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.