague asked me, “What라이브 바카라 special about this lady라이브 바카라 tea?” I corrected her, “He is a gentleman, not a lady. His real name is Sheikh Moinuddin. But Moinuddin got shortened to Moyna.”

It was my senior poet-friend, Niyazul Hoque, who first took me to Moyna라이브 바카라 small tea stall near our university. I have never tasted tea like this anywhere else. Under his touch, tea transforms into nectar. He learnt the craft of making tea as a teenager from his father, Dukhu Miyan, and later refined it himself. The perfect blend of tradition and individual talent keeps his stall crowded all day. His tiny stall sells thousands of rupees’ worth of tea and toast daily. He refusesd to share the secret behind his heavenly tea though. “It라이브 바카라 a trade secret”, he said. “But the most important thing is having a good heart. Your heart must go with your tea.”

The fairy tale of the tea stall won’t be complete if I don’t mention the dimly-lit tea stalls of my village, Beliatore. Those were our gathering places once upon a time—Rajkalyan Chel, Subrata Chel, Pranab Chattopadhyay, Prabir Dutta, Nayan Roy, Pralay Mukhopadhyay, Pradip Haldar, Asit Das—poets of that region (many who whom are no more and some of who have even stopped writing) used to turn those tea stalls into coffee houses to have our regular addas. Later, three younger poets, Swarup, Ananda and Timir, who used to publish a little magazine called Wrong Number, joined us. How many grand plans we made in those gatherings! Half of them were never realised. But perhaps that was their true glory. Unfulfilled dreams keep their fairy tale-like mist intact. Once realised, they lose that magic.

All across West Bengal, countless such tea stalls still exist, where people sit, weaving dreams and fairy tales. Today, we can’t entirely avoid the sleek, well-decorated tea chains that have become a part of ‘post-modern’, ‘developed’ India. But I have always believed that true dreams take flight from a tiny tea stall that glows dimly like a lantern in the dark. Like a Pegasus, it carries us to the closed doors of fairyland, on which we knock again and again.

Angshuman Kar is Professor, Dept. of English & Culture Studies, Director, Centre for Australian Studies, University of Burdwan, & Former Secretary, Eastern Region, Sahitya Akademi

This article is a part of 바카라's March 21, 2025 issue 'The Pilgrim's Progress', which explores the unprecedented upsurge in religious tourism in India. It appeared in print as 'Knocking on Fairyland라이브 바카라 Door'.