"দাদা, ঝাল দেব তো???", the men asked while mashing the potatoes in a little stall on the streets of Calcutta...
It was five past six in the evening and he frequently kept staring at the watch, which was somehow holding on with his torn edges of low quality leather...
His little Nokia handset had too many notifications that day...And with every yellow blink he quickened his speed. It was his last batch of preparation of the day, as he was found apologizing to everyone for shutting the stall so early.
Washing his hands in an unusual manner he did not want to stain his best clothes.
Sticking his feet on the rusted chains of his old bicycle, he rushed with a laminated paper in his pocket.
In front of an old missionary building in Calcutta he stopped...pulled up a little comb from his pocket and settled his hair.
Firstly, the gatekeeper didn't allow him inside, but then he was called for.

While resting himself on a wooden chair beside his wife and daughter in a huge interview hall of The Missionary Institute under Daughter's of the Cross, he was suddenly asked,"So what do you do for a living?"
The only thing that came out from in between his lips was,
"আমি ফুচকা ওয়ালা "