The Old Man's Shop

It was an evening in early August. In this small town in West Bengal, just a hundred miles west of Kolkata. Evenings during this time of the year are usually pleasant. The last vestiges of the long drawn out monsoon makes a couple of appearances before journeying farther south, where they keep up their lively and tireless performance for the rest of the year. Well..almost.Today was one such day. The evening was without the Rains. Slightly cool. A light breeze was blowing. Mrs B was getting ready for an "outing" to the local market place. It was a short walk from her house to the market and the weather was perfect for walking. However she did not feel like walking. Seemed to her that she was alwayyys walking. She wanted to ride a rickshaw*. A mischievous self in her liked to think that riding a rickshaw was aristocratic! She had always associated that with Mana (Mrs B's grandmother). How Mana would get down from the rickshaw, after her evening rounds of magazine club, bridge games and marketing! Piru kaka** would bring in the bags after her, and Daidai (Mrs B's grandfather) would be waiting at the door to greet her. And to think Mana had been away for only a couple of hours! That was regale!
Mrs B just couldn't help but give in to her desire of riding a rickshaw to the market.
The day, however, had not been as perfect as was the evening. The morning was cloudy. Mana had been upset and irritated that even today she couldn't hang her clothes outside to dry. Well..she had been upset most of last week and that was not just because of overcast skies.. it was just another few days before Mrs.B flew west again. Mrs B had been upset too. So today afternoon, when the sun peeked through the clouds, for the first time in weeks, she decided to go to the bajaar (the local market place) in the evening. That would surely cheer her up.

Now, going to the bajaar was not exactly like going grocery shopping. The bajaar also was very much unlike the grocery stores here. It is a collection of rows of small rooms next to each other; each room being a "shop" geared to sell specific sets of merchandise e.g. the music shop would have a variety of cassettes, batteries ...CDs and DVDs.
Each "row" divided up the market place into several small "regions", also called "markets" e.g. the vegetable market, the fruit market, the flower market, the meat and fish market, the sweet shops , the tailoring shops, stationary shops, banks, grocery shops, internet cafes...all distributed in that random order. Open spaces separated the "markets". In these open areas vendors would sell anything from day old newspapers, handmade cane-wood-clay goods, corn roasted over open flame to regular snack and beverage-all in makeshift stalls. These vendors did not “own” any shop. They would put up their stalls early in the morning and take it back with them late in the night when the bajaar closed and the shopkeepers locked their stores.

In India, this is how a typical market would look like...well..till a few years back.

Mrs B loved to walk aimlessly around this bajaar. She had been there at all ages, at all times and with all degrees of necessity. Sometimes it had been early in the morning to buy a kite paper for the craft class in school; sometimes, in the late evening, to buy a present for a friend’s birthday party ; in the afternoon to buy a soda; late at night to have a few pages photocopied for the exam next morning; to stroll with a friend or just to meet Mana, who would go there every evening at around six o'clock for grocery shopping. And..at no time had she been disappointed.
This Bajaar, was also in a sense, The center for entertainment in this small town. It was interesting at how one would "chance" upon the next door neighbour and talk for an hour about an upcoming wedding. Mind you they chatted about this only a few hours ago over the evening tea. So, there was always a possibility that a voice from a long lost time would call out to Mrs B as she walked aimlessly through the teeming mass of buyers and sellers who seemed to occupy every corner of this bajaar. The voice may be that of the girl she hated as a second grade kid. Or that of the school teacher who taught her Wordsworth in high school. Or the rickshaw kaka on whose vehicle she had sat on the foot rest as the naughty kid. It may also be of Mana's coming back from Babloo's dokan (the sweet shop at the rear end of the marketplace) or of her best friend who went somewhere far off and was simply visiting the little town. So even though she wasn't acquainted with all the people who frequented the bajaar, she felt a sense of familiarity with this crowd.

Today, however, a major purpose of her trip to the bajaar was to have a packet of snacks that she was exceptionally fond of. An old vendor, who had a small stall in the open space in front of the bajaar, sold "baro bhaja" (a spicy mix of nuts, spices, vegetables and puffed rice).
His was a small stall; more like a table, on four rickety wheels, and a cover supported by four flimsy wooden posts. He would push that stall all the way from his village up to the market every evening around five o' clock. His stall would have several mouth watering ingredients..varaities of nuts, chanachur (a spicy mix), puffed rice, some spices and half cut onions, tomatoes, green chilies-all stuffed carefully in heavy glass jars. The lids of these jars had glass knobs on their tops. It was known as Dadu'r dokan (the old man's shop).

This stall had been the primary source of entertainment for Mrs B all throughout her school life...more so in junior school. Whenever Mammam (her mother) would allow some extra changes, she would rush off with Buni (her younger sister) and other kids of the neighbor hood to dadu'r dokan to buy a packet of barobhaja. The journey to Dadu's was as exciting as was the snack. It would be the time for hatching notorious plans to rag the new kid in the neighborhood. Or to solve some pending work for their doll's wedding party next week. And then they would be there at Dadu's. Almost always the first customers.
She would pick out her choice of ingredients ....and as she did so, he would lift the lids of the glass jars carefully and pick out meager quantities of each and put them in a big plastic cup. How excited she used to get watching that! It had always seemed to her that inside those jars were the best eatables that could possibly exist. And how lucky Dadu was...he could have as much of those as he wanted and ..whenever he wanted! He would then stir them all together vigorously and put them in small paper containers, made from old newspapers, and hand it over to her! Oh those first few fingerfuls! She took little mouthfuls. So that it never ended...

Much as his snack was desirable..so were his stories. In reality, they were just the day-to-day happenings of his life which he told with a placid face, in a monotonic voice and in a strange rural accent. He would talk of his perpetually ill cow, the problems in the paddy field due to the untimely rain, his meager lunch and his family. She later realized that those were not really stories. They had to themselves a touch of desperation …a sign of resignation. But to little B they were from a world beyond hardships. A place where there were no home works, no studies, no fixed lunch menus, and most importantly from a world full of glass jars, filled with goodies, which could be opened anytime and every time...one just had to want it!

Over time, even as she was growing up, Dadu's Dokan kept losing its charm to the kids of the neighbourhood. The market grew. Many vendors had crowded the open space. They sold Rolls, Chowmein, and a plethora of delicious fast food. Bright halogen lamps lighted up the stalls and kids flocked to them like flies. She was also drawn to those stalls. Dadu'r dokan faded into a little corner, only a week lamp trying vainly to indicate its existence. Only poor kids occasionally went there.
She went off to college and never remembered Dadu again. On her way back to home on weekends, she would just pass by it, hardly giving it a glance...
Today, after so many years, when it was almost time to fly west again, and she was walking towards the bajaar...she remembered Dadu'r dokan...and all of a sudden , she felt in her mouth the old tang of barobhaja. She hoped that Dadu was there...unknowingly she walked a little faster. Was he there? Was he even alive? As she neared the bajaar, she saw the stall..small, rickety and in the corner. And then she saw those glass jars. They still had those round knobs on their tops. They were filled with nuts and chanachur. Dadu looked a little old. But he always had looked that way. Her mouth watered at the thought of that small packet. Today she was going to have a thousand of those little packets..
She was glad that she had come to bajaar today..somehow she felt that a part of the old world still existed..maybe in little corners. But she could reach them..anytime..she just just had to want it. It was reassuring. And she understood for the first time, perhaps vaguely, how it was for Dadu to own the little stall with the glass jars..which he could open..anytime, anywhere..he just had to want it...maybe.

*a three wheeled cycle with cushioned seats in the rear for seating at most two passengers.It was driven (also referred to as pulled) by a man.

** Piru Kaka was the the rickshawa puller who accompanied Mana everywheere.From births, weddings to funerals.He expired two years back.Mana had lost her best man since then. Kaka means Uncle in bengali.

The Park Street

"oi je ..oi Asiatic Society ta aache na tar shamne niye choulun" (you know the Asiatic Society ? Drop me off in front of it). Mrs B directed the taxi driver while adjusting her shirt. She was going to Park Street. She felt light and carefree. To the young people who spent their youth in Kolkata, Park street was the place to be. It had the best shopping centres , pubs, and resturants that the city had to offer.

But it more than just that. It was an epitome of everything desirable; but..not readily achievable. At night when this place glittered with neon signs of branded shops , the aroma of rich food wafted out as suave men with dazzling women on their arm casually sauntered into the expensive resturants; the young people would wander through the crowd trying to be a part of the world into which they did not have a passport. At least not yet.

Mrs B was no exception. She had fallen in love with this street as a college kid. She felt alive walking through these streets. She had often surreptitiously peered through the heavy and tinted glass doors wondering what lay inside. The very fact that she had no access to many of these places as a pennyless student made her feel rebellious.

Later in life, her travel would take her to the streets of Manhatten, pubs of Chicago and shopping centres of San Fransisco. However, in no place on earth did she feel quite as young and quite as rebellious as she felt when she was at Park street, Kolkata. That was five years ago.

After collge she came back and completed the Masters program in her home town. She got accepted for a PhD into a university in the States. She had fallen in love. She was Mrs.B now. And yet there was never a time that she had been to Kolkata without going to Park Street. She had convinced herself that it was nostalgia.

As her taxi sped towards Park street she looked out. It was evening. Weary faces were returning home on packed public buses. Surely most of them were office goers? Some of them might be working at various offices in Park street. She wondered how they felt at being in Park Steet all through out the day. Excitement? boredom? nothing at all? Their faces did not clue her into anything. She just noticed that they were mostly tired.

The neon signs were starting to light up one by one. She felt young and excited. She did not stop to think that tonight she could get into any shop and any pub she wanted. This was just another street in a very known part of the world. There was no more any mystery here. She paid the taxi driver; alighted; fixed her jeans and shirt. Peered into the rearview mirror of a car parked nearby. She looked pretty ..the evening was just starting..and it was whole world out there waiting to be explored. She hummed a tune and started walking....

Photograph by Atreyee Bhattacharya

The Great Big River

Chaye chhhayee (tea tea). Gorrram choppp (snack). Ladies Moja (ladies socks). The train had come to a halt and the sudden, concerted, cacophony of the vendors jolted her out of "The Human Bondage" - a book she had been immersed in for the last hour or so. Which station was it ? Bagnan. She looked at her watch. Crap! It was still on Boston time. But she knew, from the countless number of times she had taken this journey, that it was still a good part of an hour and half before she would reach home. When was the first time she took this three hour journey home? Oh yes, it was on a hot September afternoon. She was coming back from College for a weekend. Godu, Mammam, Mana and Daidai had been so worried. Buni was still in high school. She smiled. Since then it had been eight years.Time does fly indeed.

She looked out and stretched. The station was almost deserted. Well, it certainly wasn't the rush hour yet. The vendors on the platform were either dozing off or playing cards. Flies were feasting on the stale snacks and puris. The flies would be shhhhoeed and everything would appear fresh, when the evening rush hour would bring back the hungry and tired hordes of the daily passengers (people who worked in office in the city) to these stalls. They would grab a few of these stale snacks and head back home, gossiping about the dismal state of politics in Bengal or the latest Sharukh Khan blockbuster or the last test match in which Zimbawe won against Bangladesh. For now, however, the flies could feast.

She saw a few villagers waiting on the opposite platform for the inbound train towards Kolkata. It will be almost evening before their meagre share of produce reached the evening bazaars of Kolkata. They would haggle over prices; would undersell and compete with each other: all in a desparate plight to get a price..any price..for their hard earned merchandise. At night, when this station would be even more deserted, these groups , united again in mutual weariness and toil, would make their way back home, cribbing about the market and their general loss. Now, however, they were just waiting for that inbound train that will take them to those lamp lit , way side bazzars of Kolkata...

The train started off again. She heard the station master announcing her departure. She laughed inwardly at herself. How dramatic she was! She certainly had an imaginative mind. Mr.R was right about this one.

This time the train compartment looked emptier. Did a lot of people get off at Bagnan? Mrs B did not notice. She tried getting back to her book. But her concentration wavered. Irritated, she turned on her CD player. It started playing Suzzane. Soon she would reach Kolaghat. The train would be crossing the Rup Narayan river. Rup Narayan was a small tributary of the Ajoy river, one of the bigger rivers criss crossing the Bihar-Bengal region of India. To Mrs B, however, Rup Narayn had always been The River. It had never failed to fascinate her. It was so wide. Took forever to cross it. It separated the old township which she had loved without a choice and the City with which she had fallen in love...solely out of choice. Whenever the train would cross the bridge over the river, she would have a mad desire to get off the train; get down to the river ....touch the water..walk along the muddy roads by the river.. till she got lost in the Kaashful forest far far away in that distant horizon...

In fact once, just a couple of days before she came to the States, she did exactly that. That day Kolaghat was not a station on the way to Kolkata. It had been her destination. She remembered, as Leonard Cohen started singing "Bird on the wire"....

It was a drizzly day in an early August morning. She boarded the train to Kolaghat. She was on her way to her long coveted destination. She got down at Kolaghat. It was muddy, and a damp aainshte (fishy) smell hung around the place. It was every where. From the station all the way upto the river banks and within the stall from which she bought tea. She started walking towards the river. Why there was moss and filth by its banks! The ferries charged a 150/- for a ride to the other bank. She was a penniless student then. Sullen, she had crossed the bridge on foot towards the Kaashful forest. There was no Kaashful then. It wasn't the time of the year yet. But the trees where there. They would bear the white and willowy Kaashful..when the rains would have gone to Spain and she would have gone away to Boston..and Bengal would be getting ready for Dugga Pujo. She felt better..quiet roads along the river..till she came to the bank..it was filthy. In rural parts of India, where drinking water is scarce, villagers use places like these for everyday use. This river bank was no different. But she didn't care. Generally she would. But it was drizzling again and she had looked out towards where the river bends and into the mist..and she looked like that for a loonnng time...She forgot now what was on her mind that rainy afternoon...

She opened her eyes. Once again she was on a train across the river..and for the life of her she could not smell the filth. Neither could she remember the dirty stalls. Nor her long lost thoughts. All she saw.. was a lone ferry on a muddy river. Was the man at the helm singing? Was he tired? The late afternoon sun was making a shimmer on the water. She felt content. From far above the filth and dirt, the sorrow and the mirth..through the window of an ephemeral moment...this was a great big river shimmering in the Sun..and she wanted to get down and touch the water.. once again..

Nothing had changed..Godu would be at the station and soon she would be home. She dozed off.."She could hear the boats go by"

Picture: Courtesy Goutam Sadhukhan

Mrs.B was late

Mrs B was late. This was not unusual. She was always late. In school she was known as Late Kate. Nonetheless she felt harried and guilty whenever she was late.Today was no exception. It was Tuesday. She got up at 10 am. She always got up late. Yet she was always agahst at how late she slept. She definitely should go to bed earlier.

Hurriedly she drank her Lipton spiced chai. It felt good. Desk top weather showed 11C. Cold was settling in. Maybe she needed a top jacket today? She showered, dressed quickly, blew Mr.R some kisses. Oh how she missed him today... On her way she realized that it was almost 11 AM! She will have to order lunch for today's meeting. Argg...

These meetings were inevitably boring and useless. She suspected everybody attended these lunches for free food! No one admitted though. Not even she. She decided on Chinese. Cheap and popular. She could even take out some on the way. Hopefully the restaurant was open for lunch. It may not be lunchtime yet.. Thank God she was at least going to the department before lunch! She relaxed.

She stopped at Hong Kong. It was a very popular cinese restaurant on campus. Ordered five lunch combos and a few sodas. Watched a very boring basket ball match as she waited for the food and was glad to leave the stinky restaurant lobby 15 minutes later with her order. She quickly crossed the road. She jay walked. Always. Without fail. And she always felt guilty.

As she entered the Yard she caught sight of the different colors the leaves had taken; Red, pink, orange, yellow, purple. Color was strewn on the green grass. The grass was almost gone. Soon the trees would look bare. For a minute she forgot that she was late and guilty. She caught sight of a few squirrels trying to crack ..nuts? She smiled at their efforts and started walking away...

Then she heard something. The sound made her curious. It was of water dripping. Was there a leak in one of the sprinklers? Oh! she did not fancy getting wet now!! But it was still there..a constantly dripping noise. She looked around. Nothing. She looked up. Nothing. Very curious...She looked down. And what she saw almost made her cry out in surprise. It was a green frog with yellow stripes. It was sitting under a mushroom which grew beneath a big mossy tree trunk. The leaves on that tree were yellow.
But she was so surprised that she couldn’t concentrate on anything but the frog. It looked irritated. Looked????? A frog l o o k e d???

She peered closely. Indeed it was looking very irritated. The frog suddenly said " I hate getting drenched. I was born in water. Argg..how could I be. This rain just gets my skin all wet".
She said, almost on autopilot," But there is no rain. It’s sunny and bright!" To which the frog replied," You seemed almost smart. But no! You had to ask the same silly question everybody asks". Mrs B was stumped. She was certainly dreaming. Maybe she had too much wine last night or maybe she was getting no sleep at all. She definitely needed to think. “Everybody noooottttiiiCes youuuu?". The Frog sulked. Said, “They do. Only later they believe that they had more wine or were getting less sleep and that they imagined me sitting here. Or why do you think Iam sitting here getting wet and no one bothers to move that sprinkler away so that it doesn’t drip on me?"

She walked away. Scared. And amused. Did she really never see the frog? It seemed impossible. She walked by that tree almost everyday. She knew how the colours of the leaves had changed over the last few weeks. No it couldn't be. And whoever heard of sulking frogs...She definitely had more wine yesterday. But it was a verrrryyy funny situation...She almost laughed thinking how her colleagues would laugh at the incident. But it was worth its time. She certainly felt relaxed. A frog looked sad??? Certainly it was worth getting late!!

A rainy Saturday afternoon

It was a regular Saturday afternoon. Mr.R was out of town for the weekend. It seemed that these days he was away most of the time. Mrs.B was finally getting ready to go the department. Lately, it seemed she was always at the department. Was it only yesterday when she had promised that this weekend she would stay away from work? She had decided that tomorrow she will finish writing that letter to mammam. It was taking forever. Bijoya would soon be over and the letter would remain unposted. There was a painting half finished. Mr.R said he would like one of her paintings. But Mr.R was never was around. But she decided that she would finish that painting anyways. It was looking almost interesting. Considering that she hasn't been drawing since the last..6 years. And she used to be almost good at it!

Today morning, as soon as she woke, she remembered urgent things which just had to be done: laundry, cooking, grading copies, running samples. It felt good that so many students were trying to attend her section. She was improving. But the sample runs were draining her energy. She wished that the blanks would be low enough so that she could run more samples. Certainly over Thanksgiving she would find time for that letter and the painting....

Right now, however, she was not thinking about anything. Morning coffee was strong. Mr.R was fine. She called him the first thing in the morning. She had called home. Everything seemed to be in order. She was looking through her closet trying to find out an outfit. There was nothing special scheduled today. No one would be at the lab. But it was her habit to rummage her closet for something nice. Finally, she decided on a tight pair of jeans and the new high neck white sweater she bought from Marshall's the other day. She would look fetching in that. She smiled at her reflection and started donning the outfit. She was humming a tune..what was it? ....

With a final dab of perfume on her wrist (this was a new one from Body shop) she looked out. How dark the sky looked. It was drizzling!! Arggg....

Was it drizzling from the morning? Desktop Weather did not show it. She had to uninstall that program. It was just using a lot of the RAM. Oh! Maybe she had checked only the temperature. It showed a mild 17C.

Her trench coat was torn. It was from a second hand shop. Bought the year she first came to the States. She hated carrying the umbrella. And she hated wearing gum boots. The feet just got too hot. So why did she buy them? Why is it that she wore gum boots when she did not like them and why was she even thinking of an umbrella? Why! not long back, she never used to carry an umbrella. She used to love getting drenched. Oh! How many times had she been reprimanded for getting home drenched. Mammam used to get so angry when she had to take the mud out of the jeans. She remembered the late afternoon laboratory classes. She would sit there irriratedly, wishing she was outside when the rains came. She would hurry through her class just to be out in the rain.

She looked out...and it was drizzling..and she remembered that red dusty road to her house. During downpours a small rivulet of water drained that road and she would put little boats in the stream. How the outlines of her house used to appear blurred in the rain as she would bike home. She thought of the street along the hostel. The 2.2 road. She would be walking along that road with rain in her eyes. No body would be around..well almost. And she would sing out loud. "Singing in the rain"?

She sat looking out of the window. In her new high neck sweater, wearing a nice perfume with an umbrella in her hand and gum boots by the door. She was smelling the red dust road when first rains fell and her eyes were full of rain. They left her cheeks streaked...and she remembered that it was Saturday afternoon...and it was just starting....she might just finish the letter and the painting after all.

Photograph by Atreyee Bhattacahrya