Inspersion

I was in eighth grade. School started at 9:15, but I had to board the schoolbus at 7:50 from Mouchak, Golpark. I'd be the fourth girl on the bus, Ananya, Sukanya and Anna being the first three. Everyday Janki Di used stuff all four of us into the second-last long seat on the bus. Empty bus. Four girls stashed and squeezed into one seat. Bippity-bumping along the way. Janki Di retired that Pujo and the day school opened we each waited at our usual stops, tingling with excitement. When I got on that day, they ALL had window seats. We made wordless pacts to honour each others' chosen seats. I got the nice one. The two-seater which was above the back tire on the left of the bus. And just like that, I saw him.

We used to go on straight from Golpark cross the bridge and take a U-turn at the 8B bus-stop at Jadavpur. Three boys used to wait there for their school bus (or so I reasoned). White shirts, white pants. Tie with stripes. Needless to say they were cute. The one that was especially cute used to go on tiptoes to try and see if I were on the bus from the moment we started making the turn. It was quite amusing, in retrospect. But my 14-year-old heart would be all a-flutter. And every day I consciously avoided his gaze and looked ahead, out the front of the bus. This went on for about two years. Everyday I would wait eagerly for that moment. It was marvellous really. Everyday I would steel my heart for a no-show. But he never missed a day. Like he was designed to never be sick. Always there.

On "our" second Valentine's Day (yes, as cheesy as that), I had decided to finally give up the cold shouldering. I would look. And if I could overcome further shyness, I would wave. And that was the day the impossible happened. He wasn't there. I frantically twisted around in my seat, looking for him, willing him to appear, but he didn't. And never did again. I was miserable for days. It was like a break-up. I cried. I moped. I wrote sad letters and poetry. I started growing up.

My last day on bus No. 8 was my last day in school, right after my 10th grade Selection Test and before we went on prep-leave for the board examination. I had almost forgotten by then. As bus No. 8 turned at 8B bus-stop, right at that fated moment, it rumbled to a halt, mid-turn. And refused to start. There was a problem. We waited anxiously because we didn't want to be late for our last day. It was important. Pictures, signing shirts, eating, crying. As calls were being made to the school for alternative transport, we were allowed off the bus with Maya Di, our new bus-ayah, to buy chips at a store. And I saw him. He wasn't in uniform. Maybe his school had already closed. My heart skipped a beat. I panicked when I realized he was coming toward me. He reached the shop and asked for a tiffin-cake and a packet of biscuits. Then slowly, ensuring no one saw, he leaned closer and "accidentally" brushed my arm with his. I sighed. He left.

While returning from school that day, I was happy. We had cried, hugged, and made false promises. And I was especially happy. I felt like what had happened was proper. When I got off the bus for the last time, I felt strange. A bit sad perhaps. As I slowly started walking back down the road toward my house, I saw a back that was instantly familiar. The boy was sitting on the back seat of a bike, in front of Hallmark. My heart skipped yet another beat. As I walked past, he grabbed my wrist. We looked at each other blankly.

"I followed the bus from when it left your school," he said sheepishly. Then, "I'm Himadri."

Snap.

I ran away.

Never saw him again.

Till today.

And we both recognised each other. Skipped beats. Stared. Went our own ways.

"Kisaan ki juti,

Pardesi ki biwi,

Hoke bhi na hone ki barabar hai."

-Arun Jha, Taxi Driver, Kolkata Taxi Service.

Akhtar

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.

Is it just me, or has the world gone awry? It has been over three months since it last rained. My parched and arid world seems to be dying a dry death. It is as if everything has reached a peak in stagnation in unison. My life is reflective of the unchanging weather. The beauty of life has aged in a flash. Rain for me is a life well lived in a few moments. It soothes me. And like so many other things that have gone amiss, I have lost my will to live.

Some small moments seem to make up the essence of living life well. A smile from my mother. A hug from my father. A long-distance phone call from my best friend. A student saying "Good morning, Ma'am." An evening of very bad carrom with best friends. My baby niece calling me "Maa!" in a moment of dislocated confusion! Yes. Those I believe make my life a life I love living. Yes I am trying. Retrying. And I am getting there faster than I ever thought I would. The rain will come soon. And I shall sing again.

Yes. I officially went crazy. Guess I needed some banality to combat the cruelty I endured.

I drove a car. For the first time. Crashed it. Wrecked it. And it wasn't even mine.

But, for the record, I made a perfect turn around a pretty tricky corner.

And I realize now that I have been lamenting without a cause. Lamenting has become second nature and all this has happened so often that I have taken to lamenting each time without even thinking whether it actually deserves all the attention.

Bleh. Closure.

Cleaning Up

It came. And went. It's 2:37 am on Thursday, October 9th, and Dashami, as the proper English tea-sipper would note. As I sit in my room and type away on my keyboard, bleary-eyed, and too tired and dazed to sleep, I can hear those last half-hearted blows on the cheap trumpets balloon vendors hand out to kids, I can see tired people trooping home in twos and threes, their new clothes crumpled and sticky from the sweat. But the looks on their faces say it all. The promise my city held when she prepared for the Big Show--the make up, the rehearsals, the build up to the stage performance-- has been fulfilled. They all look deliriously happy. Another one slips by. Another little addition to the Memory Log Book. A new set of faces to mark these memories by. All dear. All along. The last blasts from the mic fitted over the Para Pujo Pandal. Strangely alliterative that. The man shouts about a lost umbrella. Does anybody really care? Really? A petty worry. Yet perversely comforting. Yes, I am home. Incomplete my home is. But I still belong.

Soon the city will be dusted clean. The hated bamboo barricades will be taken down. All kinds of people will rush to their respective work places like these five days never existed. That's the beauty of this city. No one will repent though. There's always so much to look forward to. My city of joy. Joy.

As I ponder, tottering on my swivelly chair, vaguely aware of the distant buzz the heat has given me, I arrive at the conclusion that it is always more productive to regard every experience as the last of a kind. That is only way you get to live. And that would be the closest you could get to the Upanishadic complete life. The cliched carpe diem. We all say it at least once in our lives, collectively, or individually.

You are not here. And I live my half life mechanically. But even that has fallen into a pattern.

Soon it will be dawn. Another day will begin. And like usual I shall spend it in sleeping stupor. This

too shall pass.