The Bengali 'talks' at a very different level. And by level, I necessarily mean decibel level.

Once, I heard a loud fight going on between our guesthouse keeper, Narayan, and the cook, Bapida. Given the fact that I pride myself on being able to resolve any quarrel, I reached there to allow peace to reign. However, when questioned, it turned out to be an innocent discussion about the day's vegetable prices. Each day as I sit to watch the television, I have to unfailingly close the kitchen door so that both of them can 'talk' in peace.

The decibel level of a normal Bengali conversation is quite higher than a typical roadside brawl in Mumbai; it is quite evident from Narayan's remark that in the three years of his service he had never seen ears as sensitive as mine!

But their language is sweet. I remember my uncle always joking that a Bengali speaks with two roshogullas in his mouth with the 'O's being more prominent than the 'A's. Before I left, he had advised me that an easy way to speak Bengali would be to have roshogullas stuck in your mouth, one on each side, and try speaking Hindi.

What we both overlooked was the sweetness the roshogulla lent to the language. Listening to a Bengali song transports you to a whole new world of softness and richness, and even the omni-critical Sir Vidia has been honest to admit that but for Bengali, there is no other Indian language whose literary exploits is acclaimed. Coming from Naipaul, it surely is a thing to cherish.

The Bengali script is very artistic - the curves and arcs of delightful variations making writing seem like freehand drawing. You feel that the letters are real and are talking to you. Amit Chaudhari says: 'A 'ba' seeming like a big belly guy, trying to burp out his gases. The 'pha' appears like a dancing man, his hands and legs locked in a perpetual Nataraja pose.' There are so many of these picturesque letters that one can spend time talking with the letters and making a story out of it.

Respect for each other is seldom heard in the voices, as much as it is heard in the words. Each older person is referred to with a "da" suffixed to his name ("di" if it's a lady). At office, we keep hearing "Arindam-da"s "Dibaker-da"s and "Amit-da"s. "Dear" never seems a worthy substitute for the Bengali's very own "da". Even emails are found to start with "Dilip-da," instead of "Dear Dilip."

Often one finds a Bengali walking as if without a worry in the world, as if time is at a standstill. 'Haste makes waste' is ingrained in his blood, and when compared to Mumbai, the seconds hand and the minutes hand of the clock seem to lose all significance. It is quite typical to see a Bengali standing at a corner and gazing around utterly lost in some or the other profound thought. I see a person at the gates of our guesthouse - every day - morning and evening. He sits there and does nothing - except cleaning his ears with a matchstick.

All his intellect and cordiality however end when it is a question of money. Then he becomes very calculative. I remember this story I heard of a Bengali going to a shop and asking for one cigarette. The cigarette priced at Rs.1.40 should have got back 60p for him; the shopkeeper returned 50p for lack of the 10p. The person went there for four days, each day accumulating the 10p to finally buy the cigarette for a rupee on the fifth day!

Narayan, our guesthouse keeper, is a jovial fellow and a sort of a ready-reckoner to the latest Hindi movies. Show him a landscape (even the villain's hideout will do) and he will tell you the name of the movie, its actors, actresses, and whether or not you should watch the movie. He is, at the same time, lazy and ready to serve! Each night, he and Bapida watch movies till late and then I have a hard time waking them up for my morning tea. Since he locks the door and doesn't let me have a key, I cannot even go out. If I do not demand breakfast, he takes great pleasure in going back to bed. But if unfortunately I do ask him for my breakfast, then there is a cold war between him and Bapida. His argument is: "Bapida is old, why does he need so much sleep?" to which Bapida replies, "Narayan is young, so why does he need so much sleep?" In between their quarrels, I barely manage to catch the bus.

Narayan's readiness to learn new dishes (since it's again concerned with food) is to be appreciated and yesterday we had a nice time cooking dal and bhendi fry together. I did not charge him any fees for my consulting time, but found a reward enough when he came and told me quite honestly (forgive the grammar since it is his, not mine), "Sachin saar, yeh dal to bahoot acha hain. Aisa dal to maine zindagi main nahin khaya hain. Sirf dal hi kha rahe hain, rice to chahiye hi nahin. Lekin bhindi bilkool acchi nahin lagi."

I cringed at his last sentence - he could have been a bit more discreet!

Once at a hotel, when my friend ordered his third round of Bacardi, the waiter told him, "Sir, why are you buying a whole lime cordial for a single peg? I will give you some lime cordial to go with this peg of yours, free of cost!" Try finding such people elsewhere.

Whatever his shortcomings are, the average Bengali person scores highly in his passionate approach to life. In a society where controlling your passions is considered a sign of good upbringing, the Bengali is courageous in following his passions without any inhibitions. He wears his heart on his sleeve.

Kolkata though a metro still retains at its core the traits of village life - simplicity and warmth. People here stand by W.H. Davies' words:

What is this life if full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare?

The simplicity of Narayan resides in each Bengali's heart.