How a cotton candy seller became the magician of our youth

For those of us swallowed by the grey concrete of urban life, the village often feels like a fading dream. Yet, for many, the foundation of the soul was laid in those green fields. Whether we lived in ancestral homes or in a three-story government quarter, the journey from childhood to adolescence was narrated by the sounds of travelling vendors.

The magic of the 'Lace-Ribbon' box

To a young girl, the 'Lace-Fita' man wasn't just a seller; he was a curator of dreams. His glass box was a three-tiered kingdom of glass bangles and 'stone' bindis. Md. Imran, reminiscing about the girls in his neighbourhood, recalls, "I remember how the entire street would change when that call echoed. My sisters would scramble for their saved coins. It wasn't just about the ribbons; it was the ritual of the 'magic box' opening." "For us boys, it was the signal that the afternoon's play was about to be interrupted by a flurry of feminine excitement," he added. For many, these boxes were the site of their first 'beauty experiments' as the first smear of blue eyeshadow or the fascination with a long, stone-encrusted steep that made one feel like a character out of a Jibanananda Das poem.

The 'Hawai Mithai'

Before the vanity of adolescence took over, our tongues led our adventures. The 'Hawai Mithai' (Cotton Candy) seller was the ultimate magician. Housed in a blue wooden frame, those pink spheres were the highlights of our golden afternoons. Mohammad Shawkat Ali, from Luxmibazar, now 70, looks back at a time when the world moved more slowly. He said, "In my day, we didn't have fancy packaging. The seller would ring his bell a specific ting-ting, and we'd run barefoot. I'd trade a tiny silver coin for a cloud of sugar that disappeared the moment it touched my tongue. It felt like eating a piece of a sunset. Today's store-bought packets have the sugar, but they lack the magic of the man with the bell.'

The thrill of 'Hajmi'

Then there was the Hajmi, that mysterious, ash-colored digestive powder that parents loved to hate. We were told it was made of charcoal, a 'health hazard' designed to keep us away, but the forbidden nature only made it sweeter. Amena Begum, a 40-year-old homemaker from Wari, laughs as she recalls her school days with Hajmi. "Oh, the Hajmi! During the tiffin period at school, we would huddle in a corner, hiding from the teachers. We'd buy a stick of that black powder for one taka, mix it with extra salt and chili, and lick it off our palms. It was our 'guilty pleasure.''

"It wasn't quite sour, not quite sweet, but it was a thrill. Even now, if I think of that sharp, tangy taste, my mouth waters. It tastes like friendship and stolen tiffin breaks," she added.

The sweetness of delicate 'Sonpapri'

Finally, there was the Sonpapri, not the sticky, commercial version we see today, but the powdery, melt-in-your-mouth variety wrapped in thin paper.

An eight-anna coin could buy you a world of delight. Now it costs 5 taka per piece. It was a time when sixteen-anna (complete) satisfaction didn't require a credit card, just a few loose coins and a sharp ear for the vendor's call. Though our heart still claims to be 'sweet sixteen,' the reality of adulthood has pulled me away from those dusty village paths. Yet, in quiet moments, we can still hear the tinkling bell of the cotton candy man and the rhythmic call of 'Lace-Fita,' reminding us of a childhood that, while gone, remains beautifully entwined in my soul.