Boltu-da fancies himself the 'James Bond' of our neighborhood, even though his daily missions usually involve buying blood pressure medicine for his aunt or gossiping at the tea stall. One afternoon, he called me over with a grave expression. "Listen, Poltu. Tonight is 'Operation Rasgulla'!"
I stared at him, confused. Boltu-da raised his broken umbrella like a sword. Here was the deal: Habu-da, the stingiest man in the district, was getting married. To save money on the feast, he issued a challenge. He announced that only those who could bypass his high-security home and "steal" the giant pot of Rajbhog (king-sized Rasgullas) from his fridge would get a royal invitation for their entire family. The catch? If caught, you'd have to wash the wedding dishes for a month.
"It's a matter of my dignity, Poltu," Boltu-da declared. "No one but I can pull off this heist." At midnight, we scaled Habu-da's boundary wall. Boltu-da was dressed in a black T-shirt and a lungi—for maximum "aerodynamics," he claimed. As we crept toward the veranda, a deep, gravelly voice echoed from the shadows: "Who goes there?"
The Suspense: Boltu-da clicked on his flashlight, only to see a pair of glowing red eyes staring directly at us!