A friend and I were sitting at a fancy restaurant yesterday. Over a tasty meal of juicy sizzlers we were not too happy when the table next to us was occupied by a group of rowdy boys. High with life, these boys were loudly exchanging profanities and obscenities that I have not heard in a long long time. To give them a little credit (just a little) they were talking in a language that they thought would not be understood in this city. How were they to know that I understand Bengali and that hostel life ensured that I also know the choicest of Bengali swear words? It was really not their fault. But imagine. Here we were, in an expensive restaurant hoping to get some good food and a quiet soothing ambience, as our age and mature soul demands. (OK OK! We’re not that old, but you get the drift?) Torn between amusement and irritation I wondered how to deal with the situation. This was certainly not how a quiet evening was supposed to be.
‘They’ say God has his ways, and ‘they’ are always right. We had given up on the boys and had surrendered to a disastrous evening. We ate our meal quietly, rolling our eyes once in a while. The guys continued to abuse and nudge each other as they stared at us. My mobile rang then, as we paid the bill and prepared to leave. I looked at the number and an evil smile lit up my face. A Calcutta number. A Bengali friend.
I needn’t have spoken that loud. My friend must have wondered why I was screaming like a banshee. I wonder if he noticed that I spoke only in Bengali (I tend to sprinkle words in English here and there). But it had the desired effect. Most of the guys turned pink. One of them put his forehead oh his hands and said ‘Oh Shit!’ Their mouths were gaping and their chins touching the floor. Ah retribution is sweet! My friend and I managed to keep a straight-face as we walked out of the restaurant but burst into helpless laughter outside. We laughed till our tummies hurt. It had been a sight worth seeing. The evening wasn’t a disaster after all.