“Aren’t
you feeling cold?”
“I
guess, I am used to it”, he smiled.
I looked at his frail structure. The tall,
lean, bearded man stood right in front of me, his long mane touching his
shoulders, his body wrapped in a light cotton shawl and a very modest dhoti.
The
moon-clad starry sky, the dazzling street lights and the rattling bells of the
horse-carts driving past, infused so much life into the huge white building
facing us, that one would mistake it for a lovely lady, wearing a white evening
gown, flaunting the hair accessory adorning her bun and bestowing upon the
surroundings all her gorgeousness.
“It
must be the lady’s charm keeping you warm”, I joked.
He
nodded in denial. “It is the warmth of this city, I suppose”, he added.
I
left. I wished I had woollens to wrap him with. It was a cold December evening.
*******
In
the midst of the sound of the hooves, his figure emerged. The man on a
galloping horse. “Ah! You make a warm happy sight, unlike your friend whom I
just met. Atleast, you have a proper shawl around you and a horse to rest your
butt on. Noile ei sheetey thhaye dnariye thaka.....”, I muttered. And, I
know that I totally sounded like a true blue-blooded Bong whose most-used
sentence throughout the winter is: “Thhanda lege jabe” (You’ll catch
cold).
As
I took the road on my right, I realised that the two men I just met one after
another had a strong, bomb-astic connection.
: )
*********
From
the next signal, I headed straight towards office. (In Calcutta, we prefer
calling crossings ‘signals’.)
The
strong sturdy bespectacled man stood right in front of me. “He should have been
somewhere close to the High Court”, I told myself, given the fact that he was
the chief architect of the gospel of Indian law.
His
neighbour sported a funny turban and a funnier moustache. Not many people know
that he was a lawyer too.
*****
I
moved forward.
When
I first saw him, I was a little girl. Ma told me that he was the founder member
of the college she went to. I asked her if he was a Bengali. He wore a turban
like non-Bengalis do.
Ma
always spoke very highly of him while Joydeep often joked that it is because of
people like him, “toder eto baar bereche...”. (This roughly translated means: The man
showed the path, you followed it and went too far....beyond control).
*******
“Same
for you. I always thought you were not a Bengali. The beard, the way you dress
are so not Bong”, I told him. “We have non-Bengali actors who share similar
surnames.” The statement sounded so juvenile and stupid that we both laughed.
“You
write well”, I told him. (He was waiting all his life for this one certificate
from me!!) The genius flashed a smile.
******
“Aren’t
you lucky? I mean, a human born to a Royal Bengal Tiger! You are one of a kind,
do you realise that? ”I said and ran away.
Who
would dare to joke with a tiger cub? Not me.
******
And
then, I saw her. I see her every day. Every time, I see her, my head bows down
in veneration. The lady reminds me of my maternal grand mom....a school teacher
from East Bengal who was an epitome of strength, courage and knowledge. If my Dimma was born a few decades ago, she could have also fought for the country’s
independence. I am so sure about that.
I
just stared at her in awe for some time. (I have a dream. Someday, we two will
have a rendezvous...one of the very few, where I won’t talk. I will sit and
listen and she will tell me about her childhood, of her growing up and
everything it took in the making of the very brave women that she is.)
*********
It
is by sheer coincidence, that the only other woman standing in the crowd also
reminded me of my grandmother. My paternal grand mom. They both hail from a small town called
Tamluk in Medinipur.
Strangely,
the two women I met had one thing in common. They embodied fire, nurtured it
and spread it here, there, everywhere. I was almost going to ask her if she was
feeling cold (given that she is old and clad in a crinkled Khadi saree) when I
remembered that it is she who lights fire in the branches of the Krishnochura
trees on either side of the Red Road and fills my journeys to the office with
hues of blood, oranges and sunshine.... every single summer-morning. Every.
While
I was leaving I whispered to her, “Vande, Materam are two of my favourite words
too. They are music to the ears.”
*******
Every
time I meet these men and women, my heart is filled with an apprehension that
they remain unguarded. Some of them are old. They need to be safe and secure.
Then, I see the two soldiers with huge guns, standing at the end of the road
and I am assured that they are in safe hands.
*******
I
took a few steps forward and I was greeted by a whirlpool of energy. I knew of
him since I was a child. Whenever someone accused my paternal grandfather for
his untainted loyalty towards Mohanbagan club, given that he was from East
Bengal, Dadai used to give example of
this gentleman. Like my Dadai, he had his roots in East Bengal (Bangladesh) but
his claim to fame was through a football club of West Bengal. Dadai was a huge
fan and I vaguely remember some “Great Wall of China” simile being drawn when
spoken of this man. I was also told that he played football bare feet against
the Inrej and won. Some Lagaan-type
story, which I haven’t judged the truth of!
Could
my grandfather ever guess that the grand daughter would get to meet him everyday?
******
The
husband is a staunch atheist. Had it not been for this man, I would have
accepted his claim of being a non-believer.
My
father isn’t an atheist. His reliance that this man was God, reaffirms
my belief in the preceding paragraph.
Yes,
I get to greet Him six days a week. But I don’t. Because, the greatest
attribute of this man, apart from his Godliness is: He is one of the very very
very few men in the entire Universe so huge, who leaves me
speechless. Every time. Always.
*********
With
the decreasing distance between my workplace and me, I met three more
gentlemen.
The
first among them and I belong to the same profession. You remember the first
two men I spoke about in this writing? This gentleman too, has a bomb-bastic
connection with the two of them.
My
earliest memory of this man is a conversation I had with Baba ages back. I was
a kid. We were crossing the Kalighat Bridge in an auto on our way to Rashbehari.
I folded my hands in prayer when I saw a huge temple on the right. Baba told me
that this is the Keoratola Burning Ghat and not the Kalighat temple. “If there is no Kali thakur in this temple,
what have they made this temple for?” I asked Baba, in utter surprise. What
Baba told me filled me with unfathomable awe. He said that this temple was
built in the memory of a Bengali gentleman. The then-Chief Minister of Bengal sold
photographs of this man with two lines written on them by a Noble Prize winner
for one Rupee and the temple was built entirely from public funds collected
in the process.
I still vividly remember the two lines...”Enechile sathe kore mrityuheen pran, morone tahai tumi kore gele
daan”. I had goose bumps hearing the story. I had goose bumps while writing
about it.
*******
I
finished some pending assignment in office and headed towards home. I took the
road which leads to Babughat. He stood near the front gate of the Calcutta High
Court. I have friends and relatives from the same province in Bangladesh where
he was born. Almost seventeen years before India was actually independent, this
man and his men conquered their hometown and declared it independent for an
entire day! Isn't that cool?
There are innumerable stories of his valour and gallantry. Every time I see him and his neighbour I wonder why people brand Bengalis as fainthearted.
There are innumerable stories of his valour and gallantry. Every time I see him and his neighbour I wonder why people brand Bengalis as fainthearted.
******
His
neighbour stood a few miles apart. I think that the young man is the strongest exception
to a Bengali’s so-called nervous, cowering image. He is also one of the very
few Bengali men (and perhaps the youngest also) who has an entire song written after him.
He
reminds me of the “Happy Prince” whose Swallow, I secretly wish to
become....some day, so that, when God asks his Angel to bring for him the two
most precious things from this city, we two could be the chosen ones.
**********
The
epilogue:
As
little children, we used to play “Goooo Statue”. I was a very talkative child
and friends and cousins often played this game to make me freeze at one place. They
would “statue” me and not say “over” for
a long long time. In those speechless, motionless moments, I almost felt breathless.
I
wonder how these men and women manage their eternal “Goooo Statue” act. I gaze
at them in awe and love. We have developed a bond very strong in all these
years of my office-journeys.
Once
someone asked me, “Which is that one
thing in your city with which you identify yourself the most?” There was a
Tsunami of answers in my mind. In the end, I told him, “The statues on my way
to office.” Kolkata is the only place in the world, where I can “goooo statue”
myself for an eternity.....speechless, motionless.
*********
