Olé, Kolay! Olé, Kolay!!

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Like many folks of our generation, the recent news of Britannia wrapping up its Kolkata based biscuit-making operation was not one of many a slip between the teacup and the lips for me. Sad day, indeed, for another icon of our sugary childhood. Clearing the cookies from my browser while gathering a few crumbs off the fabric of my hazy memories, my recent searches reveal that Kolay Biscuits has also dissolved like a biscuit dipped in chai too long. But, the third member of that troika, Parle-G is still around and going strong so perhaps all is not lost. And while there are many pretenders in the market, none stand up to these that I can still taste in my memory from six decades ago.

One was a legacy of the Raj and the other two, outcomes of the Swadeshi movement. But the the storied origins of those biscuits ("cookies" had not yet entered the lexicon) were of no concern to me and my friends then. Kolay Biscuits, Sri Jagannath Kolay family's bold venture, and Sri Rama Prasad Kolay's brilliantly executed brainchild, a favorite of the none other than the legendary Uttam Kumar, was a clear favorite of myself and my partner-in-crime Babul. Yet to cross the first decade of our lives, we were foot-loose and fancy free under the collective but benevolent dictatorship of our moms. The neighborhood store, Bhola dokan was our go-to source for such delicacies and Lacto Bonbons. Our meagre funds, acquired from our respective moms after non-stop whining were just sufficient when pooled together. None of us ever worried about any supply chain issues upstream of that corner shop. Bhola always seemed to have just enough stock for us, his favorite customers. That meant he would squirrel away the last few packets, earmarked for us whenever he saw his inventory dwindling. Or so he said and we believed him, no questions asked.

Bhola would reach under the counter and bring the last few packets out from his secret stash. We would dutifully take them to one of the moms to ensure fair and equitable distribution. We trusted and we verified. Neither one of us ever thought about bucking this time-honored system. The biscuits were doled out to the kids one or two at a time for "behaving" and being "good." In reality, I don't recall what those rules were or whether they were truly enforced. We also had no idea what being "good" or "to behave" really meant nor did we care. We were just our usual, normal selves but had stumbled upon the fact that being "good" or "to behave" correlated to "not being caught" in the pursuit of many of our fun-filled activities otherwise frowned upon by the adults.

Generally, full packets of these delights were reserved for adults only for dunking into their endless, steaming cups of tea over hotly discussed boring topics of the day with neighbors. Both the hot chai and the boring topics seemed to flow endlessly even then. The adults would occasionally notice our existence, lurking around in case one of them felt like handing out any of the leftovers. A Kolay Glucose, a Thin Arrowroot or a Parle Gluco could be dispensed to us instead of being sent any back to the kitchen, yes? These pleasure wafers surely weren't for adults only, we would reason privately, but our rebellious voices were very quiet near the adults. Those were the days when children were meant to be "seen, not heard." Any peep was swiftly quelled with a stern look, never needing a meeting between an open-palm and our backside. We had also discovered quite early in our childhood, much to our chagrin, that in spite of the alluring artwork and bold lettering saying otherwise, that large, decorative biscuit tin in my mother's Godrej almirah only held odd buttons of all shapes and sizes, colorful spools of thread, scissors, thimbles, measuring tape and painfully sharp needles. What a letdown.

The only times the "just one or two biscuits" rule was violated was during those travels to grandparental home. Three of my younger maternal uncles got married over successive summers during that decade. My grandparents had, by that time, shifted to the capital city south of the big holy river but they retained their ancestral home way north on the other side. My father was also the first of his generation to have defied family traditions. First by going to a phoren institution for his PhD. And, upon his return, he chose to thumb his nose again at the extended family by moving further south to the tribal belt of the state, away from the cow belt. This was much to the dismay of his peers who saw no good reason for such a reckless act except for utter unsociability. There were unkind snickers from distant relatives, totally concerned about "those" poor children growing up feral, away from influences of civilized society. 

During one of those summers that I can actually remember, our family traveled way north for one such major family gathering. It was a journey with three distinct modes of transport that stand out. Our trip began on an overnight "Express" train. We had a 1st Class 4-berth compartment to ourselves, We boarded in eager anticipation of the fantastic adventures to unfold. People in those days traveled in style or none at all. No nonsense about "packing light." The journeys were undertaken with bulging hold-alls, huge trunks and accompanied by household help. I had watched ours as he packed a large, multi-container tiffin-box under my mom's careful supervision with yummy foods including freshly made puris and train wala aalu bhaji, each bite lightly peppered with fresh golmirch, dusted with tangy aamchur. More importantly, I had spied some packets of Kolay Biscuits being packed as well. The evening repast unfolded at the usual time on the train, community style, using old newspapers as table cloth. We washed it all down with cool sips of water from home, brought along in a terracotta surahi encased in a protective custom-made wooden frame. Bellies full, eyes getting droopy... but no Kolay Biscuits made its appearance. I bit my tongue and hid my disappointment. 'Soon!" I consoled myself.

Excitement kept me and my sisters awake far longer than our normal bedtime. That leg of the trip is memorable more as a testament to our resilience rather than adventure. The reality of the word "Express" hit us quickly with the slow crawl of that train which averaged about 30kmph. Too many wheezing starts, so many loud, long, piercing whistles. It seemed to pause at many stations and in-between "signals" along the way, scheduled or not. There were way too many stops jolting us awake, with loud rattles and shakes. Desolate-looking platforms barely visible from grimy windows under pale lighting. The smell of smoke and fumes of industrial chemicals in the newly discovered word, the shauchaalay was quite overpowering. It entered our family vocabulary - any time we encountered a dirty public toilet after this, one would wrinkle their nose and say, ew! shauchaalay! 

The train kept puffing along intermittently and reached its intended destination around dawn. We were quite bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. But still mostly well-behaved. As we exited the platform, my sisters and I discovered that tonga's were also available outside the station as one of the transportation options, something that we had never seen in our hometown. The younger sister threw a little tantrum and expressed a desire to ride one. The adults surprisingly agreed to this alongside a rickshaw that felt like a camel, after considering all the logistical details, the total number of travelers, the mass of luggage, etc. would fit better and time wasn't a constraint. Following some intense negotiations with the tonga & rickshaw wallahs about the proper route, the correct distance to our destination and the appropriate, just and fair fare, off we went, clippety clop, clippety clop, harness bells jingling. What fun! Until that colorfully adorned horse stopped and decided to take an unscheduled potty-break on the street. Both #1 and #2. Truly a once in a lifetime experience. After that, he re-engaged in his assigned task with total nonchalance. 

We made it to my dadi ji's place which was in a neighborhood close to the holy river, named after the ghat supposedly frequented in the olden days by ladies of the local royalty. We stayed there for a day or two although it felt like eternity. It was a throwback to ancient times, staying in an house that was older than my grandma. The doors were creaky, the windows needed overdue maintenance. The plumbing had seen some updates but the old chapakal (handpump) in the inner courtyard was very much in use. Water tasted... different. It still had a grand total of one single old-timey, squatty toilet, now being shared by twelve... And no Kolay Biscuits in sight yet. My proverbial cup was getting full, to a point that could be termed as "boileth over." Mercifully, this stay was short. 

Next, we took a steamer to cross the holy river to continue our northward trek to the ancestral home. During those days, there was no bridge on the holy river over calm or troubled waters. It was around lunch time when we boarded the lumbering hulk of a watercraft. It was surely a majestic and gleaming vessel once but now a bit of a clunker with barely acceptable level of cleanliness. More food appeared on our table on the deck as the steamer started chugging along at a glacial speed. Cucumber sandwiches made with thick slices of generously buttered white bread, hard-boiled eggs, and ripe bananas. But the spread was being ignored and my mom now sensed that real trouble was brewing. She was drawing upon her years of experience observing the rising tide of finger-wagging, low grumbling, hostile glares, barely muted yelling, tiny fists shaken in the air, verbal challenges thrown and responded to, unfairness appealed, aggrieved looks, etc. etc. The ominous rumblings of an imminent outbreak of violence from my younger sister, the most vocal and least tolerant of us, was accurately picked up by Mom's Early Warning System. The natives, so to speak, were getting quite restless indeed. 

She brought out her best solution, the ultimate Peacemaker. No, not from Colt Manufacturing Co. although she may have considered that option. Several small packets made by Kolay Biscuit Company appeared from the depths of her voluminous handbag and we each got one full packet to ourselves. Calm was restored instantly. They were quite "tasty and nutritious, prepared scientifically using the best ingredients in the most modern way, in accordance with health and nutritional guidelines" (রুচিপ্রদ ও পুষ্টিকর স্বাস্থ্য ও পুষ্টিবিধির নির্দেশনস্ত সেরা উপাদানে বৈজ্ঞানিক উপায়ে আধুনিকতম কলে প্রত্নত). Peace broke out. Adults now sipped their Limca lazily and resumed their post-prandial somnolence, lulled by gentle waves of the holy river with low, summertime water levels. And that was that.

I am sure I have gobbled Kolay Biscuits many more times since that day but none stick in my mind as being that amazingly effective, a true example of positive reinforcement. So I sighed with a great deal of sadness when I heard the sad news and confirmed by a very good family friend who had married into the Kolay clan. 

On this day, may you all bhadralok around the world continue be so lucky as to sing "Rule, Britannia!" while you dunk your biscuits in your lukewarm, bottomless teacups. Or its rival Parle-G as the case may be, as you parlez all the boring current events in person, not over some impersonal WhatsCrapp thread lunacy. And a very fond adieu from a childhood happy place to the one and only... Olé Kolay!

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆