Amongst mammoth places like Victoria Memorial and Howrah Bridge, the grey town of Kolkata gets talked about very little. The grey town shows the city in all its diversity and tolerance, which could make one forget how humid the city’s weather was in June 1947. In pre-independence Kolkata, when the British took charge, their enclave was known as ‘white town’, the local Bengalis were pushed out to ‘black town’, while migrants of all hues settled in grey town. This part of the town, roughly five square kilometres of grey town was where the East did meet West. In a seemingly utopian scenario, Chinese temples, a Zoroastrian church, mosques, synagogues, Christian churches, Buddhist shrines, and Hindu temples, all got along with each other.

Joseph’s abba (father) would tell him that the Magen David Synagogue, built in 1884, was the same one his dad would visit as a kid. Joseph’s granddad, who died when he was 2, made his fortune in the real estate trade of Kolkata. He loved his abba, but he was seldom home when he was awake. He lost his mother to the same car accident that took his grandfather’s life. His abba would tell him stories though, of his mother and how dearly she loved Joseph. These stories were told when both of them would visit the Magen David Synagogue on Saturday mornings.

One such morning, in the sixth month of 1947, Joseph accompanied his dad to the synagogue. After a round of prayers, they headed out. At this time, all the six-year-old could think of was the fragrant plum cake from Nahoum’s he would get to devour on his way home. When they headed out, Joseph’s abba started talking about the ongoing political tensions with Uncle David. An oblivious Joseph, secretly wishing their discussion was short, started walking towards their car where he was stopped by a boy his age.

“Buy this trinket for you Ima, I’m sure she will like it”, said the boy who wore a rugged kurta.

“My Ima is not with us anymore. She died four years ago”, replied Joseph, as though he was accustomed to saying this.

“Buy it for your sister then”, said the boy in all his childish innocence.

“I don’t have one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I have three. One of them is about to get married in Bhadro, nine weeks from today.”

Joseph’s interactions with kids his age were limited to when his cousins from Canada would visit him during the summers. Hence, talking to this kurta-clad boy evoked in him a certain sense of joy and inexplicable familiarity. “What’s your name?” asked Joseph.

“I’m Deba, and you?”

Both these boys were separated by demarcations made by the Babus, as they were colloquially called by Deba’s Baba. Deba lived in the black town in a house, that could barely be called one. Devoid of any prejudice, the boys talked to each other and made the best they could of the little time they got when Uncle David and Joseph’s abba would go on about the tumultuous state of the country. As Joseph saw his abba walking towards their car, he and Deba promised they would meet each other again the following week.

They met the following Saturday, and the next and talked about everything under the sun. While Joseph’s abba and Uncle David would have lengthy discussions that included buzzwords beyond Joseph’s comprehension, Joseph would tell Deba how his dad took him to the cinema the other day, and how his tutor believed he was weak at math. Deba’s stories ranged from his troubles with his neighbourhood dog, to Baba’s promise of buying him a new neel kurta for his sister’s wedding. Three such Saturdays later, there were best friends, thought Joseph. Like abba and Uncle David. The boy would look forward to meeting his best friend more than the plum cake waiting for him at Nahoum’s.

The next time they met, Deba asked Joseph if he had had Kachogolla. Joseph’s interaction with Bengali sweets was limited to Roshogolla and had heard little of its lesser-known counterpart.

“Baba told me that he will arrange for Kachagolla for my sister’s wedding. It’s her favourite.”

“That sounds lovely. I wish I could attend her wedding. I doubt abba will allow me to go there. He says it’s not safe to go outside these days. Hopefully, it will be all good when these babus leave.”

“I don’t know, I wonder what baba will do when that happens. He’s the reason their gardens are so beautiful.”

“Can you bring some Kachagolla for me next week?” asked Joseph before bidding adieu to his best friend.

“Only if you bring some of the plum cake you never shut up about” replied Deba.

Joseph left with his father, and Deba stayed, for he had to sell trinkets.

Three days later, Joseph overheard his father planning about going to Aunt Sharon’s in the US. Unable to fathom the magnanimity of the effect it would have on his life, he went on about his day as usual. The next time he went to pray with his father, who was in a rush, things weren’t looking good in the city. He couldn’t spot Deba near his car. Wondering why he didn’t come that day, Joseph arrived at the conclusion that he would be busy preparing for his sister’s wedding.

In the next few days as India’s political climate soared higher than Kolkata’s heat, Joseph was told they were going to leave Kolkata forever. He was told how different the States was compared to Kolkata, but all he could think of was Deba, his trinkets, and the mythic Kachagolla. He wasn’t restless. He was a shade between disbelief and sadness, held together by a sliver of hope that he would meet his best friend at least once before leaving. Time, however, is a friend to none. Before the next Saturday, Joseph had landed in America, leaving behind his home like many others from his community, including Uncle David who settled in Canada with his wife and three kids. America was kind, but Joseph thought of home and Deba often. Nahoum’s, Deba in his neel kurta at his sister’s wedding, Deba standing by the car, his trinkets, and Kachogolla.

Four leap years later, Joseph’s abba, now walked with the support of a stick to Madison Avenue where they had converted an old photo studio into a bakery. Theirs was famous for pastries, cakes, cookies and all things delicious. Formulated by Joseph himself was their bestseller, Deba’s plum cake.