Deities of a different order

If you have ever sat your ample butt on the front seat of an auto rickshaw in Kolkata, you would know how it feels like swinging half a cheek in the air. I was thinking of how dramatically I was hanging by a thread from life as I rode listening to Kumar Sanu singing through his nostrils “Priyotoma mone rekho”. 

The auto driver was singing along. Tiny black sound boxes were making good music too. I was impressed with the interior décor of the tiny automobile. Stickers with hearts pierced with arrows on the front glass. The ledge along the windshield had plastic floral creepers. Bright red hibiscus peeked from the artificial shrub. Red gossamer cloths laced with golden tinsel were tied to the rear view mirror handles. The roof had imprints of Mithun da and Amitabh Bachhan lined up for attention. As the auto crossed Bagha Jatin, the driver stopped and did a brisk pennam (an act of touching your hands to your forehead as a mark of respect). I looked around for temples but found none. I couldn’t contain my curiosity.

“Dada kake pronaam korlen?”
(Who did you offer your regards to?)

I am sure the genuine interest must have touched my face and hence his core, for he replied:

“Oi je Bidyasagar, tarpore Bibekananda, statue dekhlen na? Ami thakur pronam kori na, eder kori. Kora uchit kina apni bolun? Aaj abar Guru Purnima kina.”

(Oh, that Vidyasagar, then Vivekananda, didn’t you notice the statues? I don’t bow before gods, I bow before these men. You tell me, should I not? Today is Guru Purnima too.)

So if you are in the city and ever pass the stretch of Raja S C Mullick Road, you must notice the sculptures along the boulevard or whatever remains of it. They are nothing life-size or impressive, but homely busts of two men from an era we have almost forgotten. I have passed them often without so much of an attention to them. Never cared to look to see if the likeness was commendable or if the humble tribute made any sense to pedestrians nearby. With my auto-driver friend greeting the busts with such reverence, I was rather shamed by my own indifference.

But the good thing is, I followed suit and did a baby salute to these stoned men of yore.

You never stop learning, do you?

Courtesy: Internet

Rain Swag Dashed

Walking solo in the rain has a streak of the theatrical inherent in it. Or so I thought. Here I was walking, trying to save my steps from the muddy puddle traps that the dimpled road and the monotony rain had made. Come to think of it, every rain has a tone of its own - jhomjhom, tiptip, toptop. So today's tiptip rain had this tonality to make me super bored. With Ma and Babuji, there wasn't much action to be had indoors.

Courtesy: Internet

Ma had snuggled up for 30 minutes of teletrash - Ichhenodee - a lachrymose bangla soap that hinges on preposterous family politics. Babuji had his bi-focals focused ardently on Shibram Chokkoti omnibus. Gorging on deep fried chocolate momos, I had the guilt quotient rising high on the calorie scale.

So here I was all set, in a jogger's habit, a pair of squeaky clean trainers, Apple music blasting Men's health jingles into my feminine ears, to rock the world of cardio. I did well for 4 rounds, which kind of measures up to 400m*4= 1.6 kms. The tiptip rain had managed to soak my flimsy sports vest and my curls had delicate rivulets running down their strands. Then I changed tracks on Apple to listen to 30 greatest hits of Ghulam Ali and Mehdi Hassan. Minutes later I found myself sitting on a wet bench. On a grassy patch.

A mongoose peeked out of a nearby shrub and looked at me before writing me off as a pathologically boring specimen of life and quickly leaving for more interesting pursuits. I remained stationed there and imagined listening to Hassan Sahab live. I am good at visualizing the impossible, mostly comical ones, so here I was, eyes shut, nodding virulently to the sonorous baritone until I felt a light tap on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw a concerned pair of eyes looking deep into mine. The bald pate shone with the garden lights reflecting on it. For a second I thought Hassan Saab had rejected the joys of Jannat to descend upon a rain drenched Ghazal aficionado. I felt my lips stretch into a smiley curve about to break into: Arre aap?

Then the T-shirt and the pair of denims caught my attention as did the closed umbrella dripping with water. I realised it was pasher barir kaku (next-door neighbour uncle). Kaku had obviously found me swooning to the singsong rain; he did not notice the headphones of course. He thought I was having some sort of seizures and had come to rescue me.

"Thik acho toh? Bhijcho keno? Bari jao!"
(Are you alright? Why are you soaking in the rain? Go home!)

And I scooted into the rain, blushing a deep beetroot red. Like I said, life always refused to give me the little pleasures that I sought and gave me anticlimaxes like these instead.

Pasher barir kaku had robbed my rain of all drama today!