Akhtar has a busy life even after all that has happened. The closing of the Khidderpore docks led to the loss of his 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. steady career. Akhtar used to ferry sailors and food to and from the ships. Once the Calcutta port ceased to function, he and his brother were forced to switch to a more trying and less gratifying job. Now he rows across the Ganga, laboriously ferrying wide-eyed tourists and locals while they enjoy the soft water breeze ruffling their hair. There are the newly-in-love couples who are still in the phase where the list of 20 most romantic things has not been completed; there are college groups happily smoking pot and guzzling beer; there are artists, intellectuals and pseudo-intellectuals; there are general noisy families. All these people, however, have one thing in common--- they do not give a fuck about the tired, thin and greying little man who is spending every ounce of energy his frail body yields with each pull of the paddle, just so that the selfish little comfort-mongers can have their moments of bliss. Each earning, says the ferryman, is split 45 ways. His wife has long given up hope of the quiet togetherness that old couples share after they have achieved life and its necessities. She has given him "license". He rows along minding his own business, smiling his secret little smiles, chuckling soundlessly at the witless little people.
We think we have hardships galore. Each one of us believes that his/her problems alone are the gravest. We listen attentively to our friends, faithful confidantes. But we inwardly mock them their misery. We think their stories are oh so pathetic. Wonder what they'd do if we started on our own problems. A boyfriend. A break-up. A fight with the family. A few harsh words from the boss. Akhtar smiles on. His body paints a frantic blur against the pink sky. He seems to be putting in so much effort. But Akhtar smiles on. He has not a care in the world.
