The Passanger

“Hey auto, stop!”
Tapan is about to press the accelerator when a person almost jumped and slide within the auto in the seat just beside the driver. Tapan took speed and soon like a swinging river overtook two cars and one new Euro-II bus and in joy and bit of unknown ecstasy uttered “Sala..”
It is almost evening. In this month of February all traces of cold has gone now and now its time for the soultry summer, the horrible summer of the tropicals. The road is busy now. Tapan while driving thought that three more up down trip today from Gariahat to Behala and then he would pack up for the day. He again glided his auto through the busy avenues of New Alipore and then has to stop as the signal is red.
He uttered again, the very word, “Sala!”
Just a matter of one second. If he haven’t slowed down for the pedestrian to cross over he would be through..
The red light of the signal along with a looming light of a Levis showroom made the darkness faint within. And in that light Tapan’s hands in the steering got slightly trembled.
The bright light has fallen on the face of the passenger who is sitting just beside him.
“Tapan na?”(Is it Tapan?)
The person asked.
Now there is no doubt.
Tapan nodded.
‘Yes Sir.’
Indeed it is Premen Sir.
He was the headmaster during his schooldays in Chetla Boys School. His spectacles has changed, his face bear more wrinkles,his hairs all white now and more than anything Premen Sir has got very thin..his health has deteriorated.
‘How long you are here Tapan?’
‘Three years Sir.’
‘Have you passed Higher Secondary..?’
‘I am a graduate Sir..B.A. In 3rd Div.’
Premen Sir stopped.
But Tapan can read his face and the next question. Why..why Tapan then in this line?
‘Sir Father died suddenly..two sisters still unmarried..no pension..’ Tapan while saying found that to describe his situation is just like a Bollywood film of 70’s but alas the storyline has changed now in Bollywood but in real life it still remains.
His hands moved.
As the signal is green now.
Soon he came back in the road of Chetla and in a busy weekday evening of Calcutta..it is the peak hour..this 6-8 P.M. ..all the people have hurry to return home..why people take so much risk in just for the sake of returning home..why?
‘I will drop at Rashbehari’.. Premen Sir said after a while.
‘Sir, you stay at Behala..right?’
‘Yes, but now have to go many places for tution..’
‘You still do tution?’
‘Yes Tapan,..It is two years I retired, the pension is very low.. what else I can do?’
Tapan kept quite.
Then he suddenly remembered and said ‘How is Mashima?’
‘Your Mashima has left me five years ago..’
Tapan stopped. He didn’t expect that.
He gentled the speed. He is driving quite slow.
The passengers in the back..two young girls busy in talking..and another guy..impatient ..often looking at the watch..Tapan thought he must be in a hurry. He felt a bit relieved that may be the conversation between them has been luckily got ignored..
‘Tapan..you remember that..you,in class VI got a prize from me..for your recitation of Rabindranath’s poem “Africa”?
Tapan tried to remember.
‘And do you remember that when one day, you must be in class VIII then and in a day of heavy rain when you are having an off period..I went to your class..and told you the story of “Postmaster”(A Story of Tagore named Postman) and I suddenly found someone was crying..it was you..’
Tapan’s hands again trembled.
What rubbish is Sir going on telling? Who is he speaking about? It looks now as if it is a story of some another birth..some another age.
‘Tapan byas ekhane nambo!( You drop me here Tapan!)
Tapan in his stream of thoughts forgot that he is crossing Rashbehari now.
Tapan stopped.
Premen Sir got down.
Then he handed him the money.
‘No Sir, please!’
‘No, Tapan..you should take..’
‘No, Sir please..’
Premen Sir took the money and pushed inside Tapan’s palms. Then he kept his hands over his shoulder.
‘You have to take this Tapan..toke to banchte hobe baba..Amie je toke manush korte parlam na..bhalo thakis..!’
(You have to survive Tapan and how can I forgot that it was me also who failed to give you a good future..Be well my son!)
The signal is green again.
Premen Sir went and got mixed in the crowd of the pedestrians.
Tapan started the engine again and he doesn’t know how he came to Ballygaunge. He almost has a vacuum in his mind. As he dropped the last passenger he parked his auto in the autostand of Ballygaunge station and walked towards the rail lines.
There over a heap of bricks he sat.
And then he remembered Premen Sir’s words.. Amie je toke manush korte parlam na..bhalo thakis..the memories of the prize..Africa poem..the story of Postmaster..how he dreamt of becoming a Postman then..he laughed now..indeed he has become in a different way..collecting people from different places and dropping them at different destinations..indeed a postman!
Tapan in an undeciphered words shouted suddenly and then he found that he is crying..the eyes have got wet after a long time..and it is indeed a very disturbing and a new experience to Tapan.
Tapan didn’t remember how long he sat there but he can realize that within the signals..the iron rail tracks..the fishplates..the cry of some home lost birds..some Khistis(raw slangs) from the local wine shop thrown at him, “Ki re Bokachoda Magi chai?..(You Bastard need girls?)..the separate talks of the passer by..the whistles of a coming and distant trains..the fight of two dogs..a sharp wind blown from no where..the sky a canopy of flocking roaming white clouds..Tapan felt a surrender to the past..the school days..his friends..his love for knowledge..Premen Sir..but along with that he like Newton’s law of motion .. experienced an opposite force..and in that momentum he found himself back to the present which is horrible..struggling..but indeed the moment which he is still living on..he have to carry on..in some way..some means..his dream of getting still a good job..with his low profile qualifications..Tapan found that surrounding him are images of his own broken fragments..and as he is trying to collect them altogether they are getting again broken away..an irresistible game has been played in front of him of being lost and being found again..
Tapan stood up.
And through the slowly falling shades of night he came back to the auto stand started the engine and after a while shouted in clearly spoken words..
“Behala..Behala..Taratala..Chetla….”



----------------------------------

Beneath the Aravalli..

I am standing all alone.


I do not know at present what date is today.

What time. What part of world I am.

Though in my conscious part of the mind I knew all these.

But sometimes..moments touches you with a different attitude. Sensation.

When the winds slowly touches you.

Your feet start moving.

Your eyes full of amazement.

Your mood in a complete mood of submission.

And like this with different segregated versions of myself within me..I started walking.

And then again stopped at the next moment .

I saw that I am standing just beneath the Aravalli.

And just over there, over the range of Aravalli is the moon.

The Full moon.

The earth around me is totally a canvas of blue and white.

Little crispy sounds of tottering leaves from the trees.

A hush sound of a truck passing through the highway.

A faint sound of a Dholak being played somewhere.

Where it is being played?

Is it coming from that distant house up the hills?

Or is it coming from some straw-thatched huts much much below down?

A night bird went flying with a shriek yet soft clattering noise.

A distant..very distant whistle of a train which may have come from the way of Ajmer..in this highway to Udaipur.

I walked towards a half-closed road side Dhaba.

Where most of the people are slept.

Some over Khatiya.

With Blanlkets.

Or local rajjais.

Only one burner is burning and over it hot smoke of tea is rising.

A pleasant warmth of tea in this freezing cold.

I took a cup of tea.

And then sipped.

Ah! It’s Heaven!

And then again I saw the moonlit Aravalli.

Except this road side shop nothing is there.

I remember the view I saw from the window.

The scenes of wild nature. As the bus came crisscrossed through the rugged hilly roads.

I took a deep breath.

A fresh air welcomed me.

An air of pure nature.

A bushy smell of the leaves of the trees.

A strange smell of the surrounding hills.

A an unknown experience of an unknown life.

Which I always wanted to live. But how much can I?

I started again walking.

Can not I go a bit near to the hills. Is it not possible to touch the silky light of the moon with my all hands open beneath the hills?

Can I go and stay here in any one house here, for one night..for this night..will I not get any shelter?

And as my feet moved on..

I heard..

“Bus chod raha hai sahib!”(Sahib, the bus is about to depart!)

I stopped.

I again looked at the midnight moon and the bluish white Aravalli.

For a fraction of moment I resigned completely from the present world..I felt the silence the nature offered..I saw around me pictures of a remote place..scattered canvas of life sketches of people of whom I never saw..of nature..the sublime moonlit midnight nature at its real beauty..and for a moment ..flashed in my mind scenes from Bibhutibhusan’s Aranyak..as if I am not below the Aravalli but I am wandering in the outskirts of Labatuliya..how far is Labatuliya from this particular place of Jaipur-Udaipur highway I do not know but now in this mid night it seems that must be all milestones..all kilometers..all state boundaries..all human made borders has vanished..and may if I go walking up the hills I can distinctly found some men who like Labatuliyas’s farmer have never known what mirror is..and never have seen his facein life .. may be there outside some straw thatched hut some Rajput woman is waiting for collecting the bare minimum food from the leftover..may be up the hills in around the summit..there.. remains..still a lost kingdom and a lost king like Dobru Panna..and much within the language of the winds legends go on speaking the arrival of some fantasies..some angels..some..lost forgotten men ..warriors from the gone days..may be I have managed to come here this particular night by some magic..by the gifts of my fortunes..may be each day the bus stops here..each night different men and women drop here..and get astonished like me..or today..this particular night is very special..this night..these moments are created only for me..

I uttered silently..

I uttered silently a wish as the shadow of the Aravalli fall over the sleeping village across the highways..

A wish.

A promise.

I would come back here once again.

I have to go on travel this astounding world as much as I can.

I do not know I can ever do that or not.

But I promised myself.

I would travel.

I would roam.

I would see as much the world I can.

And more than anything..

I should live a different life.

A Silent wish made from a pure heart just beneath the full moonlit Aravalli will not come true?

Is it too much to want?

Or is it too less?

I slowly walked on.

And smiled.

And then jumped on to the bus.

My journey is on again.

And I am again..

A different man on a different road of a different world.

Rendezvous in Rajputana

Moment 1It was around 4.a.m. in the morning when our train like a tired and lost wanderer entered the Jaipur Station. the weather was chilled, the air have all the bites, the sky a landscape of stars and fog. The train was neatly 3 hrs late and it was enough to turn some calculations down. The most important thing was that will the Hotel be open or we have to go and wait till the morning check in time? however that worry was a later episode. First we have to go out of the station and catch an auto or a cab.
And at that moment I saw her.
Her face.
Her eyes twinkling in excitement.
Her scattered hairs are roaming over her forehead like the first flight of pigeons.
Her eyelids trembling. Her lips with faint brown lipstick colour waiting for some words..
And she asked “ Is there any Coolie?”
Indeed that was the question of all of us.
But alas! There was none.
Instead a big iron cart came and we all as have no alternative gathered our luggage on that and tied up in strings and then walked on.
One of our traveller Mr. Rawat asked her to take stairs and meet us outside the station.
But she shook her head. And she accompanied us.
We started walking.
We walked through the ripe midnight of a sleepy silent Jaipur station..we walked through frequent whistles of a distant train..we walked through loud whistles of an engine steaming in..some undeciphered shouts in local language(which I presume hardcore Jat)..through some sleeping dogs with wagging tails..over the platform..the blinking of the signals in different tracks..once red..once yellow..the fragrance of some unknown bush flower..far across the platform shades of the dark highrises and old houses of Rajput structure looms high..a notion that Jaipur is now a capital and a busy and rich metropolitan..as we slowly came down from one platform with tottering luggages in the iron cart..we crossed in feet the rail tracks and took way of another platform..the dimmy yellowish light of the platform looking foggy..we walked through the deeply slept coolies and the number of homeless who managed shelter with a rugged dirty blanket on the station..we walked as the first ray of dawn slowly kissed the passing night and with the birds flying with their clattering of their wings..and then again at that moment..
I saw her.
She was calm . Composed. But excited.
Her footsteps showed that.
With a hint of jump in them.
Her eyes bright in this foggy whitish night. Her movements sharp in this chilled winter. And her face lit up as if some magic lantern is shining on her.
I looked. And looked.
I laid my every steps along with her every footsteps.
I realized that this was what I always want.
An adventurous life!
To walk like this in some unknown station of an unknown new place in midnight.
And as came near the auto stand she looked at me and said softly, “Thanks.”
And the fresh morning air at that moment brought aroma of her.
The scent of a woman.
I smiled too.
And then once again looked at her.
The most beautiful face of the world whose beauty remains sublime even with all the claws of struggle..
Standing in the gateway of Rajasthan from where history greets you at every steps..where lost glory and existing pride declares itself in fusion..where epics of local allegories and myths flows in air..and where Kings and Queens are still the ultimate feelings of passion and gratitude..
I should have arrive like this only..not in any other way..
But like this..In the right tune of footprints..
Along with Her..My Love.
And this is undoubtedly the first Rendezvous Moments for me in my own tales of
Rendezvous in Rajputana!

Rocks Knew it!

As the evening sun slowly touches the forgotten epitaphs of Chittore I saw Sukhlal coming down the road to the fort. I saw in his face the movements of some worries, with his hands in his pocket, he is walking involved in his own thoughts. To a visitor like me it seems quite strange as Sukhlal, the guide who through his words creates magic and helps everyone to re-visit the gone days and the immortal time which in shades still revolves in every rock, every lanes of Chittore. But now back to reality, the day’s work is over. And he is going back to home..his normal life crisscrossed with daily trends of happiness and struggles. He is not in a holiday and he meets hundreds of people everyday. Does he remember me? He does. As Sukhlal up in the road now near the RTDC Cafeteria saw me and smiled.
‘Hi, still roaming?’ he asked.
‘Yes, just walking alone, needs time to feel Chittore.’
‘Nice! He said. ‘Then walk slowly up the hills all alone!’
‘Is there any place for night halt? Can I manage a room somewhere?’ I asked.
‘I would arrange. If you say..but I doubt if you will get all the comforts there.’
‘I don’t need. Just arrange a room.’
Sukhlal did. In one of his cousin’s house who had went to Jaipur for a day for any business. All the necessary comforts were also there including a Rajput lady cooked typical Rajasthani Chapati, dal, bati, churma with Alu gobi.To have it with the chilled wind circulating outside and the lighted fire outside the door of the room giving me warmth was splendid.
Around eleven, I walked out of the house.
I once stopped and recollected the map of Chittore which Sukhlal beautifully explained as being in a shape of fish. Indeed it is.
I slowly passed the ruins of some houses, up the city and started walking towards the Vijaystambha(The Victory tower). The sky is clear, moon adoring in pride. The soft bluish light bisecting the rocky parts of the city. The wind in a mood of breeze carries the threat and gifts of December cold.
I don’t know how long I walked..I don’t know where I went but I felt as if someone taking me for a tour all over Chittore. Sukhlal did that in the afternoon. Now someone else. Maybe time. Maybe the lost monuments. Maybe the each single grains of history. Maybe the mood of the very place which often changed tunes from being of glamour, jovial, dismay, sorrow and melancholy. As I passed the monuments, The Mira Bai temple, the Padmini Palace, The Palace of Rana Kumbha and Rana Sanga..I found the places still continue to play their part..still within the shades of darkness the lost days are back again..as if each night something occurs..as if Chittore still through its broken fragments of historical magnificience continues to dazzle the visitors..as if in day time it goes back to the present world when it is a monument to be shown by Guide to tourists..in the night Chittore again originates its real saga..legends in full flow..history which occurred here in different folds in different periods continue to carry along with no one to see but only for the very sake of Chittore itself..the unvanquished..May be I feel I am the sole representative of the modern world who some how through some magic is walking down the lanes….May be somewhere in the night in any part of Chittore Bappa Rawal..the founder of the dynasty still express his genius..somewhere again the march of Sultan Alauddin..the maniac Delhi Sultanate emperor can be heard..somewhere through the candle light and fire Queen Padmini travels in her own palace..somewhere in a tranquil mood when she along with thousands of ladies commits Jahaurbrata..somewhere again Hambhir the Great reconquers Chittore and hosted there the flag of the Surya dynasty..somewhere again the life of ceased Chittore went on in silence..till the Days of Akbar..somewhere those negligible masses of people, those who never got any name, fame and laid their lives, those who each day sacrificed, the Ranas who worshipped in the holy temple of the Sun and the Chittoreshwari Goddesses..the cries which got stabbed in some part of the vast land for ages..the smiles which flashed in pride..the emotions which got never expressed..the words which were never told..
I walked on.
I walked on in a journey down history..a journey when the gone days , the lost time came and once again continued its saga in this so called civilized world and present day of the 21st C.
History never gets old.
And if you get a chance to go to a journey like this when a silent movie of time in a projector of rocks and sky and wildness gets screened, no one should question.
I also never questioned.
Before I close the door I saw Chittore up the hills.
In moonlight Chittore is looking beautiful.
As if in all it’s wildness Chittoregarh is still nothing but fantasy..a place where reasoning stops..a place where a lawaris(orphaned) boy is respected for a Jaitilak..a place where still a word is a word.. a place where misery each day is overcome by smiles..a place where heritage and history is the motto of life..
Sukhlal is right.
He like every resident of Chittore would love to come back here.
As may be this is where heaven is.
I nodded. And then I closed my eyes.
Me too, would always like to come back here..
Again and again..
As this is a place where 21st C is just a mere Calender word and where..
History still lives on..
How?
Rocks knew it!

From The Lost Pages : Chitrak and the Buddhist Bhikshu

Chitrak, the warrior chief walking came at the side of the river.

The night is becoming faint..soft petals of dawn kissing the white light of the moon..some birds started to flowing..far across the dark houses of the village everything is so silent..as if except this moving river nothing is alive now..as if this is a moment..a land..which is outside the present world..far from the violent..far from the greeds..far from the daily hazards..Chitrak like a dream got hypnotized seeing the slept village in front and started thinking that he has somehow arrived in a new world..
But footsteps make him arose and back to senses.
Footsteps are coming near.
He saw that within the white light of the night a group of persons walking through the road softly , their body covered with a long red cloth, their heads bold, their feet naked.
Chitrak forgot to change his wet clothes.
He started walking towards the group of Buddhist Bhikshus.
Chitrak came before the group and bowed to the head Bhikshu.
The Bhikshu smiled , his face in this moonlight glittering a peace which Chitrak has never seen in life.
‘Pranam Bhikshu’ Chitrak added.
Bhikshu kept his hands over his head.
And then said in a soft compose voice ‘Why you are so restless Arya?’
Chitrak kept quite. Then said , ‘I am confused Arya, which way to take, I have to take any one of them within one hour Arya.’
The Bhikshu again smiled.
‘There is only one way in life son. People themselves create many ways. But the road to life is only one son.’
‘But which one Arya..which one?’
‘The way to truth..the way to heart.’
‘But Arya..’
‘There would be no question son, if you follow that one way. If you follow you can understand.’
‘But what if that way leads to destruction?’
‘You would never be destroyed if you follow that one way..may be for some time..some fragments of moments you would loose your way..as you are now already lost son.. ‘
‘Arya, so I would follow that one way..the way of life?’
‘Yes son..just follow..and you would re invent yourself.’
The Bhikshu again prepared to walk.
Chitrak walked along with him..and asked ‘Where you are going Arya?’
The Bhikshu again smiled.
Then said, ‘ I have now only one place to go. Kushinagar’
‘Kushinagar!’ Chitrak uttered.
‘Yes son, Kushinagar, the palace where Tathagata, the Lord earned Nirvana’.
‘When you would be back Arya?’
'I would never be back again here son, I have travelled enough I would now rest my body there for ever for the remaining days.’
‘Can I know your name Arya?’
The bhikshu smiled again. His face expressing almost an heavenly light.
He kept his hands on Chitrak’s head and uttered ‘ May the Lord Tathagata helps you to find out the right way.’
‘Arya, your name?’
‘Udattya’ said the Bhikshu and started walking.
Uddatya! Exclaimed Chitrak in amazement. He has just met one of the immediate disciple of Lord Buddha.
Chitrak got stranded, almost a shiver ran through out his body.
And at that moment he also realized that there is indeed only one way..the way to truth..the way to life.

Haranmajhi

‘Babu bhalo achen?’
I am sitting along with a friend in a roadside stall on Outram Ghat. Afternoon slowly slipped away and changed colour to evening and now after sunset the sky reflecting vibrant colours of wonder. In front of us is the Ganges river, the orange sky with its purple shades reflecting in the moving waves of the water and presenting before us almost a naturalism masterpiece of Abanindranath Tagore. And at that time, the question came.
‘Babu Bhalo achen?’( How are you Babu?’)
Again the question and now I turned and saw that a boy is standing wearing a button less shirt and half pant standing before us.
His face holding a smile, his face appearing dark as he is standing back to light.
I nodded.
‘Babu, nouka chorben?’ (Will you like a boat ride?’)
‘No’, I said. At this moment I am busy talking with my long-lost friend Abhi and no mood in disturbing our trip down memory lane.
‘Babu, aj saradin kno rojgar hyni, babu..’
(He again asked me for the ride and said that today he hardly earned anything as there are no customers.)
Now Abhi speak out.
‘Ai bollo to lagbe na, bhag..’! ( Abhi, almost scolded and asked the boy to go!’)
The boy again looked at me, and then with a more dark face went away.
We chatted for almost an hour and then Abhi got up, he had an appointment.
I looked at the watch.
Twenty past six.
I thought for a walk along the Ganges.
I started walking.
Walking alongside a river is always a pleasure. I remember that in childhood, my father used to bring me often here..the scent of the river..the trees..the gentle drop of a scattered leaf from the trees..the flying birds..their clattering for homes around evening..the different types of people who gather around..the jump of some naked children in the water..the anchored boats rocking gently over the waves..the sounds of a Steamer bisecting the air..
‘Troot……..!’
Again a sound from a moving Steamer or locally called ‘Launch’ surprised me and make me back to reality.
And I noticed that in these twenty years many things changed, but the atmosphere around the Ganges still remained more or less same.
Far across I can see the light of the ice cream parlour ‘Scoop’ shinning bright.
I walked on.
As I came towards the Ferighat where the boats are anchored I noticed the boy.
Over an anchored boat that boy is sitting and dipping his feet inside the water.
I walked towards him.
And as I approached him, I found that at the side of the boat written with an unprofessional artist and bold letters ‘Harankheya’.
The name itself again made me nostalgic and at once I recognized that boat belong to Majhi named Haran, and not only that from childhood, I knew that person..
Haranmajhi!
I went back twenty years and saw that a boy holding his father’s hand came in one early morning..the day was Mahalaya( An auspicious day marking the arrival of Devi Durga on the earth)..my father came to take a dip in the holy Ganges and utter sacred hymns in memory of our ancestors, a custom locally called ‘Tarpan’..father went to the Ganges and I unable to see the incident among the crowd and jumped over the deck of a small boat..as I stood there I suddenly found that the boat is sailing away..I turned back and saw that the boat was moving and a person wearing loincloth holding the baitha in hand sailing the boat smiling and saying, ‘Chalo Khokababu tomay aktu ghuriye ani..’and he really took me for a tour around the Ganges for ten minutes and when we are back my father smiling offered him money but that boatman with dark brown body and hands as if made of steel said, ‘Na Babu, amni Khokababuke ghuriye anlam!’(No need for money Babu, I just took your son for a fun tour!)..before we leave we came to know that his name is Haranmajhi..from then on each month my father brought me here twice a month..not only because my father himself liked him but also because I now come to know that he wanted to sow in his son..fragrance of some other world..where real teachings of life begins..I can remember those days clearly..sun setting around the Ganges, far across the tower of the Fort William can be seen as then there was no Vidyasagar Setu..Haranmajhi went on speaking on his own..about his ancestral land in Barisal..his land..Padma river..how they were thrown out of their own land after independence..his fight with a crocodile once near the Sundarban delta..once how he almost got caught in the hand of the decoits..how much he love to spend nights in open river..sometimes he sings..one of his common Bhatiali song was..
‘O Paran amr kon kul theke kon kule niye jas re more..’
sometimes while sailing how he mixes Khaini in his two hands and place it delicately within his Biri rotten lips..often he use to say me, ‘Khokababu jabe amar sange..anek dure tomay niye jabo..jabe..chalo beriye pori..;no doubt I was absolutely ready to move but as usual it is an invitation to a new world and it never occurred really..then I grew up..got busy in study and I still can remember about dreams where I saw Haranmajhi saying..’Khokababu..jabe amar sange?’ Then days passed..time passed..Haranmajhi gradually got lost within my daily busy schedule..
Haranmajhi to me is not only a boatman or ‘Majhi’ but he was once my childhood hero..who sailed away miles after miles in waters..in new lands..in new places..meeting different interesting people of whom one can dream of..Haranmajhi may be was a very simple man and maybe he have never sailed away anywhere else except the limited corners of the Ganges around the Outram Ghat..but he was according to me..just like some Voyager like Vasco Da Gama or Columbus..
Haranmajhi was my childhood.
And I never wanted to lose it.
As the evening sky slowly gathered all colours of heaven I started walking.
My Childhood is not lost.
Only it is now within covers.
As I am carrying my childhood within me ..similarly my dreams of Haranmajhi would also go on sailing..sailing far..far..

into a land of eternal Romance!..

The Touch

Today is a day of luxury for Satya.
And thus landing in Dhakuria more he hold a wide smile in his lips.
For some days a break from all the worries.
A bit of relief.
A bit of signining in to life again.
And thus he brought a brand new packet of Gold Flake from the shop and then started walking.
Satya passed the Djhakuria Durgabari and took the station road.
It would take ten minutes to reach his home. Home is a wrong word, actually it is a mess. He originally comes from a remote village of Murshidabad..a mapless place. Though he did his schooling from a village school, his higher secondary done from Burdwan College butwhen it came the turn to do graduation Satya opt for Kolkata..like every village boy he love to be in Kolkata and remove his tag of a ‘village boy’ and be a 21st C citizen.
Satya stopped. Had he really able to become that?
He don’t know. But still he smiled. The only thing he knew today that he is holding in his hand his first salary of Rs 3000, of a small job of DTP Operator.
It means a lot to him.
No more buying things in lending..no more half ciggarretes..no more changing doors in running bus, tram for skipping ticket..no more hearing slangs from people who will get money from him.
Satya lighted a brand new cigarettes. Money gives happiness. Thus Gold Flake never tasted so good earlier.
Satya thought how to spend the salary..he has to give 500 to the Mess owner..he has 1000Rs in due..then he have to give another 500 to Kanaida..the road-side hotel where he is having lunch each day each night..then for his convenience cost may be Rs 600.. he have to send 500 to home..and then..but Satya stopped..because as he is calculating the amount of money is gradually becoming less and less. There is a lot of time to think about the money he thought..today he would only relish that he has now Three Thousand rupees in his hand. He took out a fifty rupee note from his shirt pocket and smelt it.
What a beautiful smell of earning his own money!
Satya has reached the level-crossing.
His mess can be reached if he goes straight.
But he always took the short-cut.
And that road went parallel to the rail lines.
He started walking through the muddy road beside the tracks.

Evening is slowly gripping in..sun has set..only in the west a splash of purple is still visible..pieces of clouds floating..birds clattering as they fly their way back to their nests..within the slums smoke is rising..the numerous nucleated families are ready to prepare their cooking..naked childrens running in playing recklessly over the tracks..slangs which locally known as ‘Khisti’s is coming to Satya’s ears at regular intervals..women wearing torn clothes spreading their wet underwears over a string hanging from a tree..a dark girl wearing red lipstick and cheap but glossy sarree went out from a slum and went towards the market..one loafer kind of boy shouted.. ‘ Ore Kelo..dak sala maltake..’..two cycles went clinging..Satya knew them..they are fish-hawkers going to market with a fish bucket..the cheap stalls are opening up gradually all bearing all the necessary goods..the soil beneath the feet of Satya trembled..train is coming..far away he saw the yellow light of the signal turned green..the clicking sound of the level-crossing gates shutting down..noises of rickshaw,cars,buses sounding in full volume..scenes of a busy evening of Dhakuria..
A gentle wind blows.
Satya closed his eyes.
Something has fallen in his eyes.
Again the wind blowed.
With a maddening sweep.
The signal of the train sounded.
Evening has lost its natural colour.
The light of the local train bisecting the dark evening.
The Evening is broken now in shades of colours..one of light and behind that everything in dark.
The train has left the station.
It can be seen now.
There it is.
Satya stopped to pass the train otherwise he would be adored more in dust.
And as soon he turned front a cold thunder went through his veins.
An old woman looks like a beggar is standing on the rail tracks, the same track in which the train is coming.
And the train is in quite a proximity now.
Satya closed his eyes for a moment.
But he opened it soon in screams coming from all around..the slums..the level crossing..the rickshaw walas..the drivers all sides..
But all in vain.
As the old woman on the track hardly moved but pecuiliarly forwarded her hands as if to hold any support.
In this twilight also the thing became clear to Satya.
The old woman is blind.
She can’t see.
What would Satya do now?
An answer would take a minute.
He don’t have that.

Satya start running among all the screams panics and within a second reached the tracks caught hold of the old woman and pushed him aside and himself jumped also and the train whitewashed them with that light.
Satya’s pulse is running fast in excitement.
The old woman has fallen on the pebbles beside the tracks.
She was still searching for a hand and shouting ‘Ke re? Ke?’
Satya after a while caught her hand and took her at the corner of the road.
Now the old woman touched her face and said ‘ Ke re? Runu naki?’
Satya kept silent.
Again the woman asked , searching all over his face ‘ Tui Runu naki? Ki re?’
Before Satya could say anything a crowd crossed the tracks and came to them, and two boys came and hug Satya, ‘Dada, apni satyi darun kaj korechen?’(You have a done a bravo work!)
One of them said to the blind woman, ‘Masi, katodin bolechi sandhaybela bhikhe koro na..’(I asked you not to beg in the evening!)
Many people are coming towards Satya..Satya is a very introvert person..thus he quietly slipped away saying he is in hurry..
When he reached near the mess, Satya found that he is hungry and today he felt like having a Roll.
He went to the stall and ordered one, and then put his hand in his pocket for bringing out his money bag.
Satya got stranded.
There is no money bag!
His pocket is empty.
Satya strated running.
It surely had fallen on the tracks.
Within two minutes Satya is on the spot, he managed a torch from the road-side stall and searched throughout the rail tracks but there was no money bag there.
One boy came and said, ‘Are dada , Apnii sei Hero na!’(Hey, you are the Hero!)
Satya nodded and tried to smile.
‘Ki hoyeche dada?’
Satya told him about the moneybag.
The boy searched and said that it has gone definitely and there is hardly any hope of founding it.
Satya himself is also realizing the truth.
‘Dada, apni ato baro akta kaj korlen ar dekun apnary..ai janya sala ajkal ar bhalo lok janmay na!(It is a pity that such a thinh happened to you!)
Satya helplessly left the spot and started walking home.
His hunger has increased double but he knew no more roll.
The world has broken into pieces before him.
He has only a fifty rupee note in his pocket and that he has all for this month.
Again a burden of loans.
Again lending money from colleagues.
Satya’s world has not changed at all.
He came back to mess, for rest but can’t.
He came out and went for the dinner at Kanaida’s Hotel.
Kanaida saw hm and said, ‘Ki aj taka debe to?’
Satya said ‘Aj noy akno maine paini..’
‘Maser das tarikheo maine paoni..ami ki a janme takata pabo?’(Will I ever get my money back?)
Satya said quietly, ‘Paben’.
‘Tahle ar ki jao boso..oi Kanchan 2no tabile akta machbhat de..’(He ordered for a meal.)

Satya feeling empty took the food without a word.
Then came out.

Night has fallen on the streets of Dhakuria.
Satya went walking.
He doesn’t feel like to return to mess so early.
He went on roaming.
Droplets of rain is slowly falling..almost a drizzle..wind blowing with a maddening hush..roads wet..trains passing..the light of the signal changing colours now and then.
Satya can’t understand himself.
He is feeling down but not dejected.
There is something which is making him happy.
Is it the heroic work? Is it the hopes of spending 20 days more for the next salary? Is it the rain? Is it the wind which has a solitary tune in it?
What can be the reason?
Satya went on roaming.
For the answer.

And while roaming through this night Satya once again felt that he is very alone, very lonely.
He is still a boy of village trying to create his own identity in this metropolis.

Satya thus always roam alone..in holidays in Babughat..where he gossips with the Majhi..sitting on the shore of the Hooghly river..often traveling in local train and dropping in unknown villages..watching farmers sowing and reaping crops..
Sinking himself in the rain..buying cheap books from the footpath of College Street..watching movies sometimes..reading poems..writing diaries when he feels..
Satya is alone..really alone..

Satya came at a spot and stopped.
It is just behind the station.
On the Verandah of a broken thatched roof house that old woman is sleeping.
She is trembling sometimes as the winds touched her.
Satya sat below her feet.
And slowly he realized that why he is still happy.
Satya smiled.
Winds came and swept him.
Crushed him.
Grains of rain making him wet.

Satya stood up.
Saw once again the face of the woman.
And then started walking.

Among the ripening night, dark streets of Dhakuria Station, a bit alone, a bit lonely Satya within this vast city has found a motherly touch in the hands of an old woman
…. who is nothing but a beggar.



---------------------------------------