Darjeeling Tea and Debabrata: An Ode at Mud Café
The author narrates the experience of a delightful evening at Mud Café, where the soulful melodies of Debabrata Biswas filled the air. From sipping Darjeeling tea to enjoying Keema Ghugnee, discover how a quiet corner of Rashbehari Avenue became a hub of music and memories.
Let me share with you the events at Mud Café yesterday evening. I was meandering down Rashbehari Avenue, and why, you ask? Well, let’s just say I was out of work and bored stiff. As a wordsmith, I’m always on the hunt for story ideas, and believe me, I’ve found inspiration in the strangest of places. Once, I penned a tale inspired by a ladle from a street food vendor near Tollygunge Metro, and then there was this story which was inspired from a cat who thinks that she is a dog.
So, there I was, ambling along, when I fancied a cuppa. By the time I reached Triangular Park, my eyes landed on Mud Café, a modest little spot that you’d easily miss if you blinked. But stepping inside was like discovering a hidden gem. The place had a certain je ne sais quoi, and why not? This was the abode of a humdinger, a humdinger named Debabrata Biswas, an absolute corker of a singer.
As I entered, some words caught my attention. I heard, “….এই গানে একই সংগে কথা বলছেন রবীন্দ্রনাথ এবং উপনিষদ…..” and what followed was this song…
I realised a fascinating evening was about to follow, as the café was buzzing, alive with the sound of his songs, celebrating the maestro’s birth anniversary. His voice was so powerful it could bring a tear to a glass eye.
I found myself a snug corner, gripping a cup of Darjeeling second flush—liquid gold, if you ask me. The music drew me in like a moth to a flame. There was something almost magical in the air, thick with emotion, as the melodies enveloped me. I felt like I was floating, lost in the notes that filled the room.
The evening wasn’t just about the music, mind you. The snacks were absolutely top-drawer. I helped myself to some Keema Ghugnee, spiced just right—enough to make your taste buds do a little jig. And the fish rolls? Oh, they were the stuff of legend, the kind you’d write home about, assuming your home had a soft spot for crispy, flavour-packed wonders.
I sipped, I nibbled, and I let the music wash over me, feeling rather like the cat that got the cream. If this isn’t the definition of a perfect evening, I don’t know what is. But then my phone rang. I picked it up, and the voice on the other end said, “Isn’t today Debabrata Biswas’s birth anniversary? Aren’t you going to do a story on it?”
“I will,” I said, “and that story you’ll read tomorrow. You know, English just doesn’t capture the emotion, তাই ওটা বাংলায় লিখবো কেমন?”
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