From the riches to the rags...

As the sun went down behind the trees leaving behind an orange-red hue in the western sky, and a flock of birds gabbled on their way back home, Nitai drew close to him his rusted bowl that was lying all day on the pavement in front of him. It was a small bowl, blackened with dirt on its outer side, and reddened at places from overexposure to both rain and sun. This bowl had been his companion for more than thirty years, ever since he had crossed over to this side of the border during the partition of Bengal.

Two one rupee, one generously donated two rupees, and three fifty paisa coins lay in it.

Nitai laid them out, arranged them on the pavement and counted. Well, five rupees-fifty paisa…that’s the day’s earning.

He supported his weak body on his bent, irregularly shaped stick and stood up. His tattered clothes barely covered his scrawny body. He was frail, and his belly caved inwards with hunger. He was just a covering of skin on bones. His ailing spirit seemed to be in love with that lean, skeletal body, for it had always refused to leave it in spite of his daily sufferings.

Nitai had seen it all, borne it all, with silence and helplessness! He had seen his small well-knit happy family and acres of green fields. He had seen his own countrymen turning into killers and squatters, blinded by the evils of religious fanaticism. He had seen his golden crops getting stained red with blood, the blood of his loved ones, and heard their screams and cries for help. He had seen his house being set to fire. But then, he was helpless…….he could only run away under the commands of the same wretched spirit that had always refused to leave his body. How much he wished that he had not listened to it that time!

He had seen it all, and felt it all!
He had felt the fear, pain and worry in the bleary eyes of the thousand others who had crossed over the borders along with him. He had felt relieved at the Government’s assurances that they all will get food, shelter and work; work with good wages. But alas! He had seen a nightmare coming true and his dreams getting shattered, and then he had found himself turning from a refugee to a beggar. Yes, he had seen it all, heard it all, and felt it all!

Nitai picked up his begging bowl and supported himself on his stick and looked around for a while. Cars whizzed by, Trams rattled on and buses sped along the wide roads. He scuffed along the footpath towards the Victoria Memorial, extending his small rusted begging bowl to the passers-by. Old memories flashed across his mind and tears crowded in his eyes, but he wiped them off and moved on.

In the lands of East Bengal, Mohunbagan & Marx...

The clouds rumbled and lightning flashed through the moist nimbus clouds. A gust of wind headed northwards picking up straws and dust on its way, leaving a trail of dirt behind. The thunders continued, and the lightning flashed again through the dark clouds. People on the roads scurried for cover. A dog resting on a heap of sand by the roadside raised its head, listened to the thunder, looked around, and leaped across a little broken wall to take shelter in the precinct of a closed factory.

There was an anxiety on everyone’s face and whispers went around and everybody seemed to be talking of the same thing- ‘It will rain. Hope they don’t cancel the match’. A few impatient voices grumbled, “At least they could have let us enter, then we won’t have to get drenched in the rain.”
Others nodded in agreement.
“God knows what they are up to!” cried out an angry voice from the crowd.
“The children will catch a cold if they get wet now. I told you not to buy the tickets in the beginning itself,” complained a female voice.
“Arre, how do I know that it will rain today? I bought the tickets because the kids wanted to see the match!.....and moreover if this stupid police officers had allowed us to enter the stadium, then we won’t need to face the rain!!” explained her irritated husband.
“Why don’t you let us enter?” questioned another man to a policeman who was standing nearby.
“I don’t know. ACP sahib ka hukum,” said the constable coldly and shrugged his shoulder to redirect all the allegations towards his senior officers. He seemed to be rather contented to have proved that he is a slave to the commands of his senior officials, for that way he never needed to take any responsibility for his actions; he just had to pass it off to the officers higher in the rank. After all, that’s the way collective responsibility works in our country!

The whole police force was having a tough time in controlling the impatient soccer buffs from entering the stadium gates. Some of them wielded their baton to prevent the fans from jumping over the barricade, while the others tried hard to tame the unruly fans by drawing ropes to shape the mob into different queues. Needless to say, all their efforts were going in vain. The fans simply won’t listen, they had the tickets, and it was already time for the match to start, and so their inherent rebelling instincts demanded them to break the cordon. There had been a stampede at the entrance in the previous match and so the police officers had strict orders to let the crowd enter the stadium only if discipline was maintained. But they knew that they were too weak to carry out that order and so all that they could do was to delay the entry and that added further to the chaos.

It was already 3 o’clock in the afternoon and only fifteen minutes were left for the final match to begin. The arch-rivals, East Bengal and Mohunbagan, were fighting for the year’s ‘Foundation Cup’. The police officers were still unsure of how to tackle the growing crowd and also ensure a safe entry of the fans into the stadium. As more and more fans started arriving in overcrowded Lorries from the city outskirts, the problem seemed to be going out of control.

The fans had come well-prepared for the historical match. While the supporters of the last time winner East Bengal Club proudly waved their Red-yellow flag, the Mohunbagan supporters seemed to very sure of their victory this time and carried ‘Mohunbagan jitega’ placards and loads of fireworks.

The downpour started. Only a few lucky ones had got umbrellas with them. Others stood helplessly getting drenched in the rain, for there was no shade nearby. The women drew their children close to them, and the kids clung to their mother, seeking shelter under their saree’s aanchal. The people waited helplessly, getting drenched in the rain. A few of them decided to return back without watching the match.

A car arrived. Its glowing red light and the annoying siren drew everybody’s attention. It was the Sports Minister. The police jumped into action and pushed away the crowd from the entrance. The stadium gates were opened to make entry for his car. But the car stopped near the entrance. The Assistant Commissioner of Police hurriedly walked up to the car along with his deputy, who carried an umbrella over the ACP’s head.
Dressed in a spotless white safari suit and a white hat, the minister alighted from his car. He was a stout, middle-aged man. He had read Marx, and he had worshipped Lenin. He had talked about equality for all, socialism and had proclaimed on innumerable occasions that he was just another common man, and that his Government worked for the masses! And there he stood among a sea of humanity- a crowd of ordinary folks. He stood there still and looked around at the crowd.
Another umbrella opened for him. The police formed a human chain around the minister’s car, and everybody peeped over their shoulders to catch a glimpse of the minister.

Men, women and small children were standing drenched in the rain, waiting for an entry into the stadium! There was apprehension in some eyes, while anger in others. Yes, they all had bought tickets and had come a long way to watch the match! They all had come well in advance to get a seat that gave a good view of the match! Yes, they all had come with a hope- A hope to see an exciting match with their family!..........but then, who cares for a common man's hope?

The ACP gave a short explanation about the reason for the delay in entry to the befuddled minister. He nodded his head as the ACP explained, ‘Just another ten minutes more….We will get more policemen to control the crowd and then we will let them enter.’ The Minister shook hands with him, and got back into his car. The police drew back the crowd as the cars crossed the gates and went inside the stadium. The downpour had reduced to a drizzle by then. The crowd stood watching the departing cars.

“Ma, why was that man allowed to go in before us?.......He came after us!” enquired a cherubic voice, a bit of resentment ringed in his tone.
“He is the Minister, we have elected him, and so he can always go in first. But we are ordinary people, so we need to wait,” his mother explained, brushing his wet hair with the end of her aanchal. A wisp of smile flickered her wet lips.
The little boy sneezed twice, and then looked up at his mother. A deep question seemed to loom over his dark wondering eyes.

At Dola Roy's rally......

The bus jolted to a halt. The fat lady standing in front of me lost her balance and fell on the other co-passengers, making a few of them go down like ninepins. A volley of abuses was immediately fired at the driver.
“Ki holo ki? Eta ki dharoner driving moshai?” shouted out a dhoti-clad bhadralok.
I looked out of the window and found that all the other vehicles had also stopped. The traffic had come to a standstill. I sensed some trouble, and it didn’t take me long to realize that I was right.

At a distance I could see a huge rally heading towards us….well, I must admit that in spite of staying in a politically ‘red’ city like Kolkata for 20 long years, I never got to know the fine line that separates rallies from violent mobs, for I always felt that they were synonymous, at least when it comes to talk of Kolkata!
Kolkata’s rallies never have a dearth of attendees, maybe because our leaders rally to address the issue of removing unemployment, but only after making sure that there is enough number of unemployed youths in the city to make their rallies successful.

We all started getting down from the bus, for we knew that the rally had been organized only to disrupt the traffic and there was absolutely no hope of it getting over in the next few hours. I knew that I was in for some free entertainment. Along with a few other office-goers, I stood a bit far from the crowd, under the shade of a roadside tree, waiting for the hilarious speeches to begin. I have always loved the way in which some of these party workers try to deliver speeches with difficult Bengali words and quotations to impress the gathering, but then they end up being the butt of ridicule.

The crowd was being led my Dola Roy, one of the most vociferous critics of the Communist Government. I have been an ardent admirer of the way she shouts and hurls abuses at the state government, and had watched her in action on TV news channels. To be truthful, I was quite glad to find that she was going to address the rally.

A makeshift dais had been illegally constructed on the footpath, just beside the bird-droppings stained statue of Gandhi, while the road was chosen as a suitable place for the rally members to settle down. Dola Roy, more popularly known as Doladi, went up on the stage. A round of applause followed. There were quite a few other members of her party already present on the dais. As she went up on the stage, a few of them leaped up from their chairs and jumped down at her feet. Though I was standing at a distance, I could somehow make out a few of those MLAs. I was surprised to find our local Municipal Councilor, Mr. Bhaskar De, sitting on the floor of the overcrowded stage like a Shakespearean era groundling. After serving the communist party for nearly a decade, Mr. De had shifted his loyalties when the CPM party refused him an election ticket.

What I could gather from the whispers was that this rally was arranged to protest against the way Dola Roy had been arrested the previous night. Apparently, she had barged into a hospital on the previous night and demanded for the immediate treatment of some of her party workers who had been beaten up by police for throwing stones at public buses. But the absence of doctors at the hospital infuriated her and the incident resulted in the ransacking of Doctors’ chambers. She was arrested on grounds of abetting violence. But she complained at a press conference that the police intentionally harassed her on orders from the Communist Government…..and so the rally had been organized to protest against the Government’s attack on the opposition leaders!
The placards in the hands of the party workers also conveyed the same story. I was a little happy to have gathered these bits & pieces of information about the background that had led to the rise of the rally.

Doladi took the mike in her hand and tested it once, while we all eagerly waited for a vitriolic speech to begin.
“Bhayera o bonera (Brothers and Sisters)…..,” she started off.

I guess I need not mention here that the turn-out for the rally was simply overwhelming! It had crippled the normal flow of traffic on quite a few busy roads of Kolkata during the peak office hours, which simply meant that the news of the rally would definitely find its way to the headlines in the afternoon editions of Aajkaal.

“…..there has been a complete break-down of law and order situation in the state. We will forward our demand to the Central Government for the implementation of Article 365 in Bengal….We will not rest until our demands are met and we will voice the opinions of common people by organizing more such rallies!,” Doladi declared.

Rounds of applause continued, but suddenly there was a plop!.....a crow had decided to send her a small token of appreciation that landed right on the center of her forehead and appeared like a vijay tika. MLA Rajiv Sarkar ran up to her quickly to offer his handkerchief. Overcoming the embarrassment, Doladi continued with the speech in her usual vituperative style.

Her speech was really a blood-boiling one! ‘She knows how to incite the mob against the Government,’ I thought. ‘No wonder we have such frequent sacrifices of public transport buses, police jeeps and even fire engines!!’

Everything was going smoothly and Doladi was at her best, but suddenly there was a huge commotion in the crowd. People started running for their lives. I didn’t get to realize what went wrong, till I saw the two fighting bulls which happened to be the cause of the panic! Probably the exhorting speech of Doladi against the 'red' Communists had ended up provoking the bulls!!

The bulls ran amok, distancing themselves intermittently and then again running towards each other and clashing their horns. There was almost a stampede as men, women and children started running for cover. The bulls changed direction and went near the dais and continued fighting. By that time Doladi’s loyal party workers had deserted her. She was standing on the dais, surrounded by her two baffled body guards, who were totally indecisive of whether to shoot or not to shoot! The MLAs had taken shelter on top of some parked vehicles. I could see Bhaskar De clinging to a low branch of a tree; his dhoti had given away, but he didn’t seem to have realized it in the commotion. A few gallant policemen went forward and took a lathicharge stance but ran away when the bulls swerved towards them. My co-passengers and I, who had got down from the bus, ran back to it and kept a vigilant eye on state of affairs from the windows.

The situation was restored within half an hour, but the damage was done. The bulls had really ravaged through the rally. Slippers, placards and flags were strewn all over the place. The makeshift dais had collapsed and the card board cut-out of Doladi lay on the main road, biting the dust.

Dola Roy was whisked away in a car.
The leaderless MLAs desperately called out for their Chauffeurs who also seemed to have fled the scene. They all huddled into a taxi and got away, perhaps heading for the Writer’s building or a more secure place to protest.

Well, the rally was finally over, though in a totally unexpected way! Within a few minutes our bus started rolling on. However, the traffic-jam that had been created by the hour long drama was beyond one’s imagination. It must have taken half a day to restore normalcy. Whatever may be the aftereffects, I must say that it was a life time experience for me, and probably very few would get to witness such unforgettable chaotic events!!

Today the memories of this hilarious incident, which I witnessed on my way to school about seven years back, flashed across my mind when I was stranded in traffic jam near Bangalore Central and was reading the article titled “Take That! Pranab Mukherjee flaunts self-defence skills” on page 51 of 29th May issue of ‘The Week’ magazine. It reminded me that Kolkata has not changed much since I left the city.

The article read:
“Defence Minister Pranab Mukherjee is extremely pleased with the way he defended himself against the violent mob that attacked him at the Congress office in Kolkata recently. If anyone had doubts about his ability to defend the nation, all they need to do is recall the shot of Pranab in a boxing stance when he was gheraoed. He says he sensed danger the moment he saw the mob……...
………….Pranab’s training as a soccer player came in handy. He kicked with force and used the few boxing punches he knows. It worked. The strategist in him was quick to realize that his lack of height could be used to his advantage. The punches aimed at him missed the mark and caught the taller guys. All the defence minister had to do was duck his head an inch or two.”

Surprised?! Well, all that I have to say is: ‘This happens only in Kolkata!!’

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.

When Mona mashi came down to Bangalore...

“IC-802 from Kolkata is arriving shortly…,” announced a mellifluous voice.
I walked up to the Arrival lobby. Already a small crowd had gathered over there. I pushed my way right up to the front row, and murmured a few insincere apologies.

It was not at all hard to figure out Mona mashi even in a crowd of three hundred people, for she has always been above-average than any other Bengali women, both in terms of her weight and personality.
Mona mashi is my mother’s elder sister. She had come down to Bangalore to spend a few days with me in the city. Since childhood I have been very afraid of her, maybe because of her daunting voice and the amazing personality that she possessed. And what I gathered from my friends is that I was not the only one who was afraid of her, there were many others…especially her students. She has been serving as the principal of a school in Kolkata for more than a decade now and her students often refer to her as ‘Lady Hitler’ for reasons that I need not explain!

“Mona mashi! Mona mashi!,” I shouted and waved at her to draw her attention.
She quickly noticed me and waved back.
She was wearing an off-white Tantuja tashor saree with a wide red border. The huge red bindi on her forehead and the golden frame spectacle gave her the typical middle-aged Bengali women look. She was carrying the latest issues of the Desh and Sananda patrika, which she must have picked up at the Kolkata airport lounge.
‘She hasn’t changed a bit over the years,’ I wondered.

It took almost two hours to reach my Indiranagar house from the airport. The frequent traffic jams have crippled the city of late. Mona mashi seemed to be a bit disappointed by this poor management of traffic and she commented, “Ekhaneo ekyi abostha?! (here also it’s all the same!)” I guess she had not imagined that this menacing problem of Kolkata will follow her up to this so-called “Hi-Tech” city.

In the evening, I decided to take her to a mall, named Forum.
“Don’t these people have taxis in this city?” she enquired as I tried to signal at the snobbish autowallahs who never seem to be too eager to get passengers.
“No, taxis are very expensive here. Minimum fare will be around Rs150,” I replied.
“What?!...150!!”
She kept staring at me in disbelief and probably she concluded that I was joking. I realized that I had a tough time ahead of me if I tried to enlighten her about the normal prices of things in B’lore. Her socialist mindset might not be able to grasp these figures!
We reached Forum at around 6:00 pm. The dazzling lights and the fountains impressed Mona mashi. She overwhelmingly said that it was like an experience of coming to a foreign country. I smiled, for I knew that her praises for this mall won’t last for long!

Mona mashi was a bit reluctant to use the escalator. I had to convince her that these too were as safe as the escalators that she rode at the Robindro Sadan Metro Station of Kolkata.
We went around visiting the shops.
“Bolish ki re?!” exclaimed Mona mashi raising her eyebrows with wonder when she heard that Cookies are sold at Rs20 per piece over here. Once she almost fainted on hearing that the cold coffee we had at Coffee Day was for 60 bucks.
But she got the shock of her life when she went to bargain over the prices of sweets at an outlet.
“Seven rupees for a Langcha (Bengali version of Jamun)!! That’s atrocious!” she shouted out, turning towards me for support. I realized that it’s time to hurry her out of the place. I gave an inane smile at the baffled shop-owner and rushed her out before she created more trouble.
“Arre, why do you tolerate all these?! They are cheating people everywhere! This is such a wretched place!” she shouted as I tried desperately to get an auto.
“You need a Communist Government here!” she announced and continued, “How will a common man survive here?”
I had no answers to her questions. I just said, “Mashi eta kolkata noi, eta Bangalore, the prices are like this only over here.”
“Kolkata is not this bad! Even a poor man gets to have a meal a day over there!!”
I didn’t dare to reason with her much.

On the way back home she kept on talking about how important socialism is and how our great leaders have always worked for the grass-root workers. It was almost 10:00 pm when we reached home; I gave a 100 rupee note to the autowallah and whisked him away.
“Shaitan! Bodmash!” Mona mashi cursed the autowallah when she realized that he had taken one and half times the fare since it was already 9:30pm. I tried to cool her down, but she was still to recover from all the shocks and was smoldering inside.

After all this, I need not say that she didn’t like the city at all. She kept on complaining about the prices and whined about the lack of traditions. On one occasion she had seen a girl smoking in public and concluded that this lifestyle was against the Indian culture. “All our girls wear sarees, they look so good in them” she had commented. I tried my best to recreate a homely ambience for her, and played Robindro songeet all day, took her to Bengali restaurants and got her some Bengali books to read from my friends. But I knew that she wasn’t happy with Bangalore, especially the lifestyle of the people. I guess it is difficult Bengalis to adapt to this life because of their inherent socialist ideologies! She kept counting the days of her stay, eagerly waiting to go back. She was like a fish out of water over here and I knew it quite well, and so I never asked her to extend her stay.


A few days later a letter came to me from my Mother. It read:
“…your Mona mashi had called me up yesterday. She said that she enjoyed her stay in Bangalore. It was nice to hear that you have taken so much care of her, spent time with her and she even said that you have grown up into a responsible young man. I am so happy to hear it. She said that Bangalore was a very nice city and she had liked staying at your house…..”

As I folded the letter and kept it back into its envelope, I wondered why Mona mashi didn’t tell her the truth!!

As I stepped out....

"Stop it, Dad! I have checked it already, everything is fine", I shouted at Dad. That was the Eighth time he was checking whether I had kept my Passport and my immigration details properly.
"And the tickets?” he muttered softly, probably fearing that I will burst out again.
"Yeah, that's also in place. You please stop worrying; I can take care of these things myself!"
"Won't you find out once again whether the flight is on time?"
"Dad!" I had started loosing it again but quickly controlled myself and said, “It’s departing right on time. You have called them up five times since morning! This time they won't respond to you."
Reluctantly I walked up to the phone and dialed the digits once again only to satisfy him for the sixth time. The operator once again confirmed the flight details. Hats off to these operators! Had I been in her seat, I would have definitely recognized the voice and hung up the phone this time!

"Now what are you doing with that suitcase? Leave it, don't take out anything now, it's all packed", I said indignantly as I realized that my Dad was up to something again. 'Why can't he sit in one place?' I thought.
"No just checking whether the lock is working."
"Arre, I have already locked it properly. You need not worry."

The phone rang. I received it: "Hello? Arre Babli pishi, kemon achho?"
"Just called you up to wish you a happy journey."
"Oh, thank you so much"
"So when are you leaving?"
"In another half an hour"
"Ek minute, Bablu and Banti want to talk to you"
Oh, those wretched cousins of mine! How much they troubled me last summer when I had gone to spend a few days at their place.
"Hello, Tukundada? Tumi America jachho?” came Bablu's voice.
"Yes dear. I will send you a nice toy from there."
"Satyi?!"
"Ekdom satyi!"
Then it was Bunti’s turn.
“Hello Dada, can you bring for me a robot when you come back?”
“Ok, I shall try”

The conversation ended with Babli pishi (i.e. my Dad’s sister) wishing me all success in life and reminding me the need to eat lots (since I have a height of 6ft but weigh only 60 Kgs), the need to wear warm clothes all the time (some numbskull made her belief that USA has a temperature of -20 degree Celsius all over the year!) and above all the need to stay away from the ‘firangi’ girls (she seemed to be very sure that these American girls hang around with bright Indian guys only to spoil their future!!).

I heaved a sigh of relief as I kept down the receiver. That was an acute case of advice overdose for me. ‘Why do all my relatives think in the same way?’ I thought.

Since the previous week I had been receiving innumerable calls from many known and unknown relatives and well-wishers, who seemed to be too eager to choke me with such unwanted advices and suggestions. The worst one that I had to handle deftly was the one that came from my 80 year old grand mother. She had suggested that I should go to some astrologers to find out whether the arrangement of the stars was conducive for the impending journey. I had to play it down saying that whatever be the position of the stars, they won’t collide with my plane. Though she was not amused, she quickly suggested a visit to some ‘sadhubaba’ as an alternative, which initially inspired my mother, but then the frown on my face had made her change her mind and she had to declare sadly, ‘Aajkaaler chelera don’t believe in all these things, they consider our traditions as superstition’.
My aunt also had joined that discussion, contributing from her figments of imagination. She had gone to the extent of expressing her worries about me getting lost at the airport!
“London is a big city; the airport also will be very big. How will you find your way at the airport? You may miss your next flight at the London transit. Maybe you should have allowed your father to accompany you”, she had remarked.
“Yes, and I could have carried a feeding bottle with me too!” had been my reply.
Over the last week I have offended almost all with such scornful remarks. I really feel sorry for having done that, but then they too should have realized that it was time that I should move out of their safe cocoon and step out into the real world.

The taxi was waiting outside. The bags had been placed in the rear end of the vehicle. It was time to leave. I waved goodbye to all of them. Grandpa and Grandma can’t climb down the stairs, so they were looking out of the balcony and summed up their important advices for the final time. My Mom and aunt stood at one corner, trying to control their tears. Our maid, maybe I should call her my governess, walked up to me and said, “I have packed some nimki and goja for you. Have them if you feel hungry on the way.”
Dad never expresses his emotions, but his nervous behavior tells it all. He kept on reminding me that I should call home once from the transit and also once after I reach the University.
A few neighbors also waved at me from their windows as my cab start rolled on.

All these days I was really sick and tired of all their worries and advices, and I was praying for this day to come when I can fly away. But when the time to leave finally came, somebody kept on saying in my head, ‘They all care for you so much, why are you leaving them? Will you ever come back to live with them?....There is still some time, you can still cancel the air tickets!!”

I turned around to look out of the rear window and I could still see my house at the end of the road.
“Driverji, jaara car ko rokhiye….”