#fuchka

[zeherili-ankhein]

Fhuchka Or Momo?

Momo 24/7/30/12

Fuchka during bikalbela or when I am in pujor bhir or tbh 23/6

Sometimes I just don't want Fuchka but momo? EVERY SINGLE SECOND I WNAT MOMO AJEGDBDBS

[phalguniroy]

Fuchka Madness | Pani Puri Lover | Street Food Lovers of Kolkata

[spicypungent]

#21 Fuchka one of famous street food. in bangladesh...#food #recipe #shortvideo #spicy #...

[nianscookingdiary]

ঘরে তৈরী পারফেক্ট ফুচকা রেসিপি | Bangladeshi Easy Fuchka Recipe | How To...

[foodfunfantasy]

Let’s enjoy some Dahi Fuchka from Sri Pannalal Sab Chat Center, Howrah 😋😍😘 Do you love their fuchkas !!! Then how much do you love it⁉️⁉️⁉️ . . . #food #dahifuchka #fuchka #fuchkalover #eveningsnacks #delicioussnacks (at Howrah Maidan) https://www.instagram.com/p/CpZXub3vNKK/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[camerist1]

Fuchka

The gentleman above was making me a plate of this delicious snack. At the bottom is the serving he gave me! Tasty, for sure!

[totheidiot]

oh my god, i miss bangladesh so much

[grameenchannel]

নানি-নাতনির ৩ মিনিটে ৬০ টি ফুচকা খাওয়ার বাজি - পানি পুরি চ্যালেঞ্জ Fuchk...

[hadikaesque]

Had a great day ☺

[basantinodance]

JSYK..

friEND boyfriEND girlfriEND doi fuchka

AAHAHAHSHSHS PEOPLE LEAVE BUT DOI FUCHKA DOESN'T ☝🏻

[that-mad-indian-woman]

I want that bengali kind of love.

The afternoon dates in scorching sun while trudging through college street in a kurti, sniffing ancient, ancient books kind of love. The sitting in princep ghaat, watching the Ganga flow by kind of love. The "paarar adda" kind of love; the "Fuchka khabi?" kind of love. I want the passionate political debates kind of love; the saraswati puja's yellow saree dates kind of love. I want the teasing "Didi apnar dara hobe na; chere din" kind of love. I want walking down the gardens of Victoria memorial kind of love. I want the evening jhaalmuri kind of love, the watching bells of dakhineshwar toll at a distance over the Ganga kind of love. I want manna de songs when it rains kind of love. I want rabindrasangeet when the thunder booms outside kind of love.

I want the vintage Kolkata love.

[indigo-pdf]

FUCHKA KHABO

[eeshiwrites]

held in a moment

a collection of vignettes

I.

Strolling along the river, hand in hand, talking mindlessly. Streams of mirth steadily flowing. Suddenly, she spotted a small plant with tiny yellow flowers. Wordlessly, she bent down and picked one of the blooms as gently as she could, bangles chiming at the movement.

In a split second, the flower was tucked safely behind his ear, her phone out to freeze the moment in a picture. A pair of softened eyes followed her every move, lips subtly upturned. As if she was a planet, and he, her moon.

Phone back inside the pocket of her jeans, hair flailing all over courtesy of the riverine breeze, her eyes met his. Tucking the strand gone astray behind her ear, he deftly took out the flower behind his ear and transferred it to hers. Doe eyes shot up to him, a light blush spreading across those chubby cheeks he loved.

"What'd you just do?"

"What? It looks better on you anyway."

She had to look away to conceal the blush.

II.

"Dada, how many for 20?"

The vendor said five, a reply rehearsed one too many times.

He was ready to pull out two fuchka cups, one for himself and another for her. Just before his hand could grab the paper cup, she held it in a vice-like grasp. Turning towards his companion, he found her looking at him with eyes wide as saucers, as if to say, "Are you crazy?"

No, she really said that aloud.

Wordlessly, she dragged him through the humdrum of the bazaar, her hand never leaving his. He followed, unaware that his ears had turned pink—though perhaps she had noticed. There was a lightness in her step, a jump of excitement.

She halted in front of a gupchup stand, fairly secluded from the crowd, and beamed at the vendor. "Dada, two 20-rupee plates please!"

Excitedly grabbing two cups for him and herself, she began recounting her escapades in the same market. She requested that he try the spicier fuchka. He vehemently protested. She made lame jokes, and he looked at her with adoration. And her joy when they'd had eight fuchkas for 20 rupees, had him floored.

Every time she caught him staring, he blushed. And each time, she fell a little deeper.

He had no idea where the time had gone, but he did know one thing: her hand was still holding his when they had to say goodbye—neither of them wanting to let go.

III.

The stakes were high. Anxiety hung thick in the air.

She had entered the room in a flurry—papers spilling from her arms, wobbling in heels she could barely walk in, hair wild and unkempt. The moment she saw him, she found her anchor in the chaos. Yet despite his best efforts, she remained a jittery mess.

Descending the stairs back to reality, he locked his eyes on her, trying to focus. And then it happened—in the blink of an eye.

Bollywood might slow down a scene like this, stretching time to infinity, but in reality, it was over in a snap. Still, they could swear it lasted longer. As she fell, his only instinct was to protect her—not caring that he might fall too, not caring that his freshly dry-cleaned blazer would be dirty. When the dust settled, both were sprawled on the landing of the staircase.

She had expected an injury, and she would have been right—had it not been for the hand cradling her head, saving it from smashing against the concrete. He lay beside her, eyes scanning her for signs of injury.

When they got up, he began to scold her, his eyes filled with concern and love. But all she could think of was how cute he looked—and how lucky she was.

IV.

Her hands and legs couldn't stop shaking with excitement. He'd been smiling all day, a radiant glow on his features.

Call it delusion, but the sunlight seemed brighter that day. When she reached their meeting spot, it was empty. He was late. Somehow, waiting there felt more excruciating than when they were 900 kilometers apart. At least then, there was a clear distance; now, it was just a meager 5 kilometers.

He was colourblind, yet every mundane colour seemed aglow. Poor boy, shuffling his steps, the driver of his ride opting to drive unusually slow—or perhaps it was just his racing mind. As soon as the vehicle stopped, he paid and rushed out. The distance between him and her decreased with each step he took.

When he finally saw her, tears glistened in her eyes, but their faces lit up with smiles that could rival the sun. In a split second, she was in his arms, her arms going around his neck, just like always. They hugged each other as close as humanly possible, enveloped in warmth and comfort, a reunion long overdue—was this what heaven felt like?

Few words were exchanged, yet the two particular pairs of eyes spoke volumes. Needless to say, they had to say goodbye with faces as red as beetroots (from joy, of course!).

Nearly two and a half months. Seventy-three days. One thousand seven hundred sixty-three hours. And finally, home was something tangible—not just a moving image on a phone screen.