"there are,on the average,about 20 traffic accidents in kolkata every month"
"Ei Karunamoyee..karrrunamoyee...kolyamoyee...seat khali..assun assun.." --
the conductor did not scream his advert,and that was what woke me up with a jolt. I was minutes into a Garia-karunamoyee -- apparently conductors in the route are too gentle to shout ( they are usually gentle except when it comes to granting student's concession)--and this conspicuous absence disallowed my drifting into slumber.
I know this beautiful lady who resides in Gariahat. Calling her on includes listening to the sales pitch of every hawker,the hustle of a streetfight over a wrongly placed paan spit,and the misfit Beethoven playing between traffic announcements. It appears as if the whole old city,with all her cosmopolitan vibration is breaking through us,thus inevitably(and perhaps unwittingly) providing a noisy disquiet of privacy. Try taking your beloved to an afternoon in the Indian Coffee House for first hand demo.
Coming back,this friend of mine says she cannot sleep in quieter places because of the conspicuous absence of the din that resides in her subconscious ,thus playing a part in all routine,pre-meditated responses. Thus was I jolted back from a siesta that never was.
The clouds had sewn darker as they boarded,while a breeze brought a soothing old melody from afar.
"Oi seat tai boshun" [Sit there]
--the conductor pointed to a forlorn single seat.
The man was dark and reeked of family life. As is so often the case with such men,he had on an unstarched khadi that bore bites of bidi, and proudly wore his travails,struggles and sacrifice in a faint smirk. One never notices their trousers. He was a father,bringing his daughter from school.
The daughter was a playful young flower,probably in the early embrace of puberty. She was not fair but there was a glow,of innocence or of promise. She wore the essentials of her generation-- a heavy schoolbag and grim spectacles,over her blue striped uniform. You noticed her uniform because the suffused light beneath the dark veil of cloud whispered to you to take note. While the pallid weather waited in anticipation, the father took her schoolbag on the one free hand. He was bringing her home.
I was once hopelessly with a girl (she's blossomed to a beautiful lass now) back in class 5.She ,shockingly, liked a sophomore moustachioed Guy. I understand now,it was conniving Mother nature at that age,that charmed her to look for an object of hero-worship,a MAN of freedom and a past (of achievements and disrepute).Our girl evidently hero-worshipped her father.
"kota baaje re maa?" [What's the time, maa] [Its comon among Bengali fathers to call their daughters, maa]
"Baba,12ta.." [baba, it's 12]
"Tor 12ta baaje ni toh?!"--(chuckle) [old, silly joke]
The kid looked around with a little unease,and then broke into convulsive giggles.By then She was sitting on his lap because there weren't any vacant seats,because he had asked her to :
"Maa amar kole-e bosh" [Maa, sit on my lap]
She sat happily,but she had shot a furtive glance at her bright surroundings. She seemed vulnerable,but she was secure with her father around,she smiled brightly.
"Patuli,2to" [2 tickets for Patuli]
--she paid from her purse while Father looked away with a solemn contentment--kids love their first taste of authority!
A heavy woman,her dark belly visible from beneath her pastel brown saree
presently obscured my view. I could still hear her chirping,interjected by Father's dim,affectionate mumbling. A toddler behind them asked his mom:
"Maa,shibthakur ki khub raagi?" [Maa, is shiva a very angry god?]
And without vision or hearing I could feel She dissolving into peels of laughter and feel father gently patting her back. Just as in foolish first love the familiar road,hazy smoke with its lonely beggar screaming hunger,its fearful mongrel and screeching auto,suddenly appears new and wonderful,so did a sudden memory appeared to clog over my thinking.
There was a stout tree rooted in my childhood that bore white flowers every day.I remember once sitting intently beside,missing an entire scorching day of Cricket,fights and blessed corporation tube-wells,to actually see a flower bloom. The flower never allowed me,but I remember a vine that crept on growing,like a knot,around that tree.And then I saw her again,sitting on his lap chin up,melting into tides of mirth and occasionally looking at the people around with slight hesitance. Why was that for? Approval?Pity?But why so,when she looked so proud,both of them and the moment?
"kaku ekhane rakhben" [Uncle please halt here]
--she muttered while the conductor ensured that the bus came to a safe complete halt. The Sun reappeared again crushing hopes,of rain in particular. Father stood up,bag in his shoulder and her fingers clasping to the free hand. She winced once at the sun that was about to blind the world with merciless clarity. He stepped down the stair first,daughter followed coyly,leaning on her father,smiling sweetly all the time--it was impossible not to notice the admiration in her eyes. SHE WAS BEING TAKEN HOME.
His stick made a metallic clang on the road,he adjusted his dark glasses once. The plump benign woman now sat at the solitary handicap's seat ( it spelt 'handicaft',perhaps evolving from handicraft,a crude irony really if one considers each mortal as GOD's handicraft). The man from the dark walked content beside the wise school girl. Father had brought back the little girl home through the perilous traffic.
