Kallol Saha
27 अग॰ 2025
Utsav 2025
Prologue: Editor’s Statement of Doubt
The manuscript arrived wrapped in brown paper and municipal notices. We publish it in the public interest and in the private hope that someone will explain to us why the electricity portal requires the OTP of a buffalo. — Ed.
I. The Wall of Notices (A Domestic Catastrophe)
Dharani Dhar awoke to find his wall converted into a national archive.P roperty tax (pending), water tax (dripping), health insurance (ill), Aadhaar re-re-re-verification (“final, absolutely last, unless extended”), and a distinctive pink sheet:
SUMMONS: Attend the All-Party All-Faith All-Cause Rally. Absentees shall face serious consequences, including additional attendance.
He rubbed his eyes. The lizard on the ceiling, usually his most reliable think tank, remained silent, pretending to swallow a mosquito with exaggerated concentration. Receiving no counsel, Dharani Dhar addressed the wall itself:
“Tell me plainly—Is my birth certificate contesting from North Kolkata this year, or shall I stand as its covering candidate?”
The landlord entered without knocking, glanced at the pink sheet, and began counting the notices with the gravitas of a cashier at closing time. “Your rent is due.”
Dharani Dhar bowed slightly. “Sir, so is my identity. Kindly take whichever arrives first.” The landlord grunted, pocketed the summons as though it were negotiable currency, and left.
Dharani Dhar sat cross-legged under the archival wall, sighed deeply, and declared: “In a democracy, even my mosquito coil enjoys more visibility than I.”
At which point the lizard, clearly irritated by the comparison, fell flat on the health insurance renewal slip—signing it with its tail.
The Rally of Infinite Agendas
On College Street Dharani Dhar encountered three rallies attempting to occupy the same crossroad—an act of civic intimacy rarely witnessed even in textbooks.
Rally for Jobs (Slogan: Work is Worship).
Rally against Jobs (Slogan: Down with Monday).
Rally for Holidays After Jobs (Slogan: Compulsory Rest for Compulsory Work).
Each party bestowed a cap; Dharani Dhar wore all three, achieving ideological insulation from drizzle and reason. A television crew, scenting specimen, asked: “Sir, what do you stand for?”
“Shade,” he said. “From both sun and opinion.”
Pull-quote for layout: Umbrella-saving economics triumphs over manifesto. The All-Party All-Faith All-Cause Rally began precisely at 10 a.m.—which is to say, it began at noon. Dharani Dhar arrived early, at 10:07, and was therefore two hours late. His summons (the pink sheet now pinned to his kurta like a badge of dubious honour) entitled him to a front-row seat, shared with a goat. The goat, wearing a tricolour ribbon, chewed its own invitation.
The dais was crowded with microphones, each one belonging to a different ideology, all switched on at once. The sound resembled a train compartment in Sealdah when every passenger is speaking on speakerphone. The master of ceremonies announced:
“Comrades, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunties, cousins, creditors! Today we unite for all causes simultaneously. If you have no cause, kindly borrow one from the counter on your left.”
A queue immediately formed. Dharani Dhar watched as a man received “Save the Heritage Tramlines” while his neighbour collected “Ban the Heritage Tramlines.” Both posed for a joint selfie.
Soon the speeches began. One leader thundered about employment. Another about unemployment. A third clarified he had never been employed in his life and demanded compensation.
Dharani Dhar, in the spirit of civic duty, rose to speak. But before he could open his mouth, his own Aadhaar Re-Verification Notice walked up to the dais, wearing spectacles and a shawl.
“I represent Dharani Dhar,” it declared. “He has not submitted his fingerprints since last monsoon. I demand his voice be muted until biometric compliance is confirmed.”
The crowd cheered. The goat bleated. Dharani Dhar sat down meekly. By the end, the rally passed 27 resolutions, including: “Declare traffic jam as national heritage” and “Make tea vendors eligible for SPort quota seats”. At the e-Seva Kendra, a gentleman of infinite leisure demanded: “Produce Proof of Address, Proof of Age, Proof of Life, and Proof of Proof.”
Dharani Dhar offered his shadow on the linoleum. “Not accepted,” said the gentleman. “Shadow may be proxy.”
He produced his pulse.“Not in prescribed format.” Finally, Meher Ali from the tea stall gave a sworn statement: “This man owes me two teas and a singara each morning since Durga Puja of an unremembered year. Hence, he exists.”
Application approved subject to validation by a retired sub-inspector who was on leave. When Dharani Dhar returned home, he found the resolutions already pasted to his wall, underlining his property tax bill.
He sighed, patted the lizard, and whispered: “In this country, even my shadow needs a signature.”
The lizard saluted.
The Bureaucracy of Pickle Jars
The morning began with a knock. Not the polite tok-tok of a neighbour, but the official dhum-dhum reserved for notices, summons, and unpaid cable bills.
When Dharani Dhar opened the door, three government clerks marched in, carrying a trunk stamped “Ministry of Miscellaneous Affairs.”
“Inspection!” announced the leader, who had a moustache shaped like an affidavit.
“Inspection of what?” Dharani Dhar asked.
“Pickle jars,” replied the clerk. “According to Notification 17-B, all privately owned pickles must be declared, sampled, and, if necessary, quarantined.”
Dharani Dhar looked helplessly at the cupboard where Meera’s mango pickle sat in glass jars, each with a label: Summer 2022, Extra Mustard Oil, Handle with Reverence. The clerks took out forms. Each form had three copies. Each copy required four signatures. Each signature required one photograph of the signer with the pickle. For two hours, the room turned into a bureaucratic circus:
One clerk photographed the jars, but his phone memory was full.
Another asked for No Objection Certificate from the mango tree.
The third declared that the achar was “national property,” since the mustard oil had been purchased with subsidised ration. Finally, they sealed the jars in the trunk and handed Dharani Dhar a receipt:
Item: Pickles (mango, mixed, lime — assorted).
Status: Confiscated for National Interest.
Reason: Potential Threat to Social Harmony (spicy).
Dharani Dhar protested, “But what shall I eat with my khichuri?”
The moustached clerk replied gravely: “Citizen, sacrifices must be made for the country. In the next war, chutney will decide the victor.”
And with that, they left. That evening, neighbours gathered around Dharani Dhar’s door, whispering. One said the jars were already auctioned in Delhi to a five-star hotel. Another swore the Defence Ministry had classified them as ‘strategic condiment.’
Dharani Dhar sat staring at his now-empty cupboard. The lizard on the ceiling licked its lips and remarked:
“History will record you, not as Dharani Dhar, but as the First Man Whose Achar Was Nationalised.”
Dharani Dhar lit a mosquito coil in silence.
The Digital OTP of a Buffalo
Next morning, Dharani Dhar resolved to pay his electricity bill—an act of rare patriotism. He logged into the portal. The screen flashed:
“Enter OTP sent to your Registered Mobile Buffalo.”
Dharani Dhar rubbed his eyes. Surely, a typing mistake? But no. A blinking line confirmed:
“Your designated OTP receiver is:
Species: Bovine.
Location: Cattle Shed No. 14, Shyambazar.”
He ran to the electricity office. Behind the counter sat a babu, chewing muri with the solemnity of an oracle. “Sir,” Dharani Dhar panted, “my OTP has been sent to a buffalo.”
The babu adjusted his glasses and replied: “Correct. Under the new Animal-Digital Inclusion Scheme, every citizen’s account is linked with one government-notified livestock. Please fetch the buffalo for verification.”
“But I don’t own a buffalo!” cried Dharani Dhar. “Then,” said the babu with calm cruelty, “you must borrow one. The government is encouraging community sharing of resources.”
So Dharani Dhar set off to the Shyambazar cattle market, chasing after buffaloes like a man possessed. Sellers shook their heads. “Ei OTP-buffalo is premium item,” one whispered. “People rent them out. 500 rupees per OTP. Extra charge if the buffalo is in bad mood.”
Finally, a black buffalo with eyes like tired bureaucrats agreed (or so Dharani Dhar imagined) to help. Its owner tied a bell to its neck and handed him a phone. “Sir, the OTP will arrive as a moo. One short moo means 2, one long moo means 7, silence means zero. Please note carefully.”
Back at the electricity office, the buffalo mooed thrice, paused, mooed again, then sneezed. The clerk nodded gravely:
“Correct code entered. Bill paid successfully.”
Dharani Dhar staggered home, receipt in hand. At night, as he lay exhausted, the ceiling lizard chuckled:
“First your achar was nationalised, now your electricity is bovine-certified. Next week, your ration card may be linked to a goat.”
Dharani Dhar sighed. He had once dreamt of writing poetry. Now he was merely a footnote in the grand ledger of absurd governance.
The Department of Samosa Allocation
Dharani Dhar only wanted four samosas. A small hunger, a light craving, the type usually solved by a stroll to the tea-stall.
Instead, the campus app blinked: “Order Confirmed: 4000 samosas. Venue booked: Rabindra Auditorium. Chief Guest: Governor (tentative).”
By evening, posters appeared across Kolkata: “Mega Samosa Distribution Rally. Attendance Mandatory.”
Dharani Dhar sighed.“What begins with potatoes,” he muttered, “ends in politics.”
The auditorium filled with students, professors, auto drivers, and a delegation of pigeons. On stage, a banner declared: “Samosa is not snack, Samosa is identity.”
The Dean adjusted his shawl and announced, “Brothers and sisters, today we inaugurate the Department of Samosa Allocation (DoSA). From now on, samosas will be distributed according to merit, caste, income, zodiac sign, and blood group. Please collect your application forms at Counter-6.”
A student shouted: “Sir, can we get chutney also?”
The Dean grew grave. “Chutney requires clearance from the Ministry of Condiments. For now, you may apply for ketchup on compassionate grounds.”
The pigeons cooed angrily. One flapped a wing at Dharani Dhar as if demanding representation.
Meanwhile, Dharani Dhar sat weeping in the corner.
“All I wanted was four samosas…”
A pegion patted his shoulder. “History never records what we wanted, only what we triggered. You’ve started a revolution of snacks. The French had bread, Bengal has samosas.”
A man from the press approached Dharani Dhar.
“Sir, one question. Do you think this movement will topple the government?”
Dharani Dhar lit his beedi and replied, “No. But it will certainly raise the price of potatoes.”
Domestic Epilogue
Back home, Dharani Dhar found a new notice pinned to his door:
“Congratulations! Your monkey has been elected unopposed as Convenor for Future Uncertainties. Kindly vacate premises for national interest.”
He looked at the lizard for consolation. The lizard shrugged, as only lizards can. Dharani Dhar sighed, switched off the light, and whispered:
“In Bengal, even destiny comes with a pink summons slip.”
A student stopped him on the lane: “Uncle, duty-free chocolates?”
Dharani Dhar considered the moon, considered the budget, and said, “I can offer duty-bound advice: study occasionally.”
Appendix A: Frequently Unanswered Questions
How many caps may one wear at a time without ideological vertigo?
As many as required to cross a rally in the rain. — Practical Manual for Processions
Is the buffalo truly registered?
Yes, but under a different department; it receives SMS in Punjabi by mistake. — RTI No. 404, Lost Animal Registry
What is the penalty for non-attendance at the All-Cause Rally?
Attendance at a make-up rally of equal or greater confusion.
Corrigendum & Apology (Printed in Advance)
Any resemblance to existing portals is intended. Statistics are approximate, like bus timings. The editor denies, confirms, and doubts everything in that order, subject to verification.
Final Remark of the Compiler
If future historians ask what was the emblem of our times, show them not coins or flags, but the circular. It circles us daily, and we go round with it, happily dizzy, hands full of caps, pockets full of notices, hearts full of jokes.
— End of the Magazine Piece (with scope for further verification)
And with that, he went to sleep—waiting.
✨ THE END ✨