His Mom, My Dad...

         “Don’t”, Taneya muttered. I looked at the boy. He was sweating profusely, and he looked very tired and lost.

         My mind wasn’t working. It wasn’t supposed to, after what the doctor told me two hours ago. In the auto from Devi Shetty hospital to Jadavpur University, those lines constantly played in my mind- “Asish, I’m really sorry to tell you this. Your father’s hands are in very bad condition. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to save both of them. Perhaps the left hand can be restored....”

         Restored. Well said, doc! How about restoring my dad’s life when he realises after coming back to his senses that his right hand’s gone? How about restoring my mom’s? Or fucking mine? My little sister. Can you restore her life? No you can’t. No one can. Give me the papers. I’ll sign them.

         I went straight to the university to inform the HOD that I wouldn’t be able to appear for the semester. I was waiting outside his room when someone tapped my shoulder.

         “Dada, amar maa khub oshushtho. Kaal train-e onar daan paa ta kata gachhe. Uni NRS-e bhorti. Hoyto banchben na. Daktar babu bolechhen onek taka lagbe jodi...”

          I stood there, seeing myself in him. Perhaps he saw himself in me too. “Don’t”, Taneya muttered, when I took out my wallet. I had only two hundred-rupee notes. I gave him one, and asked him “koto lagbe?” He needed nine hundred more to urgently buy an injection and medicines. I took him with me to the Bengali and Economics departments. Friends from my department gave him whatever they could. Two hours later, he went back to his mother. That was the only good thing that happened that day.

         It was my first day at the university after a gap of two months. Dad was still in a hospital, stable now, and my mother and sister had gone back to Kharagpur. My life was divided into attending classes and being with dad. Our lives turned out to be a prolonged nightmare after the accident. But I was fast getting used to it. And I was impatient that Amlan Da was late. I was craving for his class, because that was the only thing that could keep my mind away from the mess that I was in. There were around thirty of us in the classroom. Taneya was beside me, telling me what delicacies her mom had sent for both of us. Suddenly a boy walked in, and all of us looked at him. He wasn’t a student, for sure. Even before one of us could ask him why he was there, he began to talk. “Dada ra, amar maa khub oshushtho. Kaal train-e onar daan paa ta kata gachhe. Uni NRS-e bhorti. Hoyto banchben na. Daktar babu bolechhen onek taka lagbe jodi onake bachate hoy...”

         “You bastard!” Taneya lunged at him. He ran away. The whole class was silent. Taneya sat down beside me and hugged me tightly. “It’s ok Asish”, she said. It's ok...

That Muslim on the Train...

It was very hot and humid that day; and I was late. The local train was placed on platform number one, and Purulia Express was to leave from seventeen. I ran with my heavy bag, dodging and hitting people on all sides, tendering and receiving apologies and expletives in an extremely crowded Howrah station. When I finally discovered my seat in D1, I didn’t like the sight of it. There were smudgy shoe-stamps, torn newspapers and enough water to make everything disgustingly muddy. And there was a man sitting right next to the mess, observing me intensely.

“I cleaned up a part of this to make a little room for myself,” he said with a wry smile. I looked at him properly for the first time. A little head on a proportionately crafted torso, with heavily sun-burnt and hairy hands, and two sticky legs were all that made him. He had sparse hair at the back of his head, and hence his forehead stretched itself through the bald head with all the freedom in the world. His nose was like a small sandy mound on a vast sea beach, and his teeth were horribly stained red. He wore terry cotton pants and a plain cotton shirt. His old golden watch could hardly be seen in his hairy hand. His beard gave away his religion.

His name was Mashook. He introduced himself just after the ticket-checker had checked our tickets; I hadn’t put my earphones back in my ears. He started talking about something very front-page, and I was quite surprised to discover the depth of his knowledge and the accuracy of his facts. I immediately put back my MP3 player in my pocket and started sharing my views on that matter with him. An hour later when it was time for me to disembark at Kharagpur, I really wished to spend some more time with him. And to my pleasant astonishment I realised that I had been addressing him as Mashook Shaheb. It was I who asked for his phone number. He gave me his card. He was the Chief Judicial Magistrate of Siuri. We shook hands before I got down, and in a very warm and friendly voice he said “Professor, it was really nice talking to you. I hope we will keep in touch. Have a great life”.

Since my school days I have been asked a number of times about my hobbies. My friends know that I have four. I love meeting new people and making friends. I like to watch films. I enjoy listening to songs for hours together, and I write. I have made many friends on trains and buses, and even hospitals; but no one had ever been a decade older than me. No one who was a decade older gave me the respect that Mashook Shaheb did that day. So I decided that I would keep in touch with him. And I did.

Ours is a cool friendship. Whenever any one of us goes home by the Purulia Express, he calls the other person to check if coincidentally the latter is going home by the same train that weekend. We wish each other on religious occasions too. A few months ago he called me one morning. He had seen a real estate ad in a newspaper, and wanted me to check if the property was worth buying. The property was in Belur. I found out that it would be a bad investment, and told him so. But I wanted him to come to Belur and check for himself. He refused, and told me that he trusted my judgement. He also asked me whether he should admit his son to a Ramakrishna Mission residential school. Ever since we met two years ago, with every phone call we have built on our trust and deep friendship. It always feels good to talk to him for a few minutes. I have rarely seen another honest man like Mashook Shaheb.

A few days ago I went to a place called Nalhati to attend a friend’s wedding. On the day I was supposed to return, cancellation of trains and a political agitation upset all my plans. My friend wanted me to stay back, but I had to go to Kharagpur. It was Maa’s birthday, and I wanted to give her a surprise in the evening. I had never been to Nalhati before, and hence didn’t know how to go to Kharagpur from there. Because of the cancellation of trains and the political agitation on the highway, neither trains nor buses could take me out of the place. After sitting in the bus for two hours, I remembered that Mashook Shaheb resides in Siuri. I had no idea about how far away Siuri was from Nalhati, except for the fact that both are in North Bengal. I called him nevertheless, and narrated my plight. He told me that he would come and take me to his home from Nalhati in his official vehicle. That vehicle with a red beacon no one would dare stop, he assured me. I asked him how he would manage to come out of work in the middle of the day, and he said “But this is my responsibility too, my friend! Don’t worry about all that. I’ll manage things here. You stay in the bus till I arrive.”

Soon after that conversation that day the bus began to move. The police arrived and removed the agitators from the road. I called Mashook Shaheb and told him that he need not come, and that I would have to go home that day to be with Maa. But I needed help with the bus route, because originally I was to travel by train from Bolpur, but missed it due to the agitation. From that time, till I reached home at eight in the evening, Mashook Shaheb called me every hour, to enquire if everything was alright. I was deeply touched by his care and concern.

I have not met Mashook Shaheb since the time I first saw him on that hot and humid day in June, two years ago; but today he is one of my closest friends. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how we meet certain people in the most bizarre and hostile situations in life, and create relationships that last for a lifetime?

That Night in Belur...

My phone began to ring. It was so breezy that at first I thought that the sound was coming from a distance. I took out the phone. It was Betu. “Dada, where are you right now? I want to meet you,” he said. “Beta, I can’t meet you now. I’m a little busy” I replied. There was a pause on the other end, and then he said “You don’t sound okay, Dada. Is everything alright? Please tell me where you are right now!” he begged.

I looked at the Ganges in front of me. The water mirrored the lights of the buildings and factories on the other bank. The reflections shivered on the waves. It was cold, it was dark, and I was alone on an obscure ghat in Belur. I was trying to take a decision. I was thinking whether there was any point in my living anymore.

“Beta,” I said, “do you love me?” His panicked voice resounded from the phone, “Yes, Dada, of course. Why are you asking such questions today? Please tell me what has happened! Please tell me where you are! Please, Dada, don’t do anything rash!” He started crying. My brother. But today I would not let even him bring me back.

When dad was on ventilation in the hospital and the doctors had said that he may not live, I had stared at his face for a long time one evening. It was full of pain and sadness. Perhaps he had sensed that his right hand had been amputated. I had put my palm on his forehead and told him, “Baba, don’t worry. Everything will be alright. I’ll soon complete the M.A. and get a job. We’ll be fine, you’ll see.” He was very happy when I scored a high percentage in M.A. He hugged me and wept when I got my job offer letter. He was ecstatic when I told him about my registration in a Ph.D programme. For two years it seemed I had indeed succeeded in bringing him back to his normal self.

For those two years she had constantly been by my side. In every moment of happiness and crisis she had shared my emotions; she had kept telling me that everything would be fine soon. She told me that I was her hero; that she had never loved anyone more than me. Our parents were getting ready for our wedding. Everything would indeed be fine again, I had begun to believe. Until she left me. Why did such a young and lovely human being have to die? Why was God so bent on destroying me?

I would not be able to face my parents with the news. I would not be able to fight another big battle to organise my life. My life, of which perhaps nothing more remained. The Ganges seemed to be the only place where nothing bad and scary would touch me again. It was time to go.

I suddenly felt someone’s palm on my shoulder. “Don’t even think about dying,” his angry voice ordered. And then he began to sob. “Don’t leave me, Dada, please don’t leave me. He hugged me tightly and kept saying, "amake ebhabe chhere choley jeo na Dada...tumi choley gele amio morey jabo..." His tears wet my chest. I slowly put my hands around him and kissed his forehead.

Life wouldn’t let go of me yet, I realised.

Passion Revisited

I have always loved cricket. I played a lot too, when I was younger. Now that I am twenty seven, and professionally engaged for most part of the week, I rarely get the time to play the game. Instead, I sometimes find time to watch a match or two.

Recently, a jazz team from America performed in our college. The students as well as teachers were very excited about the concert. It was surely going to be the experience of a lifetime, we said to each other. On the day of the programme, at the notified time, all the teachers and students went to the auditorium. Now, our college shares its campus with a school that is run by the same trust. So we have one big auditorium in the school building, where programmes of both the institutions are held from time to time. Just outside the auditorium is the play ground of the school. This ground is clearly visible from the window of our college’s staff room, and I often spend hours enjoying watching the kids of the school play cricket. How I wish at times to run out of our building and join them!

On the day of the jazz concert when I reached the auditorium, I found that the programme was yet to begin. Although my students requested me to take my seat, I chose to walk out and headed towards the play ground where around fifteen teenagers were playing cricket, under the watchful supervision of their sports instructor. The instructor was seated some furlongs away from the seat of action, and on seeing me walking towards him he rose from his chair and welcomed me to the field. Another chair was brought, and I sat beside him and we began chatting about various things. My mind kept slipping away from our conversation to the game on the field. After a few minutes he noticed this and asked me if I was interested in the game. I told him that I have never gone to any stadium to watch a game of cricket live because I have always thought that I would not be able to control myself and perhaps jump on to the field to play, and get arrested by the police. Hearing this, the instructor smiled and asked whether I would like to join the kids on the ground. I said I would love to, provided they are not told that I am a teacher at the college, because if they are, they would not be comfortable playing with me.

After about five years I played cricket intensely for two hours that day. It was a wonderful experience, playing with those energetic and enthusiastic young kids and matching up to their performances. I was surprised to discover that I had not lost my skills, despite such a long gap. Even the kids were surprised by my performance, and kept asking whether I was on any good team somewhere. Every time I bowled one of them out, the others would come running towards me and jump on me, hug me, or pat me. All this brought back my childhood days, when I played cricket every day, and enjoyed such admiration and adulation from my team mates.

I missed the jazz performance that day, but I gained something that would stay for a long time with me. As we grow up, life sucks us into its complicated and uncontrollable whirlpools, and our unadulterated and innocent childhood gets sealed in a coffin, and we forget all about the most beautiful part of our existence. When the kids were finally told that I am a professor at the college, they were very ashamed of their spontaneous actions on the field; perhaps they were a little frightened too, but I told them that I did not want them to know that I am a teacher because otherwise we would not have had so much fun together for those two hours. On that day I made friends with some wonderfully bright and sporting kids, and my favourite game again played a catalyst in the process.

Hockey...

My blood has more cricket and bollywood than red blood corpuscles and
haemoglobin. I've never really tested my patience with any other game.
But just now I watched a Pakistan-England Hockey World Cup match...and
I was floored. What a game hockey is! Now if you ask me to define
hockey,I would say it's cricket and football clubbed together. The raw
pace and stamina is that of football's,but it's played with a bat and
a kind of deuce ball. It's so much more difficult to tackle/dribble
with the ball,with a bat while running at a cheeta's pace. Anyone who
loves to watch 'corners' in football should watch them in hockey. This
particular battle between two great teams ended in a 5-2 result in
England's favour. But every minute of the game kept any team's win a
possibility. I think I'll watch some more hockey now. I love the game.
And there was something funny in this match. The names of the English
players. How? Sample this,then. There was a Jonty Clark (in cricket we
have a Jonty Rhodes [S.A] and a Michael Clark [Aus]). Watch
hockey,people. It's an amazing game. Let's support our team in this
World Cup...

--
Sent from my mobile device

An Early Morning Trip Back...

1st March,2010, 5:30am, En route to Arambagh from Joypur
Well,it's not exactly 'early morning'. It's 5:45. But the scenes
outside my bus-window are just AWESOME. I mean,I have woken up much
before 5:30 a lot of times,but breaking sleep in a city and in a
village are two entirely different experiences. It's cool and
fresh,the environment here,as my bus rockets through sleeping villages
of the dawn,from Joypur towards Arambagh. The only similarity with my
dear,dear Kolkata is the irritating honking of the old,demonish
vehicle. But well,one cant possibly hope to have everything without
asking... Thus I zoom into March with a special memory that'll stay
for a long,long time. Welcome To March With Me...

--
Sent from my mobile device

A Journey To Another World...

27th February,2010, 9:40pm, Joypur, Bankura
Dad worked in the Indian Railways. Since my birth,the only other place
I considered a second home was a train-compartment. I know people who're
extremely uncomfortable travelling by trains,but I sleep best in a
moving train. I love making friends,and this too happens best on a
long journey by train. Besides,the railway fraternity has always been
like a family to me; I've seen dad engaged in friendly chats with
perfect strangers of TTs,station managers etc. But I
absolutely,totally loathe bus-journeys. I always have... Today I came
to Joypur from Belur. I took a local train to Tarakeshwar,and then
journeyed by bus for 3 hours. The bus-journey was fantabulous!!! I got a
window seat,thankfully,and there were vast,never-ending expanse of
irrigated fields before my eyes. At times the greenery hurt my
eyes...at times i thought I was seeing the same fields again and
again...as if time had decided to surrender to our mad race with
it.... Ofcourse,my co-passengers occasionally helped break the
reverie. But those heavily sun-burnt rustics were straight out of my
art-teacher's village-sketches. They were so carefree,smiling all the
time... Their simplicity stunned me. Even when they fought with each
other or the conductor, it was a lesson in patience and good manners.
I have travelled by bus before. I have come to Joypur itself twice.
But today I had an entirely new and absolutely amazing experience. It
was as if I had strayed into another totally different world...a world
that's poor no doubt,but a world that's happy. A world that hasn't
forgotten to put off its problems and smile once in a while. A world
that we can learn from,every minute...

--
Sent from my mobile device