In Lake Market, a man’s reputation could be weighed in mustard seeds, measured in fish scales, or, in exceptional circumstances, judged by the length of hair growing from the back of his head. The bazaar woke each morning to a symphony that no orchestra could reproduce. Fishmongers bellowed the virtues of their rohu, vegetable sellers defended their cauliflowers with the ferocity of barristers, and handcart pullers cursed the world whenever a wheel became wedged between two uneven paving stones. The air was a plethoric mixture of smells, from the saline odour of fish and the earthy fragrance of coriander to the sharp pungency of green chillies, the sweetness of ripe bananas and the melliferous perfume of jasmine garlands. Amid the clatter of shutters and the hiss of kettles, the market’s South Indian community went about its business, selling rice, tamarind, spices, flowers and steaming idlis to a clientele that included Bengali housewives, Tamil clerks, Telugu traders and anyone else who had discovered that hunger respected neither language nor ancestry.
Among the market’s most familiar establishments was the spice shop of Nagamani Raju, a fifty-year-old Telugu merchant whose life had begun in obscurity and flourished through assiduous labour. He had arrived in Kolkata from Andhra Pradesh as an orphan of twelve, possessing neither money nor connections, and had survived by carrying parcels, sweeping shops and performing whatever odd jobs came his way. Through an extraordinary combination of resilience, commercial intelligence and an almost supernatural ability to recognise a dishonest customer, he had eventually built a thriving business. His shelves held turmeric, cumin, pepper, cinnamon and cardamom, while sacks of dried chillies stood like miniature volcanoes along the walls. Nobody knew where Nagamani had been born, who his parents were, or whether his surname Raju indicated noble ancestry or merely an identity acquired somewhere along his journey. Everyone knew of the mystery, and Nagamani, who understood the commercial value of an unanswered question, had never attempted to resolve it.
His neighbour in the market’s intricate social universe was Mahalingam Mani, a Tamil Brahmin whose grandfather had migrated to Kolkata from Tamil Nadu. Mahalingam had inherited his father’s profession as a Hindu priest, along with a formidable collection of brass vessels and an inordinate opinion of his own importance. He performed pujas for shopkeepers, conducted housewarmings and blessed new businesses, charging according to the occasion and, some suspected, the prosperity of the person paying him. His greatest pride was his kudumi, the tuft of hair retained at the back of a shaved head, known in Bengal as a tiki. To Mahalingam, this tuft represented generations of religious observance, the sanctity of tradition and the inviolable distinction between those born to a particular calling and those who merely earned their living.
Nagamani, unfortunately for the priest’s equanimity, possessed an irreverent sense of humour. Whenever Mahalingam delivered an elaborate lecture on inherited superiority, the spice merchant would ask a question so innocently absurd that the listeners would struggle to suppress their laughter. Once, when the priest boasted of his ancestors, Nagamani enquired whether they had travelled to Kolkata by train or bullock cart. On another occasion, after a lengthy discourse on ritual purity, he asked whether a man became holier by touching a sack of turmeric or merely more yellow. Mahalingam considered these remarks egregious insults to his dignity, while Nagamani regarded them as free entertainment that occasionally increased his sales.
The crisis began when Nagamani decided to shave his head. He had possessed long, thick, naturally curly hair, which he usually tied behind his neck while working. When he emerged from the barber’s establishment one humid morning, his scalp gleamed in the sunlight, but the magnificent tuft at the back of his head seemed to have acquired a personality of its own. It was dense, lustrous and extravagantly curled, resembling the plume of a royal bird that had settled upon a particularly prosperous merchant.
The first customers to see him burst into laughter. A flower seller declared that his tiki was more beautiful than Mahalingam’s. A vegetable vendor suggested that it ought to be entered in a competition. By the time the priest heard the news, half the market had inspected Nagamani’s head, and the other half was hurrying to do so.
Mahalingam stormed into the spice shop, his own tuft glistening with coconut oil. “What have you done to yourself? You have no right to wear a sacred tiki!” Nagamani looked up from weighing cumin. “Good morning, Mahalingam avargale. Would you like some cardamom?”
“Do not obfuscate the issue. Your ancestry is unknown. You cannot imitate the outward appearance of a Brahmin!”
“I have no intention of becoming one,” Nagamani replied. “Running a spice shop is already enough work.”
Customers began to snigger. Mahalingam’s face turned crimson. He declared that the honour of the priestly community had been insulted and vowed to persuade every merchant in Lake Market to boycott Nagamani’s business.
“Please do,” said Nagamani pleasantly. “But remind them to purchase their chillies first. I have just received a particularly good consignment.”
By evening, the dispute had become the market’s principal entertainment. The tea stalls hosted impromptu debates, the flower sellers offered competing theories of sacred hair, and even the fishmongers had abandoned their arguments over prices to discuss the matter. Mahalingam visited shop after shop, explaining that the question concerned not merely hair but the preservation of social order. Nagamani, meanwhile, continued selling spices, extending credit to struggling traders and greeting his customers with such equanimity that his rival’s indignation appeared increasingly ridiculous.
Eventually, the merchants decided that the quarrel required formal adjudication. A public hearing was arranged in the courtyard behind a wholesale provisions shop. Gopal Das, an elderly fish merchant renowned for distinguishing genuine fish from fraudulent fish, was appointed chief judge. A flower seller, a retired schoolteacher and a grocer whose impartiality was demonstrated by his habit of cheating everyone equally completed the panel. A Bengali lawyer volunteered to explain the proceedings, although nobody was entirely certain whether he had come to administer justice or enjoy the spectacle.
On the appointed Sunday, the courtyard filled with shopkeepers, customers and curious children. Marigolds decorated the judges’ table, tea steamed in clay cups, and the fragrance of fried snacks mingled with damp jute and fish. Mahalingam arrived in an immaculate dhoti, carrying sacred texts beneath his arm. His tuft had been carefully combed into a shape that suggested it was about to deliver a sermon. Nagamani arrived with a tin of sweets.
“Are those for the judges?” the lawyer asked. “For everyone,” Nagamani replied. “Justice becomes difficult when the stomach is empty.”
The hearing began with Mahalingam’s testimony. He spoke eloquently of his family’s ancestry, the duties of a priest and the religious significance of the tuft. He explained that his kudumi was not an ornament but a symbol of inherited obligation. A similar arrangement of hair on the head of an ordinary tradesman, he insisted, could never possess the same significance. The distinction was hierarchical, ancient and beyond question.
When he finished, he sat down with the satisfaction of a man who had just deposited the entire weight of tradition upon the judges’ table.
Nagamani rose without documents or sacred texts. “I arrived in Kolkata as a boy and have spent my life earning my living. I do not know whether my ancestors were kings, farmers, priests or fishmongers. If they were kings, they have been remarkably quiet about it. If they were priests, they have never sent me a bill for their services.”
Laughter rippled through the courtyard.
“I have never claimed to be a Brahmin,” he continued. “I sell spices. I do not ask a customer to prove his ancestry before selling him turmeric. I distinguish between good cumin and bad cumin, not between high-born and low-born customers. As for my tuft, I grew it because I liked it. If Mahalingam avargale finds it offensive, perhaps he should explain the precise measurement at which hair becomes sacred. Three inches? Four? Must we import a measuring instrument from Tamil Nadu?”
The laughter became uncontrollable. Even the retired schoolteacher removed his spectacles to wipe his eyes. Mahalingam sprang to his feet. “This is an insult to religion! I demand that he identify the scriptural authority permitting him to assume this appearance!”
Nagamani bowed. “I am only a humble spice merchant. Mahalingam avargale is the erudite scholar. I was hoping he would enlighten us.” The chief judge turned towards the priest. “Can you show us the precise rule establishing that your tuft is superior to his?”
Mahalingam spoke of tradition, ritual observance and the duties associated with birth. He could explain why a priest might retain a tuft as part of his religious practice, but he could not establish why another man, who made no claim to priesthood, was obliged to keep his hair shorter or less impressive. Desperate to recover his authority, he declared, “The issue is that every man must know his proper place in society!”
The flower seller raised her hand. “And who decides that place?”
“Tradition,” Mahalingam replied.
“And who decides whether tradition is being followed correctly?”
“The learned.”
“And if the learned cannot answer a simple question?”
A fishmonger burst into laughter. The chief judge banged his fish clobbering mallet upon the table, ostensibly to restore order, although he was laughing himself. The judges withdrew for deliberation. Their conference lasted twenty minutes, during which the tea seller disposed of forty cups of tea and the children consumed the remainder of Nagamani’s sweets. At last, Gopal Das returned and announced the verdict.
“The court recognises that Mahalingam Mani follows a respectable religious tradition. It also recognises that Nagamani Raju has made no claim to priesthood and has interfered with nobody’s religious duties. Neither man can claim superiority merely because of the hair upon his head. If the length of a tuft determined a man’s worth, the barber would be the most powerful person in the country.” The courtyard erupted.
“The court further observes that ancestry may explain where a family began, but respect must be earned through conduct. We have heard that Nagamani has helped struggling traders and conducted his business honestly. We have heard much about Mahalingam’s inherited superiority, but rather less about what this superiority has done for anyone else.” The verdict was unambiguous. Both men were entitled to their tufts, but neither was entitled to use his tuft as a measure of another man’s worth.
Mahalingam gathered his texts and departed without looking at anyone. He could still perform his rituals, and nobody had deprived him of his profession. Yet something had changed. Several merchants began questioning his fees, and one who had intended to employ him for a wedding ceremony quietly approached another priest from a neighbouring locality. No boycott had been declared. No punishment had been imposed. The damage was subtler: people had begun treating Mahalingam as an ordinary man whose claims required examination.
Nagamani returned to his shop and resumed weighing spices. He did not boast about his victory. When a young boy asked whether the magnificent tuft made him more important than other people, Nagamani bent down and explained that hair grew according to its own inclinations, provided it received enough oil and was left in peace. The boy thought about this. “If I pray to my hair, will it grow faster?” Nagamani laughed so loudly that a customer dropped a packet of peppercorns.
For weeks, the story travelled beyond Lake Market, acquiring embellishments at every tea stall. Some claimed that the judges had measured the two tufts with a tailor’s tape. Others insisted that Mahalingam had demanded a government licence for sacred hair. Nagamani neither confirmed nor denied these accounts. He knew that a good rumour was like a good spice: a little truth could give it extraordinary potency.
Mahalingam continued his priestly duties, although he became less inclined to lecture shopkeepers about their ancestry. He never admitted that the trial had changed him, but he no longer looked at Nagamani’s tuft with quite the same fury. Perhaps he had begun to understand that the merchant’s hair had never threatened his priesthood. What had threatened him was the possibility that a man without a known pedigree could earn respect without asking permission.
Lake Market returned to its everyday business. Fishmongers resumed their arguments, flower sellers strung their garlands, and the spice merchants continued weighing the fragrant contents of their sacks. The trial became another story in the market’s inexhaustible treasury, recalled whenever somebody boasted too loudly about his family or position.
Nagamani’s tuft remained magnificent, admired by customers and envied by the occasional barber. But its greatest achievement was not that it had defeated Mahalingam’s tuft in a contest of beauty. It had revealed the absurdity of the contest itself. One man had believed that his ancestry entitled him to stand above others; the other understood that a person could rise without requiring anyone else to kneel.
And so, while Mahalingam continued polishing the mirror in which he sought his own importance, Nagamani returned to his spices, content with a truth as pungent as freshly ground black pepper: a man’s birth might explain his beginnings, but only his deeds could establish his worth.
Author’s Note
Some stories are born from the world we observe, while others emerge from the stories we read and carry within us for years. Trial of the Two Tufts belongs, in part, to the latter category. It draws its inspiration from “A Pair of Moustache” by Mulk Raj Anand, one of the short story writers who influenced me greatly during my school days. His remarkable ability to uncover the absurdities of social hierarchies, human vanity and inherited notions of superiority left a lasting impression on my imagination.
This story is my own playful tribute to that literary influence, reimagined in the bustling lanes of Kolkata’s Lake Market, where spices perfume the air, gossip travels faster than the morning newspaper, and even the smallest provocation can become a matter of public importance. Through Nagamani Raju and Mahalingam Mani, I have attempted to explore the ridiculous lengths to which pride can carry us, especially when we mistake ancestry or outward appearances for measures of human worth.
Beneath the humour lies a simple thought: our beginnings may be inherited, but our worth is shaped by how we live, how we treat others, and what we contribute to the world around us. If this tale brings a smile to your face while prompting you to question the little vanities we so fiercely defend, it will have served its purpose.
And perhaps, after reading it, you may never look at a man’s tuft in quite the same way again!
Copyright © 2026 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA
No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, stored in a retrieval system, translated, adapted, or reproduced in any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, scanning, 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, academic commentary, and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by applicable copyright law.
This story is published exclusively on StoryNookOnline.com. Any unauthorised reproduction, distribution, translation, adaptation, or publication on any website, social media platform, digital service, printed medium, or artificial intelligence training dataset without the express written consent of the author is strictly prohibited.
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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
This story is Free, and if you have found something here that stayed with you, some of my other books (collection of short stories, novels, and more) are available in print and digital editions. They gather many unique journeys, quieter questions, grand adventures, hair-raising anticipation, and stories that continue beyond this page.
Good one!
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Good one! Good message.
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Thank you Danny. So glad that you liked the story.
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Interesting read.
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Thank you Verma’ji. Glad that you liked it.
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A delightful blend of humour, social satire and timeless wisdom! Through a quarrel over two tufts, the story exposes the absurdity of inherited superiority and reminds us that true worth lies not in ancestry, status or outward appearance, but in character, kindness and deeds. The thought of a man rising “without requiring anyone else to kneel” stays with the reader long after the laughter fades. A fitting tribute to Mulk Raj Anand, with a message as relevant today as ever. Beautifully written!
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Dear John, thank you for such a wonderful and perceptive response. I am delighted that the humour and the underlying message resonated with you. The line about rising without requiring anyone else to kneel captures the very heart of the story, for true dignity never needs to diminish another to establish itself. Mulk Raj Anand was one of the writers who shaped my literary imagination during my school days, and it gives me particular pleasure to know that this story has carried a little of that spirit forward. Thank you for reading so thoughtfully and for recognising the timeless relevance of its message.
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🙏🌷📚❤️👏✨🤝🌿💐😊
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What a delightful, wise, and wonderfully human story Trishikh! Lake Market comes alive with its symphony of smells, voices, and petty feuds, but at its heart is a timeless truth: dignity is not inherited like a brass vessel—it is earned through conduct. Nagamani’s magnificent tuft is both hilarious and quietly profound, exposing the absurdity of ranking people by birth, hair, or pedigree. Mahalingam is not a villain, just a man who mistakes tradition for superiority, and the verdict is perfect: neither tuft makes a man worth more. I loved the humor, the tea-stall courtroom feel, and the final line—pungent as freshly ground black pepper. A story to savour and share.
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Dear Srikanth, thank you for such a thoughtful and beautifully articulated reading of the story. I am delighted that you enjoyed the humour, the bustling world of Lake Market, and the quiet philosophy beneath the laughter. You have captured the essence of Nagamani and Mahalingam wonderfully. I particularly love your observation that Mahalingam is not a villain, but a man who mistakes tradition for superiority. Perhaps that is where the real comedy lies, in the human tendency to confuse what we inherit with what we deserve. And I am so glad the final line left its sting, quite literally, like freshly ground black pepper! Thank you for reading with such generosity and for savouring the story so deeply.
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🙏👍
Aum Shanti
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Thank you so much.
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I thoroughly enjoyed this tale, thank you 😊
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Dear Fiona, you are most welcome. It’s always a pleasure to receive your appreciation. I am so happy that you liked the story.
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Trishikh, this story is a delight! Lake Market’s colorful chaos sets the stage for a timeless lesson
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Thank you so much Ravindra. I am so happy that the story resonates with you. Nothing makes my day better than such an appreciation for one of my stories.
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Ha! From the image I can tell this will be a good one! Can’t wait to read it later!
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Oh, you can bet this is a great story. I am sure that you would love it.
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Hahaha can’t wait then. I just need some down time and I will be reading soon.
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I look forward to it.
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“A grocer whose impartiality was demonstrated by his habit of cheating everyone equally completed the panel,”
😂
I loved this particular sauce with which you cooked this story my friend. It reminded me again of my irreverent grandfather. He used to say he was going to create his own religion so that he could steal people’s money too. He would often pretend to give a sermon in which he asked his made up congregation to give him money for all the crack heads in the street. He once told me,
“You should join my religion. The onlu requirement is you need to drink, smoke, and fuck when you’re not watching football on Sundays,”
Lol I love my Abuelo. Miss him.
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Dear MM, this has made me laugh so much! As you have shared presiusly, I have come to consider tour Abuelo as an absolute character, with a wicked sense of humour and a gift for turning irreverence into an art form.
His proposed religion, with its very particular commandments and Sunday exemptions, is priceless! I can see why you miss him. There is something wonderful about the way certain people leave us not only with memories, but with their unmistakable voice still ringing in our ears, making us laugh long after they are gone.
I’m delighted that the grocer’s cheerful impartiality in cheating everyone equally brought your Abuelo back to you. Perhaps that is one of the secret pleasures of writing: a fictional character occasionally opens a door to someone wonderfully real.
Thank you for sharing this lovely memory with me, my friend!
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Haha No problem my friend, thank you for writing this tale. He would have loved it. It would have made him laugh. And at the same time you have to admire the grocer. He’s not prejudice. He cons everyone equally 😂
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Haha, you have summed up the grocer beautifully, my friend! Perhaps his greatest virtue is that he has no grand theories of equality, no sermons to deliver, and absolutely no discrimination in the art of separating people from their money. He cons everyone with admirable impartiality! There is a certain democratic spirit in that, though I suspect the grocer himself would prefer to call it good business. I am delighted to think that the tale would have made your grandfather laugh. To me, there is no greater compliment than knowing a story might bring a smile to someone who would have understood its humour so well.
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Lol my grandfather would wondered if this was a story about a Cuban instead of an Indian. Such things happen in our society as well 🤣
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That is true, the same things happen all over the world in different settings and different flavours. At the core there are similar humans all over the world. Similar types of humnan beings are present everywhere.
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Hahahah yes. You know among the Gods I worship are Greek Gods. Would you like to hear an ancient dirty joke? 🤣
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Hahaha, my friend, you have certainly piqued my curiosity now! An ancient Greek dirty joke sounds like something that has survived centuries for very good reasons. Given the Olympians’ complicated love lives, questionable morals and extraordinary talent for getting themselves into trouble, I suspect the Greeks had plenty of material to work with! Go on, let’s hear it. I promise to approach it with the appropriate combination of scholarly interest and moral flexibility!
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Okay so for context, the Ancient Greeks allowed their teenagers to explore their sexuality. It was expected and accepted that they would engage in relations. That wasn’t the problem.
But one woman, was afraid that her daughter was being used for deviant sexual pleasures. So one day she approaches her daughter to have a heart to heart,
“My darling, are you and Alexander…..performing relations with one another yet?”
“Yes mother we are,”
“He’s not asking you to do anything strange is he? He has tried to put himself in any holes he shouldn’t be?”
“No, of course not Mother,”
The woman had a sigh of relief.
“He doesn’t want to impregnate me yet. So he’s entered me from the other side,”
😂
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Ha ha, this is a wild one.
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Lol, there’s some pretty funny stories. Including a monster (Vampire) that serves the Goddess Hekate, and roams the crossroads. It’s called an Empusa. And it usually kills everyone there. But the ancient Greek philosopher Apollonius of Tyana and his companions are recorded in their history as having met one on a crossroads. You know how they survived?
The philosopher and his companions made fun of it 😂 Then told it to go away. Apparently they hurt the monsters feelings and it just fled.
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Ha, ha, ha, ha, that is just hilarous.
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And this is actual ancient history, not mythology. But this philosopher and his companions swear up and down that it actually happened.
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Beautiful story of Nagamani yes a man’s deeds can establish his worth.
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Dear Priti, thank you so much! I am glad Nagamani’s story resonated with you. We often inherit names, traditions, and social positions, but the worth of a person is written through their actions, kindness, and integrity. After all, a tuft may grow on the head, but true dignity must grow within the heart.
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💐🙏🏼
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I really enjoyed your story very much both for the humour (I roared with laughter when I read: ‘On another occasion, after a lengthy discourse on ritual purity, he asked whether a man became holier by touching a sack of turmeric or merely more yellow.’ it’s the sort of humour my husband has) and also for the clever way you brought the wisdom into the story. I admire your ability to tell stories. Have a good weekend.
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Thank you so much for such a lovely comment! I am delighted that the turmeric line made you laugh so heartily, and I must say, knowing that it reminded you of your husband makes the compliment even more special. Perhaps the best humour is that which comes naturally from observing the delightful absurdities of human nature. I am equally glad that the wisdom beneath the laughter reached you. After all, if a story can make us laugh at our vanities while gently reminding us of what truly matters, it has done its job. Thank you for your generous words and for reading my stories with such warmth. Wishing you and your family a wonderful weekend!
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You are most welcome. Blessings 🙏
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A delightful read, Trishikh! The beautiful blend of humanity and humour makes it all the more enjoyable.
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Dear KK, thank you so much for your kind words. I am delighted that the blend of humour and humanity resonated with you. I have always felt that laughter can sometimes reveal truths that a serious sermon cannot, especially when it comes to our little vanities and our ideas of superiority. If Nagamani’s antics could bring a smile while leaving behind a little food for thought, I could not have asked for more. Thank you for reading and enjoying the story!
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So true, Trishikh! You have very well explained Nagamani’s antics. You’re more than welcome 🙏
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Stunning mate ..you never cease to amaze me..
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Dear William, thank you! Your generous words mean a great deal to me. The greatest joy of writing is knowing that a story can continue to surprise and delight those who have been kind enough to follow my literary journey. There are always more corners of human nature to explore, more absurdities to laugh at, and more little truths to uncover. I am truly grateful to have you along for the journey!
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Always a pleasure friend..
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What a delightful, witty, and profoundly human story! Set in the vibrant world of Lake Market, it masterfully balances hilarious moments—like the witty line about whether touching a sack of turmeric makes a man holier or just more yellow—with a timeless truth: that dignity is earned through conduct rather than inherited. Through the brilliant dynamic of Nagamani and Mahalingam, it cleverly highlights the human tendency to mistake tradition for superiority. Complete with a sharp, memorable final line that stings like freshly ground black pepper, it’s a beautifully crafted tale to savour and share. Thanks for sharing 💐
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Dear Meeta, thank you for such a thoughtful and generous reading of the story. I am delighted that the humour and the deeper human truth resonated with you. Nagamani and Mahalingam may be arguing over their tufts, but beneath their comic rivalry lies a question we encounter far beyond the lanes of Lake Market: how often do we mistake what we inherit for proof of our superiority? I am especially glad you enjoyed the turmeric line and the final flourish. Sometimes a little humour, like freshly ground black pepper, can make an uncomfortable truth all the more memorable. Thank you for savouring the story so warmly and for sharing your reflections.
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You know Trishk, it wouldn’t take much to extend this story into a metaphor for our writings and those of others who are perhaps slightly more well known.
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Dear Ted, what an interesting observation! You are quite right. The little courtroom in Lake Market could easily become a grander court of literary opinion, where pedigree, reputation and popularity sometimes threaten to overshadow the merit of the work itself. Perhaps Nagamani would have a thing or two to say about that as well! After all, a story, like a man, should be judged by what it brings to the world, not merely by the name attached to it. Thank you for spotting this delightful parallel. You have given the two tufts an entirely new field in which to compete!
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You too, my friend. Interesting what happens here, in this space we use for stories. May it continue to grow!
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“hair grows according to its own inclinations”…….so funny and cute.
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I am so glad that line tickled your funny bone! Sometimes hair, like human ego, refuses to be disciplined by rules and conventions. Perhaps that is precisely what makes both so wonderfully amusing!
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Interesting story that combines the wisdom of a fable with the sensory delight of a thali! Brought back my years in Calcutta (as it was then) ages ago!
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Thank you! I am delighted that the story brought back memories of Calcutta as it once was. There is something wonderfully enduring about the city, its bustling markets, its mingling aromas, its colourful characters and its endless supply of human comedy. I wanted Lake Market to be more than just a setting, to make it a place one could almost walk through again. I am so glad the story took you back to those cherished years!
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Yes, Calcutta was lovely then, and I had such a wonderful gang to hang out with! We used to roam around all over the place and eat chat like there was no tomorrow. That was back in the early 80s.. Do you live there now? It must be much changed, all these years later. Not to mention the ghastly new regime!
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Those memories of Calcutta in the early eighties sound wonderful! There was something magical about those carefree days of wandering around with friends, discovering favourite haunts and eating chaat as though the world could wait. Yes, I live in Kolkata, and you are quite right, the city has changed enormously over the years, though its old soul still reveals itself in unexpected corners, bustling markets and the enduring warmth of its people. Perhaps that is one reason I enjoy bringing old Calcutta back to life through my stories. As for the present political climate, I shall leave that debate for another day and another forum! For now, I would love to hear which parts of Calcutta you and your gang used to frequent in those days. I suspect your memories could fill a story or two of their own!
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I really enjoyed the way this story uses humor to question inherited status and tradition without becoming heavy-handed. Nagamani’s quiet irreverence is especially effective — every joke seems to expose how fragile superiority can look when someone simply refuses to be impressed by it. And the market itself feels wonderfully alive, almost like another character in the story.
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Thank you for such a perceptive reading of the story! You have captured exactly what I hoped to convey through Nagamani’s quiet irreverence. Sometimes, the surest way to expose the fragility of superiority is not through confrontation or a sermon, but through a little laughter and the refusal to be impressed. I am especially pleased that you found Lake Market almost a character in its own right. Its sights, sounds, aromas and colourful inhabitants seemed to demand a life of their own. I am delighted that you enjoyed the story and its gentle challenge to the notions we inherit without questioning.
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“a person could rise without requiring anyone else to kneel” wonderful, Tirshikh! So relevant in this age of global elites…and the way you illuminate emptied traditions is something that applies to every culture. The human condition is that we easily puff ourselves up with pride and become utterly ridiculous…
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Dear Pamela, thank you for seeing beyond the humour to the deeper truth at the heart of the story. You have expressed so beautifully what I hoped to convey: the absurdity of believing that our own elevation requires someone else’s diminishment. Whether it is inherited status, social privilege or the authority of traditions emptied of their original meaning, the temptation to inflate our own importance seems to transcend cultures and generations. Perhaps the greatest irony of the human condition is that the more desperately we try to appear superior, the more ridiculous we become. True dignity needs no pedestal, and certainly no one else’s humiliation, to stand tall. I am delighted that this little tale from Lake Market resonated with you so deeply.
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I enjoyed it very much…it isn’t just Christians who have problems with hypocrisy, religiosity, and pretention, they transcend culture.
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A very enjoyable story with an important lesson!
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Thank you so much. It really makes my day, to read an appreciation for one of my stories, the first thing in the morning.
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A humorous, satirical take on caste supremacy. It is really ridiculous how we carry our vanities to the point of absurdity.
Actually, in this entire feud of establishing lineage and superiority, the one who performs his work with honesty and hard work wins. He not only gains favourable adjudication but also respect for his trade, customer dealings and empathic support to struggling traders. In my view Nagamani positions himself better in the market by becoming a people’s person and not by creating an aura of exclusivity – it’s a great marketing strategy.
Your Author Note is illuminating and your candid submission of inspiration is really exemplary.
I wish you and your family a Shubho Bijoya.
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Dear Geeta, what a wonderfully perceptive reading of the story! I particularly love your observation that Nagamani’s greatest strength lies not in creating an aura of exclusivity, but in becoming a people’s person. You have given his approach an entirely new dimension by looking at it through the lens of marketing, where trust, empathy and honest dealings can achieve far more than inherited prestige ever could. Indeed, the irony of the feud is that while one man is busy proclaiming his superiority, the other is quietly earning the respect that truly matters.
I am also delighted that you appreciated the Author’s Note. Mulk Raj Anand’s stories left a lasting impression on me during my schooldays, and acknowledging that influence felt only right.
Thank you for your generous wishes. Shubho Bijoya to you and your family too, with warm wishes for happiness, good health and prosperity.
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As always, such an interesting story! I really enjoyed reading it. 😊
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Dear Daisy, thank you so much for your continued encouragement! I am delighted that you enjoyed this little tale of humour, human vanity and the absurd lengths to which we sometimes go to establish our superiority. It is always a pleasure to know that my stories bring you joy. Thank you for reading and for being such a wonderful supporter of my writing.
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😊
Have a wonderful day!
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Wishing you a wonderful day too.
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Delightful tale of a tuft-war! Is it possible than envy is a more primal instinct than caste superiority?
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Dear Kajoli, what a fascinating question! I suspect envy may indeed be one of the more primal instincts, while caste superiority gives it a respectable-sounding framework in which to flourish. Perhaps we first feel the urge to be above someone else and then reach for ancestry, tradition or social standing to justify that feeling. The tragedy is that we become so preoccupied with proving ourselves superior that we forget the simple dignity of being good at what we do and decent to those around us. In Lake Market, at least, the two tufts gave that very human folly a rather comic stage! Thank you for adding such an intriguing dimension to the story.
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May be envy is an evolutionary trait?
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A very entertaining story with loads of humour. When I was a child a brahmin lady used to come to our house. She demanded a good amount of charity to be given with due respect. Such was the social conditioning. It amused and irritated us at the same time. The story revived an old memory.
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Dear Sumita, what an interesting memory, and how wonderfully it connects with the world of this story! Social conditioning can be remarkably powerful. It often makes us accept practices that, when viewed from a little distance, seem both amusing and exasperating. I imagine that, as a child, you must have found yourself caught between the adults’ sense of obligation and your own instinctive amusement at the whole ritual. Perhaps that is what makes the story’s underlying theme so enduring. The problem is not tradition itself, but the unquestioning belief that tradition automatically confers superiority or entitlement. I am delighted that Nagamani and Mahalingam brought back this childhood memory for you. Thank you for sharing it with me.
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