On a midsummer afternoon...

It was one of those sunny afternoons when one wouldn’t have felt like doing anything else other than gazing out of the window and keep watching the little sparrows playing on the branches of the flame red Krishnachura (gulmohar) tree.
On such days we just like to retreat from the humdrum of our daily life, flip through the pages of an old photo album or simply slither into a state of inactivity and watch life as it passes by. I have always felt this charm in the Kolkata summer afternoons, probably because that was the only time when I got to relax like that and enjoy the break from my hostel life.

I had reached kolkata just the previous day and so my mother had been busy in the kitchen all day, preparing my favorite dishes. The table was laid out with all those dishes that I had been waiting for the last six months to lay my hands on…….Aloo posto, Murgir jhol, Aloor dum, beguni, misti doi.

After the scrumptious meal, I prepared myself for a postprandial nap. Summer was in the air. I kept the fan at its maximum speed but it then also it was too hot to sleep. I sat near the window facing the road; it had been my favorite window since childhood.

I took out a volume of Gitanjali from the shelf and flipped through a page or two. The entire set of Gitanjali that I proudly possess was a gift from my maternal Grandpa. Grandpa had been terminally ill since one year. He was paralyzed and was suffering from Parkinson’s disease. On the first page of every volume he had written “To Tukun, with love, Grandpa”. I clutched the book close to my heart and thought that I will pay him a visit that week itself.

A melodious tune of a popular Rabindra sangeet was coming from a distance……‘Jibano jakhan shukhaye jai, karuna dharaye esho…’. Probably old Dutta uncle was playing it on his gramophone. The song probably had a divine power to create a soothing effect on any distressed soul. I walked out to the balcony, grasped the railings and closed my eyes to let the music purge my mind of all its melancholy.

The telephone rang. I knew that Mom would be there somewhere around to receive it, so I didn’t bother to run for it. It was from my Grandpa’s place. It was Rumki mami. They had a very short conversation and my mother hung up the phone. There was a lull on her face, tear drops had started appearing in her eyes. I sensed that something was wrong, and I guessed that I knew what it was!......it was the call that had to come one day, though we would have wished that it never came.

In half an hour we were in a taxi, heading for the Ballygaunge apartment of our Grandpa.
My Mom kept trying to control her tears, but they simply won’t stop. As I looked out of the window of the speeding taxi, I recollected those days when I used to hear stories from Grandpa about his experiences as a freedom fighter with amazement and wonder in my eyes. As a kid I used to wait eagerly to reach his Ballygaunge house and run up to him to hear new stories. But that day I wished that I had not come back from hostel that summer…

Our cab reached his 24/7 Ballygaunge Place. Quite a few Ambassadors and Marutis had lined up in front of the house and a few relatives were standing outside with gloomy faces, probably only waiting for Mom to arrive. We were soon surrounded by many inconsolable souls.
As I walked towards the house, the small wooden post-box on the gate caught my attention. Its color had faded away. But the bright sunlight still made it shine; probably reminding us all that it was time for it to get a new coat of paint and a new name embossed on it.