Shift

As usual, Palash occupied the same table of the restaurant he would frequent with friends many years ago. Today, by accident, he ran into this eatery that’s on the street where he spent his college days and a chunk of his professional days, for years. Oxford book store on the Park Street, Alliance française, Waldorf, Moulin Rouge, Giggles and St.Xavier’s College; nothing has changed, of course there was a restaurant called ‘Eighteen’ that has disappeared, an unassuming cozy little eating joint for friends and colleagues that has been transformed into a showroom now. ‘But there is no one here! I am the only one! Why! It was so crowded during our times; maybe it’s not as popular now’, Palash thought, just when a waiter came unto him and asked:

- Excuse me sir, are you waiting for your friends?
- No.
- Then sir if you could shift into the other side.
- Where?
- Please come with me sir… we call it The singLeader wing… it’s for people who are not exactly waiting for anyone!

Singleader! It never existed in our times. But what a lovely name, Palash thought; it’s for people who are like leaders, most of the times single yet singing their story, but then are all leaders single... is it a euphemism, he wondered. Years ago, he recalled he’d also suggested to the owner of Oxford bookstore to rename it as Booxford… the owner appreciated the name but said he would stick to Oxford because the name sells! Understandable, he thought…it’s not so easy to change.

No! The popularity of his favourite restaurant has not changed at all as Palash saw a whole lot of crowd in this part of the world; the world that was out of sight from the family dining table of the L-shaped hideaway he would occupy with friends years ago.

A buried story cremated

It took three days for the Police to find his identity. What appeared as a hit and run case for the poor boy, going on a blind date, had layers of mystery. Each day the Police department had been unfolding such layers, one after the other.

Yogesh Patel got her name from a social network. He was talking to Raveena on his mobile while crossing the Jadavpur 8B bus stand around 6 in the evening when two Tata Sumo speeding from opposite directions smashed him and managed to flee faster than the wind ignoring the traffic signals; the cars carrying the number plates of Gujarat and Andhra Pradesh were discovered in the open nothings on the Eastern bypass, two days later; the numbers did not lead the Police anywhere as the names of owners were fake. Dishonesty is driven with such foolproof honesty.

Just after the incident happened, the angry onlookers, pedestrians were perplexed at the audacity of the drivers.

- God! What is happening in the city!

The Police of West Bengal is often compared with the finest ones in the world. They rushed to the place in minutes. The Police started with zero clues because a) his wallet was nowhere to be found, b) his face was unidentifiable and c) his mobile was broken into pieces; everyone was horrified. The guys in uniform were looking blankly at the crowd. The sergeant shouted:

‘Guys we need your cooperation, if anyone has seen anything, please help…he could have been your relative too!’

Someone came forward and said he saw him talking on the phone while crossing the road. Everyone started blaming the boy, then their generation. Vikas, the sergeant, asked the crowd to stop blaming, criticizing; he and his team managed to dismiss the curious crowd carrying stories to tell.
Luckily Vikas found the sim.

Three days later.

The Police tracked the girl who was talking to Yogesh from a Hotel in Jadavpur; she promptly disappeared when the Police raided the hotel. Went to the room, she’d checked in at 3 in the afternoon as Mrinalini with a fake address, her mobile number was ringing to death. However, through trial and error, the service provider was found; although it was a prepaid sim, Vikas tracked her number in Rajabazar, knocked at the door and found a totally astonished Raveena opening the door.

From her, the Police found some jaw-dropping inputs. She is a sophomore who goes on blind dates with strangers, manages her expenses, like cell, branded clothing, accessories, and so on. He got this guy’s name through a common friend and was waiting for him to arrive at the Hotel, obviously he never came.
In the meantime, Yogesh’s details were easily found from the sim; he was from Gujarat and worked in an IT firm, stayed in Salt Lake City in a PG with friends. The HR was shocked to hear the news; they never inquired because he was on a week’s leave and scheduled to go to his hometown. ‘He was always reticent with low interpersonal skills, but he also came across as a very honest and hardworking person.’

From the contact list, the Police found two important names: Mata and Pita. They were informed. To their horror, the Police did not notice any shock in the tone of Yogesh’s parents, they couldn’t believe they were informing the parents about the demise of their son!

‘Ye to honahi tha… (this was inevitable)’ – this response had not shocked them so much, what followed, did. What Yogesh’s father said loosely translated into English like this:

‘Thank you so much for taking the trouble of finding my son’s address and all. I will send my employees and my two sons to do the rituals…please tell me how much you had to spend… my sons will pay you the amount before leaving; a simple hit and run case.’

‘But who is Srinivas? Do you know him? He is not picking up the phone.’

‘Ah no…I don’t know…must be one of his friends…you please leave it.’

‘I don’t think he was his friend…he stored the name as Srinivas uncle. From the conversation, we could understand that he was your son’s appointed lawyer from whom he was taking advice on issues concerning property. Last two conversations were very heated and your son was found to be blaming him for keeping him in the dark… can you tell me something about this please?’

‘Yes I spoke to him, like you he is also a very nice gentleman. You please leave it’. He hanged.

Vikas, for a moment hated his job because it often exposed him with facts that are cruel and ghastly. How a father can say like this about his son, he wondered. My God! Was that a murder? Is this a murder? Would I eventually be asked to close this case! No way!

When the body was burning in the Kalighat crematorium, in the presence of Yogesh’s two borthers, Vignesh and Jitesh, Vikas was asking questions that refused to escape as the smokes of the body. For a moment he thought of Raveena and felt like throwing up. There was no one mourning for the boy who stored their parents’ names as Mata and Pita. Vikas did not take a rupee from Yogesh’s family.

In a week’s time, the story was inevitably closed as unsolved.

The unheard

Tapan and Meghna met at the Mumbai Airport. Thirty years have passed. Meghna Agarwal loved Tapan Dasgupta. She felt dejected throughout her life and harbored a feeling of hurt because Tapan apparently looked upon her more as a sibling, or as a friend. The four feet Meghna was very smart and good at everything she did, like painting, sawing, cooking; she was good at studies too, but she never got the kind of attention she expected from Tapan. Reason? She never asked. Tapan was her and Mrinal’s friend. Mrinal and Meghna were twins. Very big Marwari family; the eldest brother Sanjay was in the US, then Mrinal and Meghna followed by another twins, Rajesh and Rina. Strange that both Meghna and Rina had the same height, but were successful in whatever they did, be it studies or acquiring vocational skills; from gardening to keeping the house clean to learning Japanese, they showed early signs of ideal homemakers. Their parents were divorced long ago. While Mrinal and Meghna stayed with their father in a rented flat in Deshapriya Park, Rajesh and Rina stayed in their mother’s huge bungalow in Gariahat with her. Tapan was Mrinal’s and Meghna’s classmate, he became a part of their family sooner than he could imagine. He found it rather interesting that despite being divorced, Mrinal’s parents literally stayed together all the time. It was really a privilege to be in the middle of such an emancipated couple, he thought. While Mrinal's father wanted to involve Tapan in their family business in Kolkata, his mother also took a liking on Tapan; she would write beautiful poems in Bengali which she’d expect him to edit. Tapan always obliged. 

All the members of the family, including Sanjay, thought it was obvious for Tapan to be a part of their family, which he was. While the two were talking at the Airport, little dialogues kept popping up from the past, as silent ghosts.

‘Meghna, I want to tell you something. There’s this girl called Madhumita.’

‘Who Tapan? The one in our class?’

‘Ah, you got it right… I think I am in love with her.’

‘Okay! Great, but don’t forget she is also Bhattacharya, you had a miserable experience with Shipra some months ago…and you said you were done with the Bhattacharyas…remember?’

‘Ha ha ha!! Maybe it is predetermined! But other than that, do you approve?’

‘Yes why not?’

‘Thanks Meghna!’

Meghna’s family had a huge farmhouse in the outskirts of Kolkata. All her friends, including Madhumita and Tapan went there to spend some time; it so happened that Tapan proposed to Madhumita in her farmhouse. Before their marriage, the Agarwals invited the couple in the BRC (Bengal Rowing Club).

‘You have your father and brother? What does your father do?’

‘Yes Rajesh! My brother is in Class IX. Father is working in a Pharmaceutical company; as a General Manager.’

‘So… how well do you know Tapan (smiles)?’

‘I know I am not his first love, neither is he mine.’

(Taken aback) ‘But we feel cheated.’

‘Cheated?’ Tapan intervened, he didn’t understand. He asked, ‘why do you say so Munna (Rajesh’s ‘pet’ name)? Who has cheated you? Please let me know. I cannot see the family cheated.’

They sat at the Airport looking at each other, didn’t take much time to rewind and talk in their usual way. Meghna, like most of her siblings, except Mrinal, never got married. She is an event Manager; others have set up a firm in Rajasthan; they have all left Kolkata. Her mother still lives in Gariahat, visits the children off and on, writes poems, perhaps still expects someone to edit them. Her father is no more; he died not as a husband, but surely as the most perfect father and probably as the most beloved best friend. Meghna still thinks like Rajesh. Deep inside she feels Tapan should eventually have to repent. Just before leaving:

‘Oh I forgot to ask, how is Madhumita?’

‘She’s fine. Thanks!’

‘And how’s your daughter?’

‘She’s fine too…thanks Meghna…it was great catching up with you… a BIG hi to everyone in the family!’ Saying this he hurried towards the gate… couldn’t listen to her last question though:

‘What's your daughter's name? Is she tall?’

Sky is the limit

‘Excuse me Madam, you cannot board the plane.’

‘What? How dare you say that? I have a conference to attend. I am getting in.’
‘Madam, we will have to de-plane you then.’
‘I will sue you.’

Ananya was disallowed to board. She did her masters in History and was going to Delhi from Kolkata to attend a conference alone. This would have been her first flight, but it didn’t happen. Dejected, she goes and sues the Airline. It took her quite some time to win the case; but she did.

‘You must be very happy now! We won the case! It’s our success’, roared an entire team of friends.

But Ananya wasn’t happy. Fighting for the case seemed to be a failure. More than anything, the mindset has to change. All these years, she thought of herself as a success story of her school The Spastics Society, but that was long ago. Now she seemed disillusioned. Will she ever be able to commute alone, move up and down the unwelcoming stairs without feeling obliged to strangers. She looked at the sky that was about to rain and pondered if an Ananya 100 years later willl still  have to fight like this, as she drove back home.

Cheers!

‘Please tell her I am with you! You don’t know my mom, she’ll tell my dad and he will kill me if he ever found me drinking in a pub, he's so protective…. Please please…. (to the smiling waiter) Give me an elephant Budweiser…(then to her friends) I am feeling nervous. (she gives the phone to her friend)...here…talk to my mom…please save me, I promise you a treat!'

‘Aunty, don’t worry Sunita is with me, we are working on a project…this Monday is the deadline. What? You want her to return by 8? (Sunita is desperately saying no… Lata sees and nods)…but aunty please allow her to stay with me, we are planning to finish the project by tonight, it will be really late. What? Sure aunty…she will reach in the morning sharp by 8… please aunty please. Thank you aunty, thank you so much.’

At the end of this nail-biting conversation, all friends gave a grand high fiver in the air and burst into a thunderous laughter. Just then, Manjula’s mom called. No one panicked.

‘Hello ma…I will reach very late tonight; around midnight. I am chilling with friends at the pub. Yes ma, I am okay, don’t worry. What? No way! I don’t want baba to come here and wait for me…I don’t know when this’d end… don’t worry …we will come on our own... what? Ha ha ha!!! Obviously we will book a cab. Oh I think I understood what you're trying to say... we made sure no one brought their vehicles, two wheeler or four...so rest assured...and ma...I am sorry I should have called. Love you.’

Western influence

Catherine was French. She spent 35 years in Kolkata; although heavily accented, she could speak Bengali with a native comfort; because she spoke in the language of Rabindranath and Bankim, her register made us listen to her as though we’d listen to a song we lost through the years. We loved listening to her, most of all because what she spoke at various conferences and seminars on social reformation and transformation also made sense. Her core competency is Bengali; she has read all the classics and also the contemporaries. More than a writer, she calls herself an activist.

It’s over to Catherine now. Catherine?

Thank you all very much. Yes I have been asked to talk about the ills of western influence; we see the younger generation dressing and talking like the West, partying and drinking like them; indeed it was never our culture (she stresses on the possessive adjective). I have promised to make this session more interactive, I will not speak much. I will ask you two questions, maybe uncomfortable I don't know (she seemed so authentically French here) and then ask you to respond; with an open mind. So please 'lend me your ears'.

She looked serious and sad. 

Q.1 Who is ensuring the accessibility and why?

Q.2 Why does India encourage night shifts for children to work at a time they should rest? When these children get tired and want to enjoy at pubs drinking, partying to communicate something stark to the adulterated world, who criticizes them? Does the western world also get influenced and do night shifts?

Her questions dropped as pins in the middle of the silent audience.

Negotiation

‘I have constipation. Bowels come in bits and pieces you know. Shapes are like nuts, sometimes like sausages. Even after being in the bathroom for hours I feel I have not fully cleared; even if I go now, something will come out. Weird sounds (puckered face). Bad smell! What about you?’

‘Oh I have loose motion you know. All the time I have sound in my stomach. See. (He takes his hand and lets him feel the sound.) Did you feel that? (He nods his head as if to say yes yes I do, and smiles) When I look at it before flushing, it looks like yellow kind of drinks, with bubbles.’

It was futile to interrupt the jugalbandi of two grandpas, mine and hers, who became instant friends. How they initiated the conversation I don’t remember. But I do remember my parents brought me to visit the girl’s house to finalize the date of marriage. The atmosphere became weird as far as I could smell; the two mothers were sternly looking at their spouses who were escaping gazes, looking at the wall, the ceiling. The most senior members were smiling and looking at the delicious plates on the table; they looked eager to take their bites and sips on the foods and drinks that were served.

Note:
Jugalbandi – is a performance in Indian classical music, especially in Hindustani classical music, that features a duet of two solo musicians. The word jugalbandi means, literally, "entwined twins."