Rashika. (Part 2)

The soft breeze carried an awful odor. It was sickening, damping and distressing for Rashika. She knew separation is essential. How funny it was! The very fact the separation tears apart the most fundamental essentiality of life, yet is becomes essential. Rashika never carried a watch. The time was however fleeing for Ashok. The repeated glances at his watch made the atmosphere tenser. Seeing him do this, she smiled for a second recalling how important it was for baba to carry the watch each day to his shop. She knew the golden dial HMT was the best thing to hide and bargain for a small prize. Rashika has always observed little things within Ashok. She never drew a parallel between him and baba, but his little habits always reminded her of him. The most fervent being her love for both of them. Unconditional it was.

The winds gained speed gradually; it shook the most profound roots from its very foundations. There was no one around. Shelter was the common search to shield against the flowing dust and upcoming storm. Here, the storm lied within and shelter too, lied within. There was no running from here. Neither of them wanted to confront the very nature of separation to each other. The existence of togetherness was the best thing to happen, and for now the only way out was to feel this warm fellowship as long as they could.

Baba too never wanted to confront detachment, for he silently left for heavenly abode quietly on his bed. That was years ago. Rashika had gown tough since then. She never turned a rebel or a nonconformist, but lived on her own terms. The very lane her mother avoided, she explored more and more of it. She explored Shyambazar though the streets and through the books from library at the university.

(pic- https://www.oldindianphotos.in/2011/04/netaji-subhas-chandra-bose-statue-in.html)

She traveled through the lanes which were built on recommendation by the Lottery commission back in 1817 when the British decided to explore the native areas of old Kolkata. She imagined falling into the Maratha Ditch, which was dug up back in the 18^th century to trap the Maratha soldiers. The ditch gave an identity to the city as it journeyed through Barabazar to the outskirts of Maidan. The five-point crossing where she walked up to everyday reminded her as how the lifeline of the city was linked through this pivotal point. No wonder baba was equally fascinated by this crossing.

The statue of Bose symbolized the connection of citizenry, brought together for revolt to throw off foreign yoke. She began complaining about the dust on the statue herself just like baba did.

 Every day she travelled to the university in a tram. She loved to see how tram made its way through the busy lanes linking Shyambazar to college square. For two decades this tram had been the lifeline of the city only to be later replaced by motor vehicles in the late 1920s. Development had reached this place and so it served as the pivotal point for spreading of revolutionary ideas for it brought far off minds to this place and again dispersed them. 

(pic-https://phototravelings.blogspot.in/2015/10/trams-in-kolkata-india.html)

The city was her identity, her symbol and her heritage. It represented rebellion, chaos and placidity too, all the emotions that webbed her at times.

The shop back in Kolkata had turned into a gleaming readymade garment shop after being sold off to some rich merchant who once wandered around the streets selling clothes. He had saved enough to afford the shabby shop and turn it into a modern store with enormous decorated hoardings displaying its identity. The glass panes were removed and replaced by new translucent gates made of thick glass embodied by steel fittings. Rashika passed several times from there but never cared to glance through the entrance. The security guard at the entrance was vigilant about every passer-by. He welcomed customers with a smile. The customers had now changed with the city and the times. There was a ‘no bargaining’ sign outside the store. The customers never complained of exorbitant charges by the shop. They happily paid what was asked for.

Rashika was 13 when baba left. She remembers baba being carried on the fragile wooden bed, roughly made. His body crossed through the cinema halls which were once a hub for women from all around the city to come and watch Bengali movies. It was taken through the narrow lanes to Nimtala Ghat where the funeral pyre was lighted reducing his existence to ashes only later to be dissolved in the river.

(pic- https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Nimtala_Ghat_Street_-_Kolkata_2016-10-11_0780.JPG)

 That day was profound in her memories for it was that one single day when she did not visit the temple with her mother other than the days of sickness. Her mother stopped praying. Her sorrow was released through the channels of blame. A few idols would be blamed for lifetime. Rashika never blamed those figures. She simply stopped going because her mother didn’t go and later because she never developed immense devotion towards anything as such. Her adherence was for the person who cared to place some lozenges in her hand. She still carried that devotion.

Life had its own way of turning things. Time is perhaps not always responsible for it. The changes that are accompanied by time are responsible. Rashika took to reading newspapers. She read how Kolkata was changing and how she was a part of that change every day. The city was now being refurbished; torn between the narrow walls of heritage and modernity. Yellow taxis had declined replacing modern white cars. The street lights gleamed turning night into day. It hardly made anyone realize that darkness had fallen upon. The terracotta design architecture was lost between high rise buildings. 

The fluctuations of monsoons either delayed the rains or poured heavily at times. She knew it was EL-Nino. The newspapers described it. She even knew how the political dynamics were changing. Violence was heating the atmosphere. He right as a citizen was in regular question. She knew of the war in Yemen, the floods in Sumatra and the end of dictator regimes replaced by placid democracy. She could locate places and capitals on maps. She knew how satellites and launchers traversed the farthest of stars.

Every now and then the house was cleaned and the sight of tailoring machines brought moisture to her eyes. She had never been able to detach herself from memories irrespective of the tenderness of her age when the tragedy struck. Mother was adamant to move back to their native village but Talib uncle’s request had never let that happen.   

Rashika. (Part-1)

Rashika spent her childhood days strolling around the streets of her locality. Every now and then baba arrived with a packet of orange flavored lozenges which were then not available in sealed wrappers. Baba owned a tailor shop nearby. He loved to stitch but Rashika was never happy that his profession was that of a tailor. Rashika had always seen him talk about trams more than of clothes. Since 20 years, the tiny tailor shop standing amidst the busy lanes of Shyambazar had always seen flocks of customers coming in and out. The opening pavement on the opposite side was flocked with bus commuters. The tram depot was nearby and every time Talib uncle passed round the corner, he used to ring his bell and wave at Baba from the driver’s cabin.

There was a small road on the immediate left of the shop that divided the lane into two halves. Rashika always took the right lane with her mother everyday to arrive at the small temple situated at the old junction where buses came to halt. The other lane was always a mystery for her. Mother had strictly warned her not to venture there.

 Baba had a thing with excessive brightness. He never liked the government install large helium bulbs across the street that divulged into four wide roads. He never complained about it but it was just that his face showed a gloom every time he watched the light flash across the streets turning the colorful scenario into deep white texture. Perhaps baba liked the yellow ones more. Baba was always concerned about the dirt on the statue of Bose riding his horse erected at the junction of the four way intersection. When Rashika said her Baba to clean it himself, baba smiled at the child and handed her another toffee. It was his own way of answering Rashika. Everytime.

(pic-http://swarnalidreams.blogspot.in/2012/03/guest-3-meet-swastik.html)

The three attendants at baba’s shop never complained no matter how busy it got especially during the festive season. Readymade garments were already making a mark but the shop managed well with passing years. The tiny shed over the shop needed urgent repair. The entrance however was well maintained with glass cabinets displaying the finest fabric in the market. The entrance had a glass panel door so as to avoid overcrowding during peak seasons. Baba thought it wasn’t needed anymore. There was hardly any crowd like before. Rashika however loved the glass panel for she always used to peep inside before entering the shop. Whenever baba noticed her glancing through the translucent pane, he rendered a smile.

Customers now had different preferences. The old folks were busy crossing fingers over the cotton roll to check the quality, some people on the counter were bargaining for a deal, then there were college teens who had applied for some job and were searching formals. Kids were less in number now. The new attractive market that had developed over the walking lane flashed big fluorescent white lights over shinning, colorful garments of kids. Parents preferred those shops now. When baba took Rashika to buy a frock on her birthday, she refused to buy from those shops and told baba to stitch one for her. Baba again smiled with the toffee in hand. She was gifted with a red frock draped with ribbons on the sides which she always held between her fingers while walking. Her mother had warned her not to use the frock everyday for it would get smeared in dirt. Rashika never cared. Baba had gifted her that frock. Let alone baba decide!

Entangled Little Beliefs

My chance encounters with outspoken people have been like a deportation trail. The foreign country freshness has done no good and the fear of being in exile in an alien land arrests my freedom opposite of which was the primary reason of my travel. I have a general regard for people who leave me utterly confused. It is simply fascinating to feel that the other person feels my inner turmoil and inability to reach a decision when there was a crowd outside waiting to pass. My partner panics and holds me.

I remember some great man say not so grateful things about life. He rendered opinions of simplicity, coherence and adherence to institutionalized values of life. My confusion lied as to what happened when the norms deviated? When the norms broke and were not able to find their way back? On my question the man pointed- “Change is the way of life”.

Indeed change is the way but not the change that is desired on the premise of calculative efforts and setbacks. The change can only become a change when the deviation is clearly understood. My change is subjective to the fact that those incorporations are something which I demand and not what the world pronounces. I never believe in this change.

Friendship lies in the richness of character and not in terms of monetary calculations. I was utterly confused when again some great men wrote on friendships, those existing between the walls of lavishness. Even the tragic stories of friendships were found in intellectual spheres and their reference was drawn from after-thoughts when the tragedy had occurred. Why give a sad ending to everything? Is it not unfair that mere knowledge of an existing phenomenon gives one the authority to exercise it in their words and writings?

My house is getting a renovation. There are three daily wage workers who adhere to their religious duty of shifting goods from one place to another. It is such monotony to execute the same thing over and over again.  Brick by brick is laid on the cemented spreads. The bond is to be ensured strong and so has to be the foundation. The wage workers spend a significant time of their day at my home. I deliver them cold water every few hours on demand. I have never seen them together except when they sit for food. The food is simple yet shared. The food lacks nutrients but is wholesome. The entire break is filled with smiles and exchanges of laughter. This is how they work. Their intellectual sphere is limited yet this feeling is so well developed. Neither knows of values, principles and socio economic criterion to judge the basic premise of life written by those great people, but simplicity and affection is well developed in them. This is also not an intellectual disability, for it hardly takes the mind to evaluate affections; love develops simply and so does respect.

Such confusion is rendered to me by people whom I encounter on a daily basis. I do not stand here to evaluate their learning’s however I do so when I am perplexed and diverted. It is simply fascinating to think of those grounds where I can challenge their convictions. However my respect towards them is in the regard that their knowledge is profound and subtle and also for the fact that their contribution to my perplexity completes my thought processes. I simply love the fact that my turmoil and panic at times involves introspection of simple things.