HAVE A PLEASANT JOURNEY
Pijush Gupta
First published as an ebook in India in 2011
Copyright 2010 Pijush Gupta
Smashwords Edition
Poems featured in the book copyright by respective poets
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Cover Design: Hriday Jayaraj
For Nemo, the cat
acknowledgements
Someone told me that writing a book is similar to entering a long-term relationship with an obsessive partner. I learnt this firsthand.
It took me close to 4 years to write this book. I started writing this book in 2005 and had to fight distractions like affairs, jobs and marriage (not in that order) to complete it in the latter half of 2009.
Even a medium sized book like this, brings to light the help of many who have encouraged me to proceed, persevere and finish the project. I would like to acknowledge the help given by my wife, family and friends who were supportive from the beginning.
All the way, critical eyes and view points were invaluable from my wife (Subhashree) and friends (Narayan, Sanjeev and Paresh), who read rough drafts, edited them and kept me on the correct path.
I learnt perseverance from my cat. Nemo is her name and she is small, energetic, loving, arrogant and persistent (in chasing shadows of little birds). One should expect nothing less from a cat, by the way.
The proceeds from this book would go a long way in buying the best cat food and clumping clay for Nemo.
Overall, my first book writing experience has been personally rewarding. Good or bad, it takes an amazing amount of time, energy, and soul (or the lack of it) to create a finished book. Unfortunately, many books never make it out of the hands of the author to be published and enjoyed by others. I tried getting this book published traditionally but failed.
I honestly don’t expect this book to land up in the hands of people I don’t know but if you don't know me and are still reading this, then I thank you too. I hope you find this book a worthy companion for the next few hours or days, depending on your reading speed.
Last but not the least, I beg forgiveness of all those who have been with me over the course of the years and whose names I have failed to mention. You know who you are.
Have a pleasant journey.
Pijush
Chapter one
~
Railway platforms in India set the stage for so many stories that someone would be mistaken to believe that it’s not just a railway platform but a story platform; a stage that has seen so many characters, acts, scenes, sounds and lights. People get lost here, others find their soul mates; someone finds a new meaning of life while others find means to end their life; somebody learns the meaning of patience while others lose their composure here. The time between arriving at the station and boarding a train is long enough to give birth to myriad stories. The thought of traveling by train in India brings with it a concoction of emotions with ingredients like excitement, loneliness, hope and dejection.
It was just 6 in the morning at the Dadar station in Mumbai and it was already alive and kicking with chaiwalas brewing tea and newspaper stalls selling the latest "Breaking News." It had been raining since midnight. The rain Gods were somewhat tired and subdued now and had resorted to a drizzle. Rain water sloped down the asbestos roofing and fell in single lines along the corrugations like thick sugar syrup. The stray dogs were up and so were the beggars, ready for another day, with hope in their eyes.
The Mumbai local train service had already started but the elbow-shoving, jostling crowd was missing at the Dadar station. It was a Sunday and it’s probably the only day, Mumbai tries to sleep late, with difficulty. The virtue of taking it easy is not the forte of Mumbai. It’s always on the move, all through the day, each and every week. It’s not the spirit of Mumbai that makes it keep going through terrorist attacks, bomb blasts, fashion do’s and blockbuster releases…it’s the passion to earn and survive. The Nariman Point bound man sitting in a chauffeur driven BMW thinks almost exactly as the kid in a tattered dress at the traffic signal. While the BMW gentleman licks a politician’s backside to get a deal, the kid cleans the windshields of passing BMWs to get through the day. While the BMW man thinks of earning a few crores, the kid thinks of earning a few rupees to get him through his day. They both don’t really think and care about who is getting killed or what is getting bombed. The spirit of Mumbai is nothing but the fight for the next cutting-chai or the next latté.
This Sunday was no different with its usual flair missing. The beggars and the dogs were the only permanent fixtures as were the tube lights and the slow moving fans that managed to blow the hot and humid air near the roof down on to the already sweaty people. The rains had obviously failed to help. The Howrah bound Gitanjali Express had left Mumbai CST station and was due to arrive at the Dadar station anytime.
People in Mumbai treat long distance trains just like Mumbai Locals; arrive at the last moment and just hop on. It was less than 5 minutes for the Gitanjali Express to arrive at Dadar Station and the platform was still deserted.
ETA: 4 min and people start pouring in as if a refugee camp just announced new vacancies.
Two very fresh and jubilant faces entered the station. They were Abhay and Anamika who looked like a couple of school kids eager to get back home after the last day of exams. Abhay and Anamika hurriedly entered the railway station with a couple of backpacks. The driver was carrying the heavier ones. Both were very eager to reach Tatanagar so that Abhay could introduce Anamika to his parents. This was going to be a big moment for both of them and for all those who had witnessed them meet and become close to each other over a short period of time. They were the perfect couple who complemented each other in a way that would give the combination of thunder and lightning a serious complex.
Abhay and Anamika were not alone. They had a mini crowd following them to see them off. There were Anamika’s parents, Mrs. Sengupta, the professor, the driver and some of Abhay’s college mates. Abhay and Anamika had confirmed tickets. As they entered the platform, they saw some early passengers anxiously waiting for the train. Abhay was feeling elated at having found peace with himself and having found the love of his life. The Gitanjali Express was on time. It had left CST-the originating station exactly at 6 AM. Almost the entire college batch was leaving that day. Some had already left in the morning, while some were yet to leave.
“We wish we could have accompanied you two,” said Anamika’s dad grimly. “It would have been great to meet your parents.”
“Don’t worry Sir. I’ll bring them back for the convocation ceremony” said Abhay.
Mrs. Kejriwal, Anamika’s mother put her hand on her daughter’s head and smiled with contentment that only a happy mother can exude. She was at peace that her daughter had not only managed to see the light of the day but was also enjoying it. Who would have thought that one day Anamika would start mingling with people and even smile.
The train declared its arrival by its shrill hoot and Abhay jutted his head out from the platform to have the first glance of the oncoming train. Anamika’s dad pulled him back and said, “Don’t do that son.”
“Sorry but the sight of the engine making its way along the curve just before the Dadar platform is too tempting,” Abhay explained.
“It’s quite dangerous Abhay. Don’t you realize how precious you two are for us,” sighed Dr. Kejriwal.
Abhay looked at Dr. Kejriwal and just gave a reassuring smile before turning his head towards the train which was now entering the platform. As the train entered the platform, it created a mini typhoon of sorts which hit the most obviously susceptible thing at Dadar station that morning: Mrs. Sengupta’s kurta. The train created a whirling air force that got caught underneath Mrs. Sengupta’s kurta, parachuting it till it was almost flying off her head. There were at least 50 men with fallen jaws, almost on the verge of lunging towards Mrs. Sengupta to cover her modesty. Thankfully, before the kurta could take off into oblivion, the train slowed down and the flimsy piece of Mrs. Sengupta’s clothing settled down with the dust. The women folk let out a sigh of relief while the men hurled expletives at the train driver for slowing down. The men secretly wished the kurta had hit the asbestos roof of Platform number 3. While everyone was regaining their composure, Mrs. Sengupta stood there as if it was just another bad kurta day. She was used to being a victim of variable air pressure that hit varied parts of her outfit at the most inopportune time.
The train had come to a standstill by now and passengers were pushing their way up, trying to make the most of the 2 minutes of halt time at Dadar station. Dr. Kejriwal’s driver picked up Abhay’s and Anamika’s baggage and placed them underneath the berth. The public address system boomed, “Train number 2859, Gitanjali Express, from Mumbai CST to Howrah is about to leave Dadar station. Passengers are requested not to board a running train for their own safety. Have a pleasant journey.” Anamika’s parents hurriedly made both of them board the train. Abhay and Anamika touched her parent’s feet and shook hands with the driver and bid farewell to Mrs. Sengupta whose hips still wouldn’t stop twitching. It was as if her hips were getting synchronized to her palpitations. For once the end of her dupatta did not slip, giving others the chance to ogle. Anamika’s mother on the other hand was busy checking out if her husband was trying to sneak a peek at Mrs. Sengupta’s assets.
The train blew its horn thrice before it started pushing off gently from the platform. Abhay and Anamika bid everyone goodbye. They stood near the doorway till all they could see was a tiny dot consisting of Anamika’s parents, the driver and Mrs. Sengupta. Abhay placed his arm around Anamika who had a pleasant smile on her face. Who would have called her mentally traumatized till a few months back, thought Abhay.
As they were making their way towards their berth, they heard a lady scream at her kid, “Come out of the toilet, Rahul.”
The familiar voice sent shudders down Abhay’s spine. It put his brain into an overdrive as if he was being flung into a train of thoughts that was destined for a definitive hellhole. Voices, sounds and noises are all associated with memories and this particular voice was linked with some gruesome memories of Abhay’s past; the past from which he had been desperately trying to escape all these years. A past so traumatic, that Abhay feared trudging the same path, even in broad daylight. As the door to the toilet opened, a flood of faecal stench hit Abhay’s nose and he doubled back.
“Look at the mess you have created,” screamed the lady.
“What do you think? No one else uses this toilet or what?” she continued.
Screaming, she went inside the toilet and closed the door from inside. Abhay could barely see the face as her shapely body entered the toilet. Abhay had long stopped recognizing people by the size of their bust. Earlier, never did he venture beyond the neck up while speaking to people. It was as if he was trying to store the voice with the bust size so that the data could be retrieved at a later date for easy recognition.
“I don’t have the “in-your-face” attitude”, he used to quip. But now, he had started using faces for recognizing people after meeting Anamika.
Abhay and Anamika came back to their seats, while others were still trying to find some place to keep their luggage. The train had gathered speed by now and was whizzing past the Mumbai local stations.
Anamika smiled at Abhay, which made him forget all about the voice. He crouched under the berth to check whether their luggage was intact. He then took out a chain and secured their luggage to one of the hanging loops under the seat with a small lock. The entire idea was to ward off thieves. People think that the sight of a chain secured to the luggage intimidates thieves, when in reality all it takes to break the lock is a gentle tug. But it works sometimes. Be it the general compartment or the 1st AC, the chain never leaves the Indian passenger.
After giving a reassuring tug at the chain, Abhay stood up and sat next to Anamika who was still smiling. Her spectacles had slipped to the tip of her nose making her look like a cute teacher; one whom no student would fear but would count as one of their own. She looked at Abhay with her big eyes and said, “I am so happy that I would be meeting your parents.” “So am I,” said Abhay.
Abhay was a changed man after meeting Anamika; so changed that even his parents would have trouble recognizing him. The son who would get violent at the drop of a hat, who had violent mood swings, who would recoil violently if touched, who could not do without the constant visits to the psychiatrist had changed so much in these four years. Never did Abhay go home during his vacations, preferring to stay at his hostel rather than visit his parents. He didn’t even allow his parents to visit him; and knowing their son so well, they readily complied with his wishes. It was four long years since his parents had seen him. Abhay cut quite a different picture than what he was while leaving Tatanagar for Mumbai for doing his engineering course.
As the train chugged along, Abhay could not help but notice that the rail track next to theirs appeared to run alongside them as if skimming over the ballast. Maybe the rail tracks were made in Tatanagar and they too are eager to reach home, Abhay thought.
As the train rushed past the slums, Abhay mutely watched all the squalor and filth that some people had to live with. Wish I could do something for all of them.
“Try my unpalatable tea, try my unpalatable tea,” screamed a voice in the coach. A man came into view with a kettle of tea in one hand and some earthen cups or kullar in another. Such attention grabbing sales pitch certainly had many takers and when it came with a “full satisfaction or your money back guarantee” then there was no stopping the sale. As the tea seller came near Abhay’s berth, one passenger asked him, “Why do you claim that your tea is unpalatable while selling it?” “Do you think that the passengers are mad that they will drink it?”
“Saahab ask this question to the hundreds of passengers who drank the tea today,” the tea seller replied with a smile. “Because of them, I am making my second round today,” he continued. “Ask the daily passengers on these routes, who are regulars. They will vouch by Gulaab Singh’s tea.”
Convinced that Gulaab Singh’s tea was the best by the apparent nods of approval by other passengers, some new customers were won. Having emptied the kettle, Gulaab Singh alighted at the next station. Before alighting, he came up to Abhay and Anamika and said, “From the look on your faces, it seems that you people are still unconvinced about the taste and quality of my tea.”
Before Abhay could reply, Gulaab Singh spoke again, “But you will be…very soon.”
“No one has escaped providence or my tea; nor will you,” he continued. With a sly smile, Gulaab Singh turned his back and went away.
The moment Gulaab Singh turned his back, Anamika’s sixth sense told her that something bad was about to happen. Like many times in the past, she wished that it was wrong. What was it that was going to go wrong, what bad luck would fall on her or Abhay? Would something happen to her or more importantly to Abhay? Would Abhay’s parents spurn her?
Anamika was starting to lose her composure and her hand and face started sweating profusely. Her spectacles were now almost on the verge of falling off her sweaty nose. Nothing would go wrong now! Nothing! It’s amazing how love and support can make a traumatized girl act so normally. The change that Anamika had undergone after meeting Abhay was so dramatic that it would be difficult to the point of impossible for anyone seeing her for the first time to know that it is the same girl who used to be cooped up in her dark room all day and night just to escape the light, which according to her would have killed her. It was Abhay’s love and care that not only made her perfectly normal and social but also a girl with aspirations and sense of familial bonding.
With her face flush and sweating, Anamika stood up and headed towards the wash basin near the door. Abhay was still thinking about the slums and abject poverty. Anamika steadied herself by holding on to the footrests on both sides of the aisle. As she reached the basin, she saw a ticket checker and a railway constable huddled near the door, taking turns to puff on a single bidi. Seeing Anamika’s flustered expression, they thought that their illegal smoking was the reason. The constable quickly threw away the bidi and they dispersed in silence, one towards the other coach and the other into the toilet. Anamika had barely noticed them; she was too paranoid to even notice the smoky smell of the bidi that hung in the air. She went to the wash basin and splashed water on her face and neck. She was trying to take her mind away from her apprehensions, when the door of the other toilet opened and out came the mother and her child that both Abhay and Anamika had heard and “smelt” while boarding the train.
Meanwhile, Abhay was busy trying to find reasons behind the weird behavior of the children who threw pebbles at passing trains and then waved at them. Some even pulled down their pants and gave the passengers an eyeful. Attention makes people do a lot of things, he concluded.
It was almost 6:40 in the morning and Abhay was feeling sleepy despite drinking Gulaab Singh’s tea. A few minutes earlier, the attendant had come and distributed blankets, bed sheets, towels and pillows to each of the passengers.
“I am feeling very sleepy Anamika,” he said.
“Go up to your berth quickly and sleep for some time while I read this book,” replied Anamika, pointing at the novel she was holding.
Abhay took the upper berth and spread the bed sheet and set the pillows before going off to sleep while Anamika read the book. She occasionally looked outside the tinted window and wondered where she would have been if Abhay hadn’t come into her life. She leaned her head on the window and closed her eyes to relive her meeting with Abhay. In no time Anamika had slipped into a zone between attentive thinking and dreams. Meanwhile Abhay was snoring softly oblivious to how this journey was all set to change the course of his life forever.
***
Chapter two
~
Kolkata is located by the River Hooghly and has a colonial feel to it given its history. It was first developed by the British East India Company and then by the British Empire. In 1690, Job Charnok, an agent of the East India Company carefully selected this site as it was protected by the Hooghly River on the west, a creek to the north, and by salt lakes about two and a half miles to the east. And so the British ensconced themselves in this culturally rich haven for the next 250 years or so.
One amongst the millions who called Kolkata their home were the Dastidars. The Dastidars were from a well-to-do family in Kolkata. They were originally from Tatanagar in Jharkhand but Abhay’s dad, Sourish Dastidar shifted base to Kolkata just after his marriage to Neena. Sourish Dastidar was the General Manager in Burnpur Cement Limited. His father owned a cement factory in Tatanagar which he operated with an iron fist and a strong resolve. The old man used to walk 10 Km to his factory every day, yet had enough strength and stamina left to terrorize his managers all through the day. Sourish Dastidar was totally against his father’s way of functioning but had little or no say in the day to day affairs. So after marriage, Sourish shifted base to Kolkata and took up a job as an Operations Manager in Burnpur Cement Limited where he rose to the position of General Manager.
Abhay Dastidar was born in this ‘City of Processions’ at the Shambhunath Memorial Hospital located on Circus Avenue. He was born the year Nandan Center for Film Awareness was set up and a year after the first Metro Rail started rolling on its tracks. The day his parents brought him home from the hospital, the eunuchs were waiting outside their home to sing and dance for him. They blessed him. One of them even made sure that Abhay was normal by unwrapping the blanket to have a look at Abhay’s pee pee.
Some said he resembled his grandfather while some could find traces of Rabindranath Tagore in him. “Look at his aquiline nose. It’s so like his father,” said one neighbor while the other one commented, “Look at the forehead. It resembles Satyajit Ray’s.” It’s amazing that friends and family find so many forced similarities between the physical features of babies and their parents and in case of Bengalis, all Nobel and Oscar prize winners as well. Had they had their way, they would have delved into the genetic structure as well. "Look at the ocean blue eyes the baby has. I am sure the gene for the blue eyes was inherited from his parents, is lined up on the 10th chromosome in an orthogonal position," the frightening conversation might have gone. Thanks to the myriad similarities, Abhay was already a celebrity without even gurgling once.
Abhay hardly ever slept on the bed till he started walking. He spent the entire day on the lap of his aunts, uncles, cousins and neighbors, being pampered and kissed all over his face.
One of the neighbors was Choto Ma who was like a second mother to Abhay. She was so much in love with Abhay that at one point Neena started getting jealous. But she soon realized that Choto Ma’s love was unconditional and it also gave ample time for Neena to attend to other things while Abhay was being taken care of. Everyone in the family had come to the conclusion that Choto Ma must have been related to Abhay in his previous birth.
Choto Ma’s two daughters, Devika and Meenu weren’t behind either. Devika was 6 years old while Meenu was 5; but their age wasn’t a deterrent in making them adept at handling a kid. They helped their mother change Abhay’s nappies or pressing his knees closer to his chest so that the pressure would make him poop more. It was a wonderful experience for both the sisters as they missed having a younger brother. In fact Abhay filled the gaps and holes of many families, individuals and souls.
It was a kind of ritual when Abhay was given his daily bath in the afternoon. All kakis, aunties and didis who didn’t go to work or were on leave gathered around the tub in which Abhay was gently placed and given a bath. He never cried when given a bath and kind of enjoyed it, playing and splashing in the water. He would cry instantly when he was taken out of the tub and it became a fun thing for others to go through the routine of putting him in the tub, taking him out, hearing him scream and then putting him back in the tub again, leaving a visibly ecstatic Abhay and a bemused audience. Abhay continued being a water baby even after growing up and still stands under the hot water shower for hours on end or until the water runs out or someone screams out from outside. Abhay had this amazing ability and fetish for standing under scalding hot water, one that would make others scream out in pain. Once, Neena was giving him a bath and absentmindedly, poured warm water into the tub and forgot to mix cold water into it. She slipped Abhay into the tub and got the shock of her life when she put back her hands into the water to take him out. The water was hot even for Neena, let alone Abhay, but the little kid was happily splashing away in bliss, oblivious to the chaos around him.
According to Abhay’s grandmother, he was literally a sleeping prince who used to sleep a lot; a habit that has compounded now. He used to fall into deep slumber after he had had his bath and looked very charming and handsome with his hair still wet. My prince, his grandmother would say.
As for Abhay, it was a nice way of being pampered and mollycoddled by so many people, related or unrelated. It was like money changing hands; only in this case, the precious thing recognized his handlers.
In no time Abhay started obliging and rewarding people he liked with the most innocent and genuine smile while he reserved his most ear-shattering howls for the loathed individuals. Kids are never ambiguous when it comes to expressing their likes and dislikes. It’s a very simple logic for them: howl when the hands that hold them are found wanting and smile or giggle when the hand that rocks the cradle is immensely likeable.
Choto Ma was always at hand during the growing up years of Abhay. She would know the exact timing of Abhay’s hunger induced cries, his potty time, his pee pee time and even his burp time. She, like clockwork, would appear beside Abhay just before he let out a cry to attract attention to his needs. Little wonder that he spent most of his time at Choto Ma’s place. This was also one of the reasons why Neena could go back to her scriptwriting and film-making at Nandan Center within 4 months of giving birth to Abhay.
She knew Abhay had a second mother.
***
Days flew like hours and hours like minutes and before anyone realized, the soft bundle of a baby was a year old. Time was just whizzing past at a furious pace. Relatives came and went, neighbors came and went but Choto Ma was a permanent fixture. She was like an appendage of Abhay who had to be surgically removed if both were to be taken away from each other.
The first birthday of Abhay was not without any hitches though. Sourish had ordered a huge Mickey Mouse shaped cake from Flury’s in Park Street the previous day. Friends, family and neighbors had been invited. The house had been done up with ribbons, balloons and sparklers and was all set to usher in Abhay’s grand first birthday. On the eve of his birthday, Abhay’s nose started running. This worsened rapidly till he was wheezing and frequently out of breath. Abhay cried all through the night and was consoled by Sourish, Neena and Choto Ma. They took turns in holding Abhay and trying to put him to sleep. When Neena and Sourish held Abhay, Choto Ma went to the puja room to pray. When the crying didn’t stop and the fever started rising, Sourish took out his Ambassador and drove down to the Shambhunath Memorial Hospital to get Abhay admitted. It was almost 3 in the morning when they reached the casualty. The doctor gave him a medicine to clear his throat and nose and to bring down the fever.
Soon Abhay fell asleep peacefully. The crying had stopped at last. The doctor made the nurse take Abhay’s blood sample for analysis. By mid morning, Abhay was stable enough to be discharged from the hospital but the scare that he gave his parents made them postpone the elaborate birthday party.
The next morning, Sourish went to the doctor who had the reports ready.
“Sit down Mr. Dastidar,” said a smiling Dr. Saha.
“Thanks,” said Sourish, pulling a chair in the doctor’s chamber.
“We ran some tests on Abhay’s blood samples and the reports have come,” Dr. Saha spoke while opening the folder in front of him. He spoke with substantial gravity in his voice. Sourish grew stiff, as if hell was about to fall on him with full force. He eased up when he saw the reason for the doctor’s sudden change in demeanor.
“Hello Doctor, here are the files of the patients that you are supposed to take a look at during your daily rounds,” spoke Nurse Anhinha Sachez. She had already entered the room and was now standing at Dr. Saha’s desk and bending forward to place the files. It’s not that she was bending on purpose but because she had to. At 6 feet 1 inch, every table except the bar counter would have been disappointingly low for Anhinha. The 60 plus year old Dr Saha had been the head of the Paediatric Department at Shambhunath Memorial for 25 years and was used to seeing mammaries on a regular basis. The rooms in the department were teeming with moms feeding their newborns. There was nothing unusual or erotic about them, but Anhinha’s glands were now being ogled at through lust-tinted glasses.
“Err...yes sure. I’ll have a look at them before I go for my rounds Nurse,” the doctor was mindful of not referring to the nurse by her name. Dr. Saha found it easy to fantasize when the body was not associated with a name. It made him feel anonymous by distancing himself from the name.
Anhinha left as quietly as she had come but Sourish could see Dr. Saha’s eyes fixated on her assets as she departed. Sourish was too worried about Abhay to either lust at Anhinha or despise Dr. Saha.
“She is the new volunteer from Mother of All Charities Foundation,” blurted Dr. Saha as he moved his stoned eyes from Anhinha’s derrière to meet Sourish’s.
“Huh!” replied Sourish.
“No! I was talking about that nurse. She is from Mexico and every year the Foundation takes interns from Mexico and sends them to us for volunteering,” Dr. Saha said.
“She is this year’s import,” he continued with a cheeky grin on his face.
“So what do the reports say Doctor?” asked Sourish with a dismissing wave of hand.
“Oh! The report…yes yes,” replied Dr Saha opening the report on his desk.
“Mr. Dastidar, it’s nothing serious. It’s only that Abhay is suffering from Eosinophilia.”
Before Sourish could ask what that was, Dr. Saha continued, “It is basically a chronic disorder which results from excessive production of a particular type of white blood cells.”
“Is it curable?” asked Sourish.
“Yes yes sure…no doubt about that,” reassured Dr. Saha.
“And since we have diagnosed this early, we can surely bring the white blood cell count down,” Dr. Saha continues.
“How bad is it?” prodded Sourish.
“Going by the studies that have been done on this disease, on an average around 5-7% of the white blood cells constitute Eosinophils but in Abhay’s case, the count shows that it is at 7.5 % which is not that bad,” said the doctor.
“And what can we do to assure that there is no relapse?” asked Sourish, still worried.
“There is nothing to be overly worried about. Just keep the child away from smoke, dust and pollution and he’ll be just fine,” said Dr. Saha.
“I have prescribed some medicines for now. You can buy them from our hospital’s pharmacy,” continued the doctor.
“Sure, I’ll do that and thank you Doctor babu” said Sourish shaking hands with the doctor.
As Sourish was about to open the doctor’s cabin door, Dr Saha exclaimed, “One more thing!”
Sourish turned expecting the doctor to start all over again explaining the benefits of getting expats for volunteering in city hospitals because they keep the spirits of both the staff and the patients high.
Dr. Saha stood up with the bunch of files that Anhinha had placed on his desk and spoke, “Abhay will have to live with a runny nose for the rest of his life.”
The next weekend Sourish threw a huge party for Abhay.
***
By the first birthday, all normal babies start speaking a bunch of gibberish which may not have any real world meaning but parents almost always recognize these outlandish words to have some specific meaning based on the situation. A few months later, their first decipherable word comes out which inevitably is mama, baba, or dada.
But Abhay was different. Year one went without Abhay speaking even any gibberish. It was the completion of year two that troubled Neena and Sourish. It was not that Abhay didn’t make any sound, it was only that they weren’t any words that made sense or otherwise. Abhay laughed when he was tickled and cried just like a normal kid.
That’s when Choto Ma suggested buying a talking parrot.
“A talking parrot?” asked both Sourish and Neena.
“I had a relative in Asansol whose kid didn’t talk even after his 2nd birthday so they got a talking parrot,” Choto Ma explained.
“The parrot was a very effective in making the child play as well as imitate it. The kid started talking in the next few months.”
“Talk about animals teaching humans to talk!” grumbled Sourish scoffing at the mere idea of getting a parrot to make Abhay talk.
“Let’s give it a try dear,” pleaded Neena
Neena spoke with such fervor that Sourish found it pointless to argue any further. At least it was better than Choto Ma’s earlier suggestion of visiting Baba Bangali, the local tantrik who gave away magical ash to cure anything.
“Ok” was his terse reply.
That Sunday, Sourish went to the famous animal market on north Kolkata's Galiff Street to get a parrot. He found a talking parrot that had a vocabulary of exactly 10 Bengali words including ‘bokachoda.’
“And how do I get the damn parrot not to utter the expletive?” asked Sourish to the shopkeeper.
Grinning from ear to ear, the shopkeeper replied, “Just don’t bug the poor thing too much and he will keep to his quota of the 9 words he is used to.”
So that’s how Mithu, as the parrot came to be known, entered the Dastidar household. Abhay would crawl up to Mithu and stare at him all day long and listen to the 9 words. Neena, Choto Ma, Devika and Meenu would make Mithu learn new words and he in turn would repeat those to Abhay. Sourish strictly kept away from this circus as he considered this as useless as the tantrik mumbo-jumbo.
It seemed Choto Ma was right after all as a few months later; Abhay spoke his first intelligible word. “Esho,” he said. Needless to say, the entire family knew where he had learnt the word from and they were ecstatic.
***
Abhay was almost 5 years old when he was admitted to the Indo-German Kindergarten School. Normally kids got admitted there in their 3rd or 4th year but given the fact that Abhay started talking late, the school authorities weren’t keen to admit him. Abhay fared pretty well in the school and got promoted from nursery to KG-I and then to KG-II. In fact Abhay learnt sign language sooner than he started speaking something. Devika had a speech impediment due to which she couldn’t speak anything intelligible. Choto Ma had ultimately put her in a school for deaf and dumb where she learnt sign language. Since Choto Ma herself felt the need to communicate with Devika, she too learnt sign language and just out of curiosity Meenu and Abhay did the same. Soon they were all experts in sign language. Sometimes when Abhay was alone, he used to talk to himself using sign language.
During playtime, he would sit alone in the sand and make weird shaped castles and then call all his friends to see his creations. The school bully Montu invariably used to threaten to kick the sand castle into smithereens unless Abhay parted with his Poppins. The meek Abhay used to comply but was happy to be comforted by Jyotsna who had become his best friend.
Every morning Neena used to give him a bath, comb his hair, pack his lunch in a little tiffin box and take him to the bus stand where the school bus would pick him up. The same bus would drop him off at the same point where Neena, Choto Ma, Devika or Meenu would pick him up. The rest of the day would be spent either at Choto Ma’s place, playing with Devika and Meenu or digging up holes in the garden.
Digging holes in the garden was one of his favorite pursuits during those years. He used to make imaginary dams and lakes by filling up the holes with water and covering them up with leaves and twigs. Once Sourish was walking in the garden when he fell into one of Abhay’s camouflaged ‘lakes’.
“Eeeks!” he screamed and went into the house with mud soaked legs to give Abhay a scolding. The rebuke did not deter Abhay from digging more holes but he used them for a different purpose. He uprooted wild plants from nearby fields and planted them in those holes. Soon the entire Dastidar’s garden was filled with exotic weeds of every shape, color and size. It was like walking through the floor of a tropical forest. Abhay had become an expert weed harvester. He really had a green thumb.
Sourish, immediately summoned the neighborhood gardener and got the entire garden cleaned up and warned Abhay of ever digging up another hole or planting one of his exotic plants. Abhay took the threat seriously and never stepped into the garden to dig another hole. He took to other hobbies like sitting at the edge of a huge flowing nala in front of his house and fetching the cricket balls for all the teams who were playing there. All that the batsman needed to do was scream out Abhay's name when the ball fell into the nala and Abhay would promptly wade into the dirty water to fetch the ball. This went on till Neena found out.
THAWK! The slap landed on Abhay’s cheeks when Neena saw him wading in the dirty water fetching the day’s 15th cricket ball. He was promptly pulled up by his ears and dragged to the water reservoir behind the house and given a thorough cleaning mixed liberally with scolding. This went on, with Choto Ma, Devika and Meenu watching over the boundary wall that separated the two houses.
As Abhay was getting his antiseptic scrubbing, a cricket ball landed into the water reservoir hitting Abhay in the knee.
“Bokachoda,” he mumbled quite audibly.
Needless to say, everyone knew where he had learnt the word from.
***
Chapter three
~
Abhay was 8 years old by the time he was through with his KG-II and he did well in those 3 years. Barring minor mishaps and accidents like getting beaten up by Montu, the Kindergarten bully or falling off the gate and getting his forehead bruised, Abhay survived well through those 3 years.
Then it was time for Abhay to get into a real school, with a real affiliation, like ICSE, CBSE or the state board. Given the fact that Sourish and Neena had developed abhorrence to the state board; they wanted Abhay to get into a school with either ICSE or CBSE affiliation. They preferred Noddy over Abol Tabol and wanted Abhay to be exposed more to Enid Blyton than Rabindranath Tagore. Sourish felt that children studying in Bengali medium schools affiliated to the state board got a misplaced sense of regional superiority. He thought that these children grew up with a feeling that their world started and ended with West Bengal and that they stopped appreciating the richness of other cultures and languages.
Not everyone agreed with what Sourish and Neena felt but in India you don’t tell parents what to do and what not to do when it comes to the career and future of their children. These things are handled very personally between the parent and the children. The parents decide the child’s future when they are young and in return, the children decide their parent’s future when they become old. Period.
With all this confusion going around him, Abhay was surprisingly nonchalant and really didn’t care whether he went to Don Bosco, Loreto or Khokon Deshbandhu Bidyalaya. For him it was all about losing his existing friends and the fear and uphill task of making new ones. It was all about losing friends like Jyotsna and being bullied by new thugs like Montu.
A month before the entrance examinations, Sourish took things into his own hands and started cramming Abhay’s little brain with exam specific information. The duel had started between Abhay’s brains and Sourish’s hands. If the brains failed, the palms would land on the chubby cheeks with a smack and if they won, then those same hands would make their way to Abhay’s back for a pat. The poor kid wished the duel and the entire mind numbing phase would pass off quickly. It didn’t pass quickly but pass off it did.
The day the results were declared at Don Bosco, Abhay saw his dad return on his scooter from a distance. He froze with his hands fused to the grill of the gate. His failure would mean more physical and mental trauma and his success was something that he was unsure of. All of a sudden before he made the final turn to reach the house, Sourish pumped the air with his fist which made Abhay freeze harder. For him it meant that he had failed and Sourish’s palms would be transformed into a fist which in turn meant that instead of slaps, it would be punches.
Abhay was almost on the verge of running back into the house, when he thought that he saw a huge smile on his dad’s face which was fast becoming clearer now.
Has he grown mad with rage or did I clear the test? Abhay thought.
The scooter stopped and Sourish jumped out of it, hugged Abhay and planted a huge kiss on his cheeks. “You made it through Don Bosco, beta”, he beamed.
“Really!” Neena screamed from the porch.
“Yes! Abhay has done it dear,” replied Sourish.
It was a momentous day for Abhay replete with congratulations, envious looks, toys and his favorite pastries from Flury’s. For once, he spent the entire day pampered at home rather that at Choto Ma’s place.
The following month, Abhay went to the Don Bosco School at Park Street in his sparkling new uniform and got beaten on the first day by a new bully in his life who went by the name of Bhoyonkor Batuk. Batuk was an overgrown brat whose only purpose in life was to stay put at 5th standard; a feat he had achieved for the 3rd year running. He was a stockpile of raging hormones that translated into dust fights.
Batuk’s fear made Abhay concoct strange illnesses that gave him a chance to stay away from school and the daily bashing. The beatings continued for a year. Batuk’s waning interest in Abhay coincided with the school chucking him out. He had failed for the 4th time.
***
The book bug had bitten Abhay pretty early in his life. Sourish used to subscribe to the Reader’s Digest and also had a huge collection of English fiction and non-fiction books. These became Abhay’s best friends. It was not Sourish who had forced him to read the books but because of Abhay’s new found thirst for new words. The Word Power section was his favorite section in the Reader’s Digest. Once he was done learning all the new words in a particular issue, he would jump on to other books, just to learn some more new words or guess the contextual meaning of a word based on its usage. Soon his sentences were laced with words that would make people fall off their chairs.
One day, a colleague of Sourish had come to visit them at their house. He had just returned from a trip to Rajasthan and was narrating an incident where he saw a relative of a dead man paying some women to cry.
“It was nothing I had seen before,” said the colleague.
“The relative just paid these women who had their faces covered with their dupattas and asked them to come over to his place to cry,” he continued.
“I mean…what do you call these people?” The question was rhetorical but Abhay didn’t get it.
“Moirologist,” said Abhay.
“WHAT!!” said the utterly surprised colleague who was precariously close to falling off the chair.
“Moirologist are hired mourners,” replied Abhay.
“Where did you learn that from?” asked the even more surprised colleague.
While Sourish smiled with pride, Abhay ran to the balcony and started talking to Mithu.
“Bolo tumi kaar bachcha?” he asked Mithu
“Aami shuor-er bachcha,” Mithu replied with an ear-piercing screech.
***
Abhay used his left hand for everything. It was his preferred hand for holding the toothbrush, spoons, cricket bat, writing…everything. His handwriting used to be very clean and legible but one day his class teacher called Sourish to her office and told him, “Abhay cannot use his left hand for writing.”
“So you want his left hand to be used for something else?” Sourish asked cheekily.
Not getting the joke, Sarkar Madam replied, “I don’t care what he does with his left hand as long as it is not used for writing.”
“Lefties are slow learners and we have sufficient reason to confirm that in Abhay’s case,” she continued.
“And so we want you to coax your son to start learning to write using his right hand like everybody else,” she was quite adamant about it.