Once upon a time, in a little village in Bengal called Sonarpara, there lived a Brahmin. He had a peculiar fate. He could never eat his fill at any feast on any occasion. Something would invariably happen to interrupt his meal. He bemoaned his luck, but whether he ate fast or he ate slowly, he found he could not cheat his fate. That was fate, had written for him, and that is what happened every time.
Once he was invited to take part in a festival at the local Maharaja's palace and stay for the feast. As you could imagine, he was very pleased. He told his wife: "This time I feel I'll be able to eat my fill. Please get my clothes washed so that I'll look presentable at the palace."
So, wearing freshly laundered and crisply starched dhoti-kurta, the Brahmin set off for the palace. He went past the lush green paddy fields and the rolling meadows, admiring the beautiful kash phool nodding their heads in the breeze.
When he reached the palace, he was welcomed cordially. He sat down for his meal and the servants placed a silver plate for him and served him most respectfully and hospitably. The Brahmin looked at the plate in front of him and his eyes popped out: there was maccher jhol, of course, and there was alu postho and begun bhaja, apart from the most divine rice, dripping with ghee, and there was jalpai chutney and, of course, mishti doi and twenty varieties of simply divine sweets. And there were many other dishes, too.
