Dilly and Dally Mendes were born seven minutes apart in 1980, but their mother swore it felt like seven hours. The doctor said twins. Time said mischief. From the beginning, the boys were late. Late in crying, late in walking, late in talking. And when they finally spoke, their first words that anyone could remember were, “Wait… coming.”
Born to a family that swore by pork chops, plum cake, and English punctuality, the two boys had made lateness into an art form. They were perpetually delayed for school, for tuitions, for choir sessions, for Rugby practice at Maidan, and even for mass at Christmas.
It wasn’t entirely their fault. Their clocks seemed to run slower than everyone else’s. If the rest of Kolkata ran on Indian Standard Time, Dilly and Dally lived by Anglo-Indian Barracks Time, usually 6 hours behind the Greenwich Mean Time.
Their mother scolded them daily. Their father, busy carving pork and selling sausages at his stall in New Market, threatened to lock them in the meat freezer if they didn’t mend their ways. But nothing worked. They were late for everything, even for their own birthdays.
By January 1998, however, lateness had stopped being funny. They were in Class 12, their final year, preparing for the Indian School Certificate (ISC) exams in March. And this time, being late meant risking their future.
The brothers’ world revolved around Bow Barracks, that cluster of six red-brick buildings tucked behind Bowbazar Police Station, a forgotten remnant of World War I. Built by the British around 1914 as army barracks, the flats had been leased to Anglo-Indian families after the war. By the 1990s, the rents hadn’t crossed rupees thirty a month, and many refused to pay even that, out of principle.
Life in Bow Barracks was a tapestry of community: the sharp clash of hockey sticks on the narrow lane, the thump of Christmas carols spilling out of half-tuned guitars, the smell of vindaloo and cutlets, the red-and-green decorations that lingered till February.
Neighbours weren’t neighbours; they were cousins, aunts, uncles, godmothers, and part-time disciplinarians. If Dilly and Dally stumbled home late (which they always did), there would be no fewer than five women at the windows shaking heads in disapproval and at least two uncles ready to pull their ears.
The Anglo-Indian community had lived in Kolkata since the Raj – a people of mixed heritage, often caught between identities, but rich in culture: choirs, sports, railway jobs, teaching, and a stubborn sense of pride. By the 1990s, many had migrated abroad, but Bow Barracks held on like an island of nostalgia. And within this island, Dilly and Dally were notoriously famous, or you could say punctually infamous.
Every morning, the brothers trudged, late as usual, to St. Joseph’s College, Bowbazar. The school, founded in 1848 by the Congregation of Christian Brothers, had been a cradle for generations of Anglo-Indian and Goan boys, apart from its fair share of other races, including Chinese, Bengali, Parsee, Gujarati, and Marwari kids. Its motto, Viriliter Age – “Act Manfully” – hung ironically above Dilly and Dally’s perpetually tardy heads.
St. Joseph’s had grown from a free community school in a Goan man’s house in 1830 to one of Kolkata’s most respected ICSE/ ISC institutions. Its red facade, its chapel, its prayer halls, its choir – all stood as a reminder of discipline, devotion, and duty. The irony was not lost on Mr. Salman Arifuddin, their Class 12 teacher, who often muttered, “Act manfully? These two act lately.”
On 10 January 1998, the deadline to submit the ISC exam registration forms expired. All other students of Class 12 had already submitted theirs, neatly filled, fees paid, signatures intact. Dilly and Dally, obviously, had misplaced theirs.
Not just misplaced. They had used one form to scribble a grocery list for their father’s pork shop, and the other as scrap paper to calculate cricket scores. By the time they realised their blunder, three days had passed. When they turned up at school, late as usual, Mr. Kunnappallil, the senior office staff, nearly fainted.
“You two buffoons!” he cried. “Do you realise what you’ve done? Without that form, you can’t sit for the ISC exams in March!” The words fell on them like thunder. For once, Dilly and Dally were silent.
That evening, Bow Barracks shook with news of the disaster. From one balcony to another, from one red-brick window to the next, the gossip spread faster than the smell of pork vindaloo.
“Arrey, the boys missed the deadline!”
“Missed? They never caught it in the first place!”
“Oh, Saint Anthony, save their future!”
Old Mrs. Clarke declared it a “tragedy.” Uncle D’Souza swore it was “proof the community’s youth were going astray.” Auntie Sheila, while stirring her pudding, sighed, “Such nice boys, but always late. What will happen now?”
Their father, Mr. Mendes, was slicing pork chops in his meat stall at New Market when he heard the news. The Market itself was a world in miniature. Opened in 1874 as Sir Stuart Hogg Market, it was once a whites-only shopping arcade. British ladies in lace parasols had strolled under its Gothic arches, buying ham, tea, and perfume. After Independence in 1947, the market bloomed into a bustling bazaar of over 2,000 shops.
By the 1990s, the market had turned into a chaos of colours and smells: florists hawking roses, the Jewish Nahoum’s bakery selling plum cakes and marzipan, leather shops boasting handbags, butchers with exotic meats, Kashmiris with Pashmina shawls and silk kurtis, overpriced antique and curio shops catering to foreigners, and the famous Bandel cheese blocks, smoky and salty, still sold by vendors from the old Portuguese settlement.
At one corner of this kaleidoscope of sight, sound, and smell, stood Mr. Mendes, his stall fragrant with sausages and salted pork. But that day, he abandoned everything, running across Lindsay Street, dodging flower vendors and sari salesmen, racing to the school with the urgency of a man chasing his sons’ future.
And when the desperate father’s persuasion failed, the community stepped in. Bow Barracks turned into a war room. Letters were drafted to the Council for the Indian School Certificate Examinations. Mrs. Fernandez produced envelopes. Uncle D’Souza cycled to the post office to speed-post a plea. Father O’Brien from the local parish wrote a recommendation letter, reminding the Council of the boys’ otherwise “angelic” record (a stretch, but at times such as these, the Lord perhaps allows a bit of exaggeration).
At New Market, shopkeepers pooled their money to cover the late fee. There was also a rumour that Nahoum’s had sent along a box of brownies as a bribe – not official, but a little bit of sweetening never hurt. Even the fishmongers, between cutting hilsa and Bhetki, offered advice. It was the Anglo-Indian way: when one family stumbled, the whole Barracks held them up.
Weeks later, people said that the “Council had finally relented.” They said that the forms had been “accepted but with a hefty penalty.” They celebrated “the official letter had come. The roll numbers had been allotted, and the admit cards had arrived.” Neighbours cheered, guitars strummed, and whisky glasses clinked. Barracks rarely needed a reason to pour a drink.
Yet nobody asked too many questions. In Bow Barracks, faith and gossip were cousins. The exam came and went. The boys went to school every morning, uniforms pressed, smiles wide. Someone or the other said, “hopefully, this time, the buggers are not late.”
When the results were published in June, Bow Barracks celebrated. Aunties congratulated the boys. Uncles toasted to their “second division miracle.” Someone even said that they had “just missed first division by three marks.”
After the results, the boys somehow started showing less interest towards studies. Everybody knew that they had joined the Bachelor of Commerce course in the highly esteemed St. Xavier’s College in Kolkata. After all, being a Christian had certain benefits, especially in regards to getting admission to the prestigious college founded by the Jesuit Brothers. No one hardly saw them at the college, though. It was believed that the perpetually late Dilly and Daly could seldom enter the punctual and strict college that closed its gates for the Commerce students at exactly 6:00 AM. Latecomers, even by a minute, spent their college hours at tea stalls and fagstick shops outside its gates.
In a surprising turn of events, the brothers opened a pork-and-pastry café in the vicinity of New Market called Better Late Than Never. It became an instant hit. Students bunking classes came for bacon rolls, office clerks sneaked in for sausage buns, and tourists photographed the signboard. The meat obviously came from their father’s stall.
As time passed, their father died, and his meat stall was sold. The twins grew older, happily managing their cafe, being late for everything as usual. Bow Barracks itself had changed. Much of the Anglo-Indian community had scattered to Australia, Canada, the UK, or to quieter corners of Kolkata like Picnic Garden and Tangra, chasing jobs, futures, and stability. Yet, the red-brick walls of the Barracks still breathed with memory. Every Christmas, someone or the other visited from some corner of the world, joining the few remaining families, filling the narrow lanes with guitars, fairy lights, and the smell of rum cake. The balconies echoed with old carols, children played where their grandparents once did, and for a fleeting week, the Bow Barracks was alive again with the laughter, warmth, and stubborn nostalgia of a people who may have left, but never truly went away.
One winter morning in 2024, when the twins happily opened the shutters of their cafe, thirty minutes after the scheduled opening hour, an old gentleman came and sat in the shop asking for a cup of “Kaffee.” After a while, one of the brothers recognised the man “Excuse me, sir, are you Mr. Kunnappallil, Senior Office Staff at St. Joseph’s College?”
“Oh! That was some time ago, young man. I retired in early 2000, and who might you be” replied the oldtimer. “Well, sir, we are brothers Dilly and Dally, don’t you remember us?” came the answer. “You two buffoons. You guys forgot to fill out your forms and could not sit for your exams…”
The truth? No official letter had ever come, no roll numbers were allotted, and no admit cards had arrived. Dilly and Dally never appeared for their ISC exam. They never passed and never went to St Xavier’s to pursue a Bachelor of Commerce, though they visited the college canteen at times, like many youths and students of other colleges did during those days. The community’s efforts to save the brothers had quietly ended in failure. In the ruckus of the debacle that followed, and through unverified gossip and spiralling rumours, the true story of failure had transformed into a tale of triumph.
Recollecting the words of Auntie Sheila in her final toast for the Christmas Party at Bow barracks in 1999: “Exams come and go. But a good story – ah, that lives forever,” one would perhaps like to remember the tale of Dilly and Dally, also locally known as “The Great ISC Entrance Debacle” was not about two boys missing forms. It was about how communities in Kolkata in those days, not only the Anglo-Indians, but also the Chinese, Parsees, Armenians, and so many others, always came together to save the day when one of their own was in trouble. Something that we will perhaps never get back again.
Copyright © 2025 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA
This work of fiction, written by Trishikh Dasgupta is the author’s sole intellectual property. Some characters, incidents, places, and facts may be real while some fictitious. All rights are reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, send an email to the author at trishikh@gmail.com or get in touch with Trishikh on the CONTACT page of this website.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trishikh Dasgupta
Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
Thank you, Trishikh, for the latest story that is so extraordinary beautifully written that it takes my breath away! Your mastery at brining to life the place and the lives of the people in your tale is beyond words of admiration, as it is so vibrant and colorful, painting the pictures of the events that will stay in your reader’s minds forever. Talent such as yours, Trishikh, is God’s gift and should be cherished by us, your readers, and it certainly is!
Joanna
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Dear Joanna, as always I really look forward to your analysis of my stories. And you have loved my latest tale to the core – very evident from your beautifully crafted and heartfelt words of appreciation. I can never thank you enough for being an ardent reader, someone who is always encouraging me to keep on writing these little stories. I treasure every bit of our interaction.
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Dear Trishikh, the pleasure is all mine as I love reading your amazing stories so much!
Joanna
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Dear Ned, it’s always such a pleasure to see your appreciation for my stories. So thankful to you for sharing my story in your blog. Now so many more people would be able to read it.
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What a vivid and captivating piece of storytelling! 🌟 You’ve beautifully blended humor, nostalgia, and history into the lives of Dilly and Dally Mendes, making them unforgettable characters. Their lateness, painted with such wit and cultural depth, becomes more than just a quirk—it symbolizes the pulse of Bow Barracks and the Anglo-Indian community itself.
The way you wove in the backdrop of Kolkata—the red-brick barracks, the communal warmth, St. Joseph’s heritage, and the vibrant chaos of New Market—turns the narrative into a living, breathing canvas of time and place. Every description, from pork vindaloo aromas to gossip drifting across balconies, immerses the reader completely.
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Dear Verma’ji, first of all thank you for being the first one to comment on my story. The first thoughtful comment is always very special.
Then I must thank you again for so heartfully capturing the essence of my story in your comment.
As you know my aim is to always share a bit of history, geography, culture, and a moral message. Thankfully through this story I was able to bring out all these.
I always treasure your constant appreciation for my stories. Thank you so much.
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good story that surprised me at the end!
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Thank you so much for liking my latest story. I am so happy that you liked the surprise at the end. I always try to build a twist at the end. But am always not successful. Thankfully this time it worked.
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🙏
Aum Shanti de
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Thank you for liking my story.
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And yet another wonderful tale..
Thoroughly enjoyed it..
Thank you ❤️
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Thank you so much Fiona. Always treasure your appreciation and encouragement.
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Spectacular story line.
I can relate to the buffoonery of twins. I have twin brothers younger than I who irritate me to this day!😂
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Ha ha, that must be hilarious and annoying too at times. So glad that you could relate to the story. Not everyone can make others laugh. My best wishes to your twin brothers.
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Magnificent story, enjoyed reading. Looking forward to another amazing one.
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Thank you Anamika, always treasure your appreciation. Without your encouragement and support, I could not even have written a single of these stories.
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This is a fun romp through the lives of Dilly, Dally, and their village.
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Thank you so much for liking it. So glad that it brought a little joy in your life.
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Another feel good story. We all find our way, don’t we.
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That is so true “we all find our way” or “our way finds us.” Thank you for liking the story. Glad that reading it brought you a bit of joy.
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To be able to live in a society in which you are taken care by it, is, for me, more important than passing an exam! Thank you very much, Trishikh, for this beautiful story
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This is such a nice thing that you have said. Societies which take care of their members are very rare to find these days. Previously they were more common, nowadays they are hard to find. People have become more self centred and are concerned with themselves and their families, sometimes that also is missing. No one really cares about the neighbours kid these days. Though there are exceptions, I am sure.
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Absolutely!👏
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Haha, what a fun intro! 😂 Dilly and Dally sound like a recipe for endless mischief and unforgettable stories. Can’t wait to see where this goes!
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Oh, I am sure you would love the story. Thank you for liking the intro. Do finish the read.
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Thank you for your like.Because in my WordPress reader/user account, post titles always remain. safiadigitaltechandwellnes.com And the prompt topic is my blog post; if you click “read more,” it will redirect to my blog, and if you click my title, it will redirect to my website. Kindly read my entire post each time, as that will be a great help to me. If you also leave a comment, I would be even more grateful to you.
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It’s my pleasure to like your posts. I will certainly visit your blog again.
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Hi Trishikh, this post feels so unique!
I really connected with the light, playful storytelling—it almost felt like a whimsical little song in the background as I read.
Loved it.
Cheers!
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Dear Hannah, nothing makes my day better than when someone enjoys one of my stories. So glad that you could feel like you were there in the story.
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As a former professor, I can recall I never had much patience for lateness like this and rarely gave such students a break like these two experienced in this story.
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Oh, I too am a sticker for time. I have always believed that if I am not 10 minutes early then I am late. Punctuality is everything for me. Characters like these two, however are very common all around. Old school teachers, strict professors, and vigilant elders made us real men. Those kinds of people are hard to find these days, but I am sure some of them are still around.
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Astrological noir
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Thank you. Always a pleasure to have your appreciation.
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You are the storyteller who responds and articulates the rhythm of life; an ardent observer, attuned to your surroundings, holding up and preserving the art form of storytelling in times when we witness its cessation.
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Your words bring tears of joy to my eyes. Yes, the art of storytelling has really changed, not many read as they used to do in the past. Today children are more glued to their mobiles and tabs devouring short videos and fast content. I always believe that whatever we enjoy should have soul in it. Thank you for being someone who really appreciates the art of old school short stories – something that preserves the sights, sounds, and smell of our times for the future generations in a way that hardly any other medium can do.
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My college friends who were from India were always fun and clever 😉 I enjoyed the read!
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So happy that you liked the story and it made you remember your college days and Indian friends. Always a pleasure to share a story with you.
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Your story reminds me of those fairy tales with a moral bend, which I read in my childhood.
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I am so honoured. Thank you so much.
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Lovely heartwarming story Trishikh! Love how you brought out the sounds, smells, and flavor of a very familiar place. Bravo.
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Thank you so much Dahlia. So glad that you liked my story and could especially relate to it. Yes, for someone who knows these places, it is a real treat to read the story. The person can relate even more.
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Such an enchanting story, Trishikh… thank you for stopping by.
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My pleasure Iris. So glad that you liked the story.
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Have a great weekend.
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Thank you Iris, a great weekend to you too.
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Such an enchanting story, Trishikh… thank you for stopping by.
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Always a pleasure to be able to share a good story. Thank you so much for liking this one.
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You’re welcomed.
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Hello Trishikh, I enjoyed reading your wonderful story. The selfless help of the local people took me back to my childhood neighborhood. Oh, those were the good old days, but sadly, those neighborhoods are gone now. I’ve never been late anywhere in my life; I’ve always been at least 15 minutes early, and I don’t like to keep people waiting. Thank you for this wonderful story. Kudos to you for writing.
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Dear Alev, your comment to my story is so heart touching. I am so glad that it brought back some of your good childhood memories. Sometimes, I realise how as we grow old, our educational institutions, workplaces, cities, and country changes, and we get different people around us. Though with change people experience so much more, but I still feel that those who have childhood friends and acquaintances, neighbours, around them living in the same neighborhood for life are very lucky in many ways.
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This is such a joyous story. There are pockets still remaining of neighborhoods and cities, communities, coming together to support each other, but sadly not like it was in the past. I long for that sense of community again.Thanks for posting your wonderful stories!
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Dear Katelon, thank you for liking my story so much. Always a pleasure to receive your appreciation.
You are right, some communities still do exist, where people look after each other, but they are hard to find.
I shall try my best to keep writing these stories.
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I read the whole story from cover to cover and it already seemed like corruption in our European country, where it’s everywhere, and then suddenly it’s a meltdown! We have such losers in our governments; I thought at least one or both of them would have become members of parliament!🤣😂
Beautiful as always, I am delighted with the style and depth of the description of events🌺
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Dear Alicia, society is changing rapidly for the worst in many ways. Though with human development in general perhaps many good things are happening, but the closeness among people has declined in many communities everywhere. That is the nature of our present times, sadly.
Thank you for always liking my stories. I treasure your friendship.
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and I appreciate Sonia’s work and the opportunity not only to read it, but also to comment on it💐😁
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Interesting story! I like tales like this where you get to skip forward in time and see how things turned out!
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So glad that you liked the style used in this story, where history over a period of time is showcased.
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Haha, this already sounds like such a fun and mischievous story! 😄 Can’t wait to hear what their first words were!
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Glad that you think that my story will be interesting.
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Thank you for your like.Because in my WordPress reader/user account, post titles always remain. safiadigitaltechandwellnes.com And the prompt topic is my blog post; if you click “read more,” it will redirect to my blog, and if you click my title, it will redirect to my website.Kindly read my entire post each time, as that will be a great help to me. If you also leave a comment, I would be even more grateful to you.
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You are most welcome. It’s my pleasure to visit your website and like your posts.
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Nice story and enjoyed thoroughly! Lovely descriptions and took me to Barracks bow instantly.
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Thank you. Nothing makes my day better than a good comment on one of my stories. So glad that the descriptions of Bow Barracks teleported you to the place.
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Very good story line 👍
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Thanks Samiran, so glad that you liked the plot and the way the story moved.
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Welcome 🤗
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What a charming and humorous introduction! 😄 Dilly and Dally’s lateness feels like a lovable quirk, and the way Trishikh Dasgupta paints their world makes you instantly curious to see what mischief comes next. 🕰️✨
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Thank you for your kind words of appreciation. So glad that you liked the story.
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Nostalgic. Bow Barrack, Nahoum’s, Hogg’s Market, Bowbazar…It brought back memories…again a very interesting story narrated in a captivating way.
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Thank you so much. It makes me so happy when someone who has seen and been to these places find my story interesting. So glad you commented.
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Thank you for another delightful story, Trishikh. 💜
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Thank you so much Carol for appreciating. You have always admired my stories and I am so thankful for that.
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Your likes of my posts of “Isaiah Chapters 25-38.” are greatly appreciated. Your kindness is greatly appreciated.
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It is always my pleasure to visit your website and like your posts.
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Thank you very much
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You are most welcome.
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Always learn something new about Kolkata in your stories. Loved it.
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Dear Sumita, that is so nice of you to say. Nothing can give me more happiness rather than when someone enjoys one of my stories, and even better when they learn something new.
I am so happy that you liked this story of mine too.
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I love your writing style.
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Thank you so much. It’s always a pleasure to receive appreciation. It does work wonders for my writing engine.
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