Three more days to spend in my old hometown. I sat in the old wicker armchair, sipping my morning cup of tea. The crows had awoken since several hours and having raucously announced their day's agendas, were temporarily quiet. The front gate creaked open and the familiar sound of the newspaper man's bicycle followed. It was an apologetic sounding bell, like the old man himself. Just wasn't like the good old paper it used to be, he rued. So thin and and full of advertisements. Nothing is newsworthy anymore, I am sorry to say, he went on in a reedy voice. He looked so miserable that I rushed to his defense. It isn't your fault, I told him, not at all.
Those who are supposed to make news are just not doing their jobs; at least you are doing a good job delivering whatever they are serving up. He looked at me with doubt. I offered to buy an unnecessary extra newspaper. He took it out of his simulated jute shopping bag and handed it over carefully. I'm sorry, he said again, this one is not much better. Then he wheeled his bicycle away before I could reply.
I was not going to rob him of his apology.
He was right. The newspaper was so banal that I put it aside within minutes. What a great paper it
used to be! What forthright editorials!
The listing of current events used to show an abundance of intellectual pursuits, of dance, of drama, of recitals, of prayer meetings, of births and of deaths.
And now the paper was a vestige of its former self, a wheezing gasping old person.
Sadly, I consign it to a pile of other newspapers that are waiting to be sold by weight.
I imagine for a moment a breakfast table several decades ago. My father would be leafing through
the newspapers, crackling as crisply as his toast. I almost hear the very slight slurp of the coffee
cup, as it drains by sips. The illusion vanishes as the phone rings.
It is my old friend Mithu. Why haven't you come to see me? she demands. Because I haven't felt
like going, I say to myself. So sorry, I was busy, I tell her.
I am evasive with Mithu. I cannot tell her whether I will find time in these three days to visit her.
She has an illusion of me, of the way I used to be. Giving in to her whining and her cajoling. But
life has taught me to see through such wiles, even though I still find it hard to keep people like her
at bay. One way to do this, is by breaking the illusion they have of us as being compliant.
So I hold off making any commitments. She is nearly in tears. Or is it an impression I am forming?
the newspapers, crackling as crisply as his toast. I almost hear the very slight slurp of the coffee
cup, as it drains by sips. The illusion vanishes as the phone rings.
It is my old friend Mithu. Why haven't you come to see me? she demands. Because I haven't felt
like going, I say to myself. So sorry, I was busy, I tell her.
I am evasive with Mithu. I cannot tell her whether I will find time in these three days to visit her.
She has an illusion of me, of the way I used to be. Giving in to her whining and her cajoling. But
life has taught me to see through such wiles, even though I still find it hard to keep people like her
at bay. One way to do this, is by breaking the illusion they have of us as being compliant.
So I hold off making any commitments. She is nearly in tears. Or is it an impression I am forming?
Is her distress an illusion or a reality? I am confused and somewhat moved to capitulate. Luckily, she has a distraction at the other end and has to hang up; but not before exhorting me to make an effort and come to her place. I tell her I will try.
What a cruel thing to do to an old friend! But a true friend would understand, I tell myself. Quotes
about true friendship run through my head, like a jumble of bingo chips. Get five in a straight row....
The day is spent like other days, fitfully and uncomfortably. I don't want to leave, but I don't want
to stay either. I shall once again lose the cadences of a life I have left time and again; and
rediscovered time and again.
As the evening draws near, I am restless. I decide that I will go to visit Mithu. I will go after
sundown, so that it will cool down. Besides, she will probably be done with her daily chores and
duties.
I shower and change into fresh clothing. I will go in a salwar kameez, a more youthful attire that
we sported when we were young and neighbors. We used to back comb our hair into impossible
beehives and wear impossibly tight clothes. And sport impossibly pointed shoes that had no
resemblance to the shape of normal human feet.
As I smear some pale lipstick across my lips, I marvel at how fashion has come around a full 360
degrees. But thankfully, I am no longer a fashionista.
What a cruel thing to do to an old friend! But a true friend would understand, I tell myself. Quotes
about true friendship run through my head, like a jumble of bingo chips. Get five in a straight row....
The day is spent like other days, fitfully and uncomfortably. I don't want to leave, but I don't want
to stay either. I shall once again lose the cadences of a life I have left time and again; and
rediscovered time and again.
As the evening draws near, I am restless. I decide that I will go to visit Mithu. I will go after
sundown, so that it will cool down. Besides, she will probably be done with her daily chores and
duties.
I shower and change into fresh clothing. I will go in a salwar kameez, a more youthful attire that
we sported when we were young and neighbors. We used to back comb our hair into impossible
beehives and wear impossibly tight clothes. And sport impossibly pointed shoes that had no
resemblance to the shape of normal human feet.
As I smear some pale lipstick across my lips, I marvel at how fashion has come around a full 360
degrees. But thankfully, I am no longer a fashionista.
The evening has suddenly darkened. A distant thunder rumbles as clouds gather overhead. I take
my umbrella as I leave the house and walk towards the taxi stand. This is an 'ultralight' umbrella;
a marvel of modern times. A concoction of nylon and aluminium that one can stash away
conveniently in a purse. I miss my old fashioned black cloth umbrella, with a stout wooden handle
and a sharpish metal tip. I have an ominous feeling that my old umbrella would have been
necessary for this evening. But then, I reassure myself, I do have an umbrella.
I walk past a young man selling flower garlands. On a sheer impulse I buy a jasmine gajra, a small
fragrant flower garland to twine in a braid or around a chignon. But my hair is now cut very short.
I remember my very long braid, now very long gone as well. I feel a momentary twinge of regret
at my decision of convenience. I can almost hear my late mother's voice at this moment. See, she
says with a smirk evident even in her voice, I told you, you will regret cutting your hair short!
One does not maintain a head full of lustrous hair that cascades down one's back, just to wear
gajras, I say to myself decisively, as I stop at the corner store to buy a packet of bobby pins with
which I will attach the gajra to my short hair. This time around, I hear my father's exasperated
voice, You women are so vain; nothing will stop you from trying to look beautiful.
Past a cart lit with a Petromax lamp, briskly selling aloo kabli, a piquant dish made with chickpeas
and potatoes, I find a taxi.
Can you wait a minute, I ask the taxi driver. He nods. I go over and buy two aloo kablis. I give one
to the astonished taxi driver and eat one myself. We both eat in silence. Soon I am hissing with the
burn from the spiciness. The driver takes out his plastic bottle from somewhere under his seat,
holding the bottle well aloft, pours down some water into his mouth and drinks deftly. Then he
offers me some water- which I decline. It is good tube well water, he insists. Even so, I decline
while thanking him.
Presently we set off. I stop and get off a few streets away from Mithu's house. We used to live a
couple of houses away from hers. I want to walk down these streets again to savor the past. These
are well established old neighborhoods with houses built around the 1940s and 50s. There is a
certain similarity in them with the same architectural flourishes of the period, yet, each is different. Almost all have a tiny garden in the front, with a few old fashioned flowering plants and a patch of grass struggling to grow in compacted clay soil.
They have unofficial fancy names attached to their numbers- Mayer Ashirbad ( Mother's Blessing),
Lalita Kunja (Lalita's Garden- though this one did not have a garden any longer), Madhabi Niketan
(Madhabi's Abode), Agarwal House with an obviously newly placed marble plaque and then my
favorite one, simply called Sanctum. I am relieved to see that Sanctum still stands- untouched by
the hands of property developers, who have torn down beauties such as these, to put up soulless,
graceless stacked matchboxes.
I notice that the tube well pump, the focal point of social interaction for maids and other domestic
helpers, is now defunct. Weeds grow around it. I can visualize our maid Surobala fetching a brass
pot of its 'sweet' water from there. We drank that water, probably Arsenic laced, for decades
without realizing its toxicity and hopefully escaping its side effects. She would stand for a few
moments balancing the filled kolshi pot on her left hip, exchange a few pleasantries with other
maids, before lurching home. Surobala has passed away into oblivion, though I think sometimes,
she still wanders about some where near this tube well pump.
The street lights have changed too. They are brighter and more efficient. Even so, they are no
my umbrella as I leave the house and walk towards the taxi stand. This is an 'ultralight' umbrella;
a marvel of modern times. A concoction of nylon and aluminium that one can stash away
conveniently in a purse. I miss my old fashioned black cloth umbrella, with a stout wooden handle
and a sharpish metal tip. I have an ominous feeling that my old umbrella would have been
necessary for this evening. But then, I reassure myself, I do have an umbrella.
I walk past a young man selling flower garlands. On a sheer impulse I buy a jasmine gajra, a small
fragrant flower garland to twine in a braid or around a chignon. But my hair is now cut very short.
I remember my very long braid, now very long gone as well. I feel a momentary twinge of regret
at my decision of convenience. I can almost hear my late mother's voice at this moment. See, she
says with a smirk evident even in her voice, I told you, you will regret cutting your hair short!
One does not maintain a head full of lustrous hair that cascades down one's back, just to wear
gajras, I say to myself decisively, as I stop at the corner store to buy a packet of bobby pins with
which I will attach the gajra to my short hair. This time around, I hear my father's exasperated
voice, You women are so vain; nothing will stop you from trying to look beautiful.
Past a cart lit with a Petromax lamp, briskly selling aloo kabli, a piquant dish made with chickpeas
and potatoes, I find a taxi.
Can you wait a minute, I ask the taxi driver. He nods. I go over and buy two aloo kablis. I give one
to the astonished taxi driver and eat one myself. We both eat in silence. Soon I am hissing with the
burn from the spiciness. The driver takes out his plastic bottle from somewhere under his seat,
holding the bottle well aloft, pours down some water into his mouth and drinks deftly. Then he
offers me some water- which I decline. It is good tube well water, he insists. Even so, I decline
while thanking him.
Presently we set off. I stop and get off a few streets away from Mithu's house. We used to live a
couple of houses away from hers. I want to walk down these streets again to savor the past. These
are well established old neighborhoods with houses built around the 1940s and 50s. There is a
certain similarity in them with the same architectural flourishes of the period, yet, each is different. Almost all have a tiny garden in the front, with a few old fashioned flowering plants and a patch of grass struggling to grow in compacted clay soil.
They have unofficial fancy names attached to their numbers- Mayer Ashirbad ( Mother's Blessing),
Lalita Kunja (Lalita's Garden- though this one did not have a garden any longer), Madhabi Niketan
(Madhabi's Abode), Agarwal House with an obviously newly placed marble plaque and then my
favorite one, simply called Sanctum. I am relieved to see that Sanctum still stands- untouched by
the hands of property developers, who have torn down beauties such as these, to put up soulless,
graceless stacked matchboxes.
I notice that the tube well pump, the focal point of social interaction for maids and other domestic
helpers, is now defunct. Weeds grow around it. I can visualize our maid Surobala fetching a brass
pot of its 'sweet' water from there. We drank that water, probably Arsenic laced, for decades
without realizing its toxicity and hopefully escaping its side effects. She would stand for a few
moments balancing the filled kolshi pot on her left hip, exchange a few pleasantries with other
maids, before lurching home. Surobala has passed away into oblivion, though I think sometimes,
she still wanders about some where near this tube well pump.
The street lights have changed too. They are brighter and more efficient. Even so, they are no
match for the vagaries of the electric company. They have just turned on in the darkness; only to
be snuffed out moments later in an electricity conservation move called 'load shedding'.
This street is almost deserted. This is surprising for a place just a few streets removed from one of
Kolkata's busiest bustling markets.
I walk on in the dark. I know this place so well, that I can walk blindfolded.
A few candles have been lit in the houses of the neighborhood.
Amazingly, I am able to avoid every pothole on the street. It is as though some sixth sense has
been activated. However, I am not able to prevent a fall into an emotional stumble when I see the
house I used to live in. It is dimly visible in the gloom. But I know its spaces so well. I think I still
know where all the light switches are and the telephone number that we had then, even after all these years and even after having lived in so many houses in the interim.
I draw up to Mithu's house. It is very dark inside.
I pause with my finger on the door bell. Well, without electricity, there's not much point in ringing
the electric door bell. So I knock with my knuckles. Almost immediately I hear a most wonderful
bass voice, 'Ke? Who is it?'
My heart leaps and races, as a strange churning feeling wrenches my gut.
How did I forget about him?
Mithu's older brother Ratnesh was a heart throb. Tall and muscular, he was an young Adonis. He
was away at a boarding school and then to an Engineering college. When he came home, he would
play street cricket with the neighborhood boys. We watched his natural grace, as he bowled and batted with great style. Even his fielding was a joy to behold- gracefully sinking on a knee to receive a catch, like a courtier in some king's palace. As he matured, his voice deepened into a polished
mahogany, his diction precise and clipped. He was very popular among all his companions. On a
rare occassion, he would vault over the railings of our property, to retrieve a cricket ball; of course
first having requested permission in that wonderful voice. When asked for consent, I would be speechless with shyness; able only to nod my assent.
Now I was going to face him again. I swallowed hard as I heard the inside bolt of the door
being unlatched. 'Ke?', he asked again from within.
My tongue had become a lump of dough. The door opened. Candle in hand stood a tall, gaunt man, balding, with heavy spectacles and a military style mustache. He was wearing a blue lungi and a white singlet. He held the a candle aloft and peered down at me, standing in the darkness.
'Ke?' he repeated, 'Ki chai? Who is it, what do you want?'
I stared at this greatly changed Ratnesh, unable to respond. Momentarily I found my tongue.
'Ami Minnie', I replied, 'I am looking for Mithu.'
'Minnie?;, he repeated, then, 'Were you the girl who lived in the red house in the corner?'
'Haan;, I replied in agreement.
He opened the door wider and bid me come in. My heart had settled down. This man was not the same heart throb that I had expected. Even so, I hesitated slightly. There was a moment of indecision of a lone woman entering a dark house with a virtual stranger.
'Mithu is out, she will be back shortly,' he said, 'You can come in and wait for her, or return in about
half an hour.' He had sensed my uncertainty. He was giving me a way out.
'I'll come in and wait', I replied boldly. My instinct was that he could be trusted.
Ratnesh pointed to a large single chair in the room for me to sit in, and seated himself on a wooden plank bed. He placed the candle on a table between us. I couldn't see him well with the shadows in the room. We sat silently for a few minutes.
'So', he said slowly, 'You're back looking at the neighborhood; or what you can see of it in the
darkness.' I could sense the smile that accompanied his observation.
'Hmm', I nodded.
'Mithu told me that you had moved to the United States after you got married', he continued.
'Yes' , I replied. There was not much more I wanted to say. There was no point giving him any
details of the misery that I had endured at the hands of my ex husband. I had come to terms with life after he left me. After the relief from the abuse, came a heavy vacant boredom, that had reduced me to a robot like existence.
We sat in silence.
Suddenly, his mobile phone rang cheerfully with ring tones of a popular Hindi song. It was a call from a man from a nearby department store.
Mithu was trapped in the elevator along with several shoppers. The power cut had hit suddenly and
the store's standby electricity generator was not functioning. He was informing the families of those who were able to communicate from inside the elevator, lest they grew concerned about their relatives not having returned. There was much shouting going on in the background, and the man was trying to speak above the din. Even though the phone was several feet away in Ratnesh's hand, I could hear the voices. One could well imagine the chaotic scene in the darkened store.
Ratnesh thanked the man for the information and ended the call.
He sat silent for a moment and then broke into a chuckle. I could not help laughing as well.
Neither of us said anything but we were in a bubble of of mirth suddenly.
We both stopped and then almost simultaneously began to laugh again.
Oh, he said, wiping his eyes behind his spectacles, I suppose I shouldn't be laughing at the
misfortune of those poor people- but just the thought of it is so funny.
It was my turn to chuckle.
'Well', he opined, 'looks like she's not coming back soon'.
Do you want to wait? he asked after a few moments.
'No, I had better be going', I replied. There was no knowing how long Mithu would remain in the lift.
'I'll walk you to the taxi stand', he said, 'Just give me a moment'.
I was about to protest that I would manage fine- but, he just got up and left the room.
He was back in a few moments, changed into a pair of pants and a polo shirt. He picked up his keys and wallet on his way to the door.
'Lets go', he said.
- This short story is a work of fiction even though it has many touches of my actual life and real
people. I have changed some names.
be snuffed out moments later in an electricity conservation move called 'load shedding'.
This street is almost deserted. This is surprising for a place just a few streets removed from one of
Kolkata's busiest bustling markets.
I walk on in the dark. I know this place so well, that I can walk blindfolded.
A few candles have been lit in the houses of the neighborhood.
Amazingly, I am able to avoid every pothole on the street. It is as though some sixth sense has
been activated. However, I am not able to prevent a fall into an emotional stumble when I see the
house I used to live in. It is dimly visible in the gloom. But I know its spaces so well. I think I still
know where all the light switches are and the telephone number that we had then, even after all these years and even after having lived in so many houses in the interim.
I draw up to Mithu's house. It is very dark inside.
I pause with my finger on the door bell. Well, without electricity, there's not much point in ringing
the electric door bell. So I knock with my knuckles. Almost immediately I hear a most wonderful
bass voice, 'Ke? Who is it?'
My heart leaps and races, as a strange churning feeling wrenches my gut.
How did I forget about him?
Mithu's older brother Ratnesh was a heart throb. Tall and muscular, he was an young Adonis. He
was away at a boarding school and then to an Engineering college. When he came home, he would
play street cricket with the neighborhood boys. We watched his natural grace, as he bowled and batted with great style. Even his fielding was a joy to behold- gracefully sinking on a knee to receive a catch, like a courtier in some king's palace. As he matured, his voice deepened into a polished
mahogany, his diction precise and clipped. He was very popular among all his companions. On a
rare occassion, he would vault over the railings of our property, to retrieve a cricket ball; of course
first having requested permission in that wonderful voice. When asked for consent, I would be speechless with shyness; able only to nod my assent.
Now I was going to face him again. I swallowed hard as I heard the inside bolt of the door
being unlatched. 'Ke?', he asked again from within.
My tongue had become a lump of dough. The door opened. Candle in hand stood a tall, gaunt man, balding, with heavy spectacles and a military style mustache. He was wearing a blue lungi and a white singlet. He held the a candle aloft and peered down at me, standing in the darkness.
'Ke?' he repeated, 'Ki chai? Who is it, what do you want?'
I stared at this greatly changed Ratnesh, unable to respond. Momentarily I found my tongue.
'Ami Minnie', I replied, 'I am looking for Mithu.'
'Minnie?;, he repeated, then, 'Were you the girl who lived in the red house in the corner?'
'Haan;, I replied in agreement.
He opened the door wider and bid me come in. My heart had settled down. This man was not the same heart throb that I had expected. Even so, I hesitated slightly. There was a moment of indecision of a lone woman entering a dark house with a virtual stranger.
'Mithu is out, she will be back shortly,' he said, 'You can come in and wait for her, or return in about
half an hour.' He had sensed my uncertainty. He was giving me a way out.
'I'll come in and wait', I replied boldly. My instinct was that he could be trusted.
Ratnesh pointed to a large single chair in the room for me to sit in, and seated himself on a wooden plank bed. He placed the candle on a table between us. I couldn't see him well with the shadows in the room. We sat silently for a few minutes.
'So', he said slowly, 'You're back looking at the neighborhood; or what you can see of it in the
darkness.' I could sense the smile that accompanied his observation.
'Hmm', I nodded.
'Mithu told me that you had moved to the United States after you got married', he continued.
'Yes' , I replied. There was not much more I wanted to say. There was no point giving him any
details of the misery that I had endured at the hands of my ex husband. I had come to terms with life after he left me. After the relief from the abuse, came a heavy vacant boredom, that had reduced me to a robot like existence.
We sat in silence.
Suddenly, his mobile phone rang cheerfully with ring tones of a popular Hindi song. It was a call from a man from a nearby department store.
Mithu was trapped in the elevator along with several shoppers. The power cut had hit suddenly and
the store's standby electricity generator was not functioning. He was informing the families of those who were able to communicate from inside the elevator, lest they grew concerned about their relatives not having returned. There was much shouting going on in the background, and the man was trying to speak above the din. Even though the phone was several feet away in Ratnesh's hand, I could hear the voices. One could well imagine the chaotic scene in the darkened store.
Ratnesh thanked the man for the information and ended the call.
He sat silent for a moment and then broke into a chuckle. I could not help laughing as well.
Neither of us said anything but we were in a bubble of of mirth suddenly.
We both stopped and then almost simultaneously began to laugh again.
Oh, he said, wiping his eyes behind his spectacles, I suppose I shouldn't be laughing at the
misfortune of those poor people- but just the thought of it is so funny.
It was my turn to chuckle.
'Well', he opined, 'looks like she's not coming back soon'.
Do you want to wait? he asked after a few moments.
'No, I had better be going', I replied. There was no knowing how long Mithu would remain in the lift.
'I'll walk you to the taxi stand', he said, 'Just give me a moment'.
I was about to protest that I would manage fine- but, he just got up and left the room.
He was back in a few moments, changed into a pair of pants and a polo shirt. He picked up his keys and wallet on his way to the door.
'Lets go', he said.
- This short story is a work of fiction even though it has many touches of my actual life and real
people. I have changed some names.
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