Susmita Mukherjee is an Indian author and former teacher at Army Public School, based in Kolkata, India. Her work explores the intersections of labour, resilience, and human tenderness. A trained classical vocalist with a background in IT education and hospitality, she writes with precision and empathy. Her work has appeared in Indian Literature (Sahitya Akademi), Intrepidus Ink, Flash Fiction Magazine (won 2nd place in contest), 2nd Prize in Inkspot Story Competition 2025–26, 2nd Prize in 3 Minute Arts Story Writing Competition 2025–26, Fractured Lit Magazine, Sky Island Journal, BULL Lit Mag, Kitaab, Setu, Epistemic Literary Magazine, Gulmohur Quarterly, Fictive Dream, Literally Stories, Literary Yard, and other journals. Her debut poetry collection, When the Earth Sang of Us: A Meditation on Love, Life and Nature, is available worldwide.
To hear our judges talk about Fuchka Geometry, watch our recorded livestream where we announced the winners of the competition.
“Fuchka Geometry”
If you ever visit Kurmitola Bazaar in Kolkata on a Sunday afternoon, prepare for the most dramatic scene involving a matka of tamarind water, eighteen aluminium plates, and precisely one man convinced that higher education should be compulsory for street food.
That man is Mastermoshai Biplab Sen.
No one remembers who first added the “Mastermoshai.” The name stuck the way strong mustard oil sticks to your fingers – forever, however much you wash. Some say he tutored neighbourhood children once, but others claim he merely shouted instructions during a cricket match in 1989, and the title clung to him like Velcro. Whatever the origin, Biplab himself accepts it with the serene confidence of a man who has never taught but believes he could have, had the government recognised his potential.
His fuchka stall sits precisely between Jiten-da’s pharmacy, famous for selling everything except what you urgently need and the paan shop of Motilal Banerjee, whose chronic cough has a rhythm so predictable that some believe it can be set to a metronome for tabla practice.
On weekdays, the stall is lively. On Sundays, it becomes a pilgrimage site.
By four in the afternoon, a line of customers snakes across the bazaar. Students in faded college T-shirts. Aunties bargaining over vegetables while standing in line. Auto drivers, doing mental math about whether to eat now or after the evening shift. Local Romeo-types with hairstyles defying gravity. People are drawn not just by the promise of fuchkas stuffed with mashed potatoes, green chillies, red chilli powder, coriander, and Biplab’s notorious secret masala. The real attraction is the ritual, Biplab’s tests.
These began a year ago, courtesy of his niece, Mampi.
Mampi was ten, bespectacled, and possessed the academic enthusiasm of someone who had recently discovered that geometry applied to real-life objects. Her school held a math exhibition; she made a poster titled “Circle: Friend or Foe?” featuring carefully drawn fuchkas annotated with circumference formulas. Her teacher placed a gold star sticker on it. Her parents took photos. Her grandmother declared she was the reincarnation of Aryabhata.
Naturally, Biplab was moved beyond reason.
He returned home burning with pedagogical zeal and announced:
“Geometry will guide the family business from today.”
He informed this not to shareholders or a board meeting but to his wife, who was rolling out puris and ignored him as efficiently as only a seasoned spouse can. The next morning, he carried his newfound inspiration to the stall.
And thus began the tests.
Some days, he demanded that customers estimate the radius of a fuchka. Other days, he asked how many would fit in the matka if arranged in a hexagonal packing. On an especially inspired day, he refused service until five customers formed a human pentagon.
The Pentagon day made it to WhatsApp status updates across Kurmitola.
Yet people indulged him because, as the neighbourhood consensus went, “Eh, Biplab is harmless, and the fuchkas are good.”
The trouble started when Riju decided he had had enough.
Riju is twenty-two, tall, lanky, and walks with the particular swagger of someone who is perennially late but never apologises for it. He works part-time at an electronics store, spends most of his salary on repairing his old motorbike, and believes he is destined for greatness if the right person happens to discover him buying cigarettes.
He once told me, “Bro, my horoscope says foreign travel is in my chart.”
I asked, “Foreign where?”
He answered, “Nepal.”
Anyway, Riju has always believed that Biplab’s tests are a personal insult.
“Food should not be conditional,” he declared to me one Sunday. “It is against the principles of democracy and digestion.”
I was behind him in the line, and when he reached the stall, he stood with his arms folded like a revolutionary who expected applause.
“Mastermoshai,” he said, “give fuchka. No exam today.”
Biplab adjusted his glasses. “Everything requires discipline. Today’s question is simple.”
“No question.”
“Then no fuchka.”
Riju glared. “What’s the question?”
With ceremonial flair, Biplab lifted a perfectly round fuchka.
“If this sphere were flattened into a disc, maintaining surface area, what would be the radius of that disc?”
The crowd groaned. A toddler started crying. A teenager whispered, “Is this JEE coaching?” Someone in the back muttered, “I’m just here because the sabziwala cheated me on tomatoes.”
Riju stared at the fuchka, then at Biplab, then at us, his spectators, as if selecting the most dramatic response.
“Fine,” he said. “The answer is… infinity.”
“Infinity?” Biplab repeated, baffled.
“Yes!” Riju thundered. “You cannot flatten the fuchka without destroying its spirit. A sphere has no beginning or end. Therefore, the radius must be infinite like my patience for your exams.”
The line erupted. Some clapped. Mampi gasped. Motilal the paan-man, coughed a celebratory cough.
Biplab considered the answer with the gravitas of a judge at a classical music competition. Then, against all odds, he smiled.
“This is a new perspective,” he admitted. “Infinity wins today.”
And he served Riju fuchkas as if he were serving a visiting dignitary.
From that day, the crowds tripled.
Students arrived with calculators. Retired uncles arrived with dog-eared math books. Someone brought a protractor. Someone else brought a map of India. The bazaar transformed into a strange hybrid of snack stall and academic conference.
The WhatsApp group “Fuchka Think-Tank” was born. It currently has 118 members, most of whom mute it permanently but refuse to exit for fear of missing breaking news.
Now, to explain my involvement.
I don’t come for the math. I come for the spectacle.
Also, the fuchkas, obviously.
But mostly the spectacle.
I’m an accountant by profession and a people-watcher by passion. My Sundays at Kurmitola are an escape from Excel sheets and client phone calls. I observe arguments, alliances, and unusual friendships forming in the line, like the retired headmistress who debates geometry with a Class 7 boy, or the elderly couple who high-five whenever they guess an answer correctly.
My favourite is Sudipto-da, who once claimed Biplab’s spherical fuchkas represented the cyclical nature of the universe. His argument lasted eight minutes and concluded with, “Therefore, I should be given two extra fuchkas for philosophical interpretation.”
Biplab refused.
“You cannot bribe the system with philosophy,” he said.
“But you accepted infinity!”
“Infinity came from clarity. Yours is just confusion.”
One Sunday, around five in the evening, as the fans of the nearby tea stall whirred and buses honked their signature protests down the main road, Biplab introduced a new rule.
“From today onwards,” he announced, “group tasks will be allowed.”
Groans filled the air. People exchanged glances that betrayed both scepticism and excitement. Group tasks meant chaos and potential entertainment.
The question was announced with great drama:
“If a group of five forms a pentagon around this matka, maintaining equal spacing, what is the distance between any two consecutive people?”
“Based on what radius?” someone asked.
“Based on the radius of harmony,” Biplab said mysteriously.
Riju, who had arrived late on his noisy bike, shouted, “That is NOT a measurable unit!”
“Ah, but harmony is the basis of geometry,” Biplab replied, as if quoting a shastra.
The paan-shop uncle coughed vigorously, which many interpreted as agreement.
Eventually, a group of five tried forming a pentagon, but one member kept stepping too close to the fuchka table, nearly knocking over the tamarind water. Another backed into a pile of potatoes. A third insisted on measuring with his phone flashlight.
Chaos. Absolute, delightful chaos.
Biplab rejected them all.
Finally, a group of schoolgirls formed a perfect pentagon simply by holding hands and eyeballing it.
The crowd cheered.
“You pass,” Biplab declared, serving them extra fuchka.
Afterwards, one of the girls confided to me, “Uncle, we didn’t calculate anything. We just made sure none of us were standing next to someone we dislike. That creates perfect symmetry.”
Honestly, I believed her.
Over months, Biplab’s tests evolved.
He introduced emotional geometry.
He introduced metaphysical mathematics.
He introduced a day called “Fibonacci Fuchka Friday,” though everyone pointed out it was Sunday.
He did not care.
Here are some of the questions he asked over the next several weeks:
1. “If the Earth were a giant fuchka, how many fuchkas would fit in a straight line from Kolkata to Shillong?”
42,
9,000,
“Depends on how much water is in the fuchka,”
and one man who said, “Ask Google Maps.”
2. “Why is a circle considered perfect?”
Answers ranged wildly:
42,
9,000,
“Depends on how much water is in the fuchka,”
and one man who said, “Ask Google Maps.”
3. “Can a broken fuchka still be called a fuchka?”
This sparked a heated philosophical debate.
A woman argued, “Everything is still itself after breaking. Look at marriage.”
Her husband looked hurt.
4. “What determines the perfect number of fuchkas for a person?”
Theories included metabolism, mood, zodiac sign, and bank balance.
Biplab shook his head and delivered his now-famous line:
“It depends on the person’s appetite for life.”
The line became a popular Instagram caption for a week.
But behind the fun, something deeper was shifting.
Biplab’s stall had become a meeting point. A community. A place where strangers met every Sunday, not just to eat but to talk, debate, joke, and momentarily forget the monotony of their week.
Some people came even when they weren’t hungry.
Some came out of habit.
Some came because even if no one admitted it out loud, the tests made them feel strangely alive.
And somewhere along the way, even Biplab softened. He no longer barked questions like a drill sergeant. His mathematical tyranny had mellowed into play.
One Sunday, I arrived early and found him sitting quietly, pouring tamarind water into the matka.
“Mastermoshai,” I asked, “what will the question be today?”
He didn’t look up. “Today,” he said, “there is no question.”
“No question?”
He nodded. “People are tired. Let them eat peacefully.”
“But they enjoy the drama,” I pointed out.
“Even drama needs rest,” he said.
I said nothing. There was something in his tone, a hint of something unspoken.
Around five o’clock, the line gathered, and confusion spread quickly when he began serving without exams. People exchanged glances. Someone whispered, “Is he unwell?” Mampi looked worried.
Finally, Riju asked bluntly, “Mastermoshai, what happened?”
Biplab smiled gently. “You don’t need tests to earn fuchka. You never did.”
The crowd fell silent.
Then someone in the back shouted, “But we LIKE the tests!”
And the bazaar broke into laughter.
For the next few weeks, Biplab alternated between test days and free days. People adapted. The line remained long.
One evening, though, something unusual happened.
The municipality workers arrived.
They carried red paint, measuring tape, and a clipboard. Their stern expressions caused immediate panic. People whispered about fines, license checks, unapproved carts, classic concerns of small vendors.
Biplab froze.
One of the officers approached him. “This stall creates too much crowd. It blocks traffic.”
The crowd murmured angrily.
“But sir,” Mampi said bravely, “this is cultural heritage!”
Her mother hissed, “Let the grownups talk.”
The officer sighed. “You must shift your stall behind the pharmacy. Otherwise – penalty.”
The crowd erupted.
“This is injustice!”
“What about the illegal bus stand? That blocks half the road!”
“Why target fuchka? Go target the sweet shop charging double!”
To everyone’s surprise, Biplab quietly said, “It’s fine. I’ll shift.”
The officer, confused, wrote something on his clipboard and left.
The crowd protested.
“Mastermoshai, fight back!”
“Don’t give up so easily!”
“Start a petition!”
Biplab shook his head, smiling mildly. “Geometry teaches us. If the centre shifts, the circle must adjust.”
And the new location, slightly hidden, slightly darker, became the new gathering spot.
People followed him faithfully.
Even the municipality workers must have realised this because after a week, no one bothered checking again.
Months passed.
One Sunday in winter, when the air smelled faintly of smoke from roasted peanuts and the sky had the crisp clarity only Kolkata winters can produce, Biplab asked his most unusual question yet.
He lifted a fuchka, held it between his thumb and index finger like a planet suspended in orbit, and said:
“If life were a fuchka, where would you place yourself in the shell, in the stuffing, or in the water?”
The crowd fell silent.
Then discussions broke out.
One college girl said she would be the stuffing because she had layers.
A middle-aged man said he was the shell, fragile but holding everything together.
A grandmother declared she was the tamarind water, unpredictable and slightly explosive.
Riju said, “I am the person eating the fuchka.”
People burst into laughter.
Then someone asked, “Mastermoshai, what about you?”
Biplab said nothing for a long moment. Then:
“I think I am the small crack on the shell. Not big enough to break anything, but enough to remind you that nothing is perfect.”
For the first time, the bazaar fell completely quiet.
And I realised then that behind his jokes, behind the geometry, behind the theatrics, Biplab had been teaching something all along.
Not math.
Not logic.
But the art of looking closely.
At objects.
At people.
At life.
Last Sunday, something unusual happened.
I reached the stall early, but Biplab wasn’t there. Instead, Mampi was setting the counter, her small hands arranging the plates with more precision than her uncle ever did.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“At home,” she said. “Stomach upset. He said the tests continue.”
“So, who asks the question?”
“I do.”
She adjusted her spectacles with the solemnity of a judge taking the bench.
The crowd shifted uncomfortably. The idea of being examined by a ten-year-old produced a unique form of dread.
“What’s the question today?” someone asked.
She lifted a fuchka with academic reverence.
“If one day,” she said, “my uncle stops coming… who will keep the stall running?”
No one spoke.
Then she added, “That’s the question. You may answer however you want.”
One woman whispered, “We will all help.”
An uncle said, “The bazaar will support you, beta.”
A teenager murmured, “We’ll volunteer.”
Riju declared, “I will protect this stall with my bike.”
Mampi listened, nodded, and served each person a fuchka with a smile so determined and so heartbreakingly hopeful that even Motilal’s cough paused for a moment.
That night, I dreamt of fuchkas bursting like fireworks in the sky, no symbolism intended, simply the visual result of eating too many.
This week, Biplab returned, slightly thinner, but glowing.
His first words were:
“I heard the Think-Tank passed the test in my absence.”
The crowd applauded loudly.
He waved his hand. “Today, no question.”
“Why?” Riju protested.
“Because sometimes,” Biplab said, “the answer arrives before the question.”
And in that moment, surrounded by cracked shells and tamarind water, I understood:
The tests had never been about solving anything.
They had simply been about gathering.
About curiosity.
About laughter.
About life.
Like a sphere that refuses to flatten.
Like a fuchka that never bursts.
Or perhaps bursts at just the right moment.
No one knows when this tradition will end. Or if it even should.
But next Sunday, like always, I’ll be there.
And when Biplab lifts a fuchka toward the sky and asks, “Ready for today’s question?” I’ll say yes.
Even if I don’t know the answer.
Even if no answer exists.
Because in Kurmitola Bazaar, on Sunday evenings, we are all part of the geometry now.