I recently attended a family wedding in Raniganj, a town in West Bengal as stereotypically “small-town India” as is possible. I discovered two things that small-town folk love to flaunt and flex about.

First, their encyclopaedic knowledge of religious dates – when Ekadashi falls, what astrological shenanigans are tied to Mahashivratri this year and so on. Second, an uncanny knack for unearthing obscure food joints famed for their hyper-specific delicacies.

One evening, we cousins were lounging about, doing what cousins do best – absolutely nothing – when a craving for samosas swept through the room like a sudden summer storm. The collective gaze turned toward my cousin Bhola, a bona fide Raniganj local and, by virtue of geography, the logical choice for samosa procurer-in-chief. But Bhola, as I observed with slight amusement, looked like a man who’d been unjustly sentenced to hard labour.

When the pressure started to build on Bhola, his discomfort grew palpable. He fidgeted, cleared his throat and cast mournful glances at the door, as if it led to a Rohit Shetty film instead of the market. Just when it seemed his surrender was inevitable, inspiration struck him like a lightning bolt. His eyes lit up, his posture straightened and...

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