A Story from the Mountains…

A belated Merry Christmas and Seasons’ Greetings. How have been your vacations and life?  On Christmas evening this year as I was lighting up the fairy-bulbs at home, was led through the memory lane to those days in the past when grandpa used to create a special bonfire for us on Christmas eve at our backyard and we had stories to read, and hear by the fire. Those days as kids we were enamored by stories of Army life, Police heroics, etc. They were like thrillers and suspense sagas that created an aura of mystery and magic.

Many of you who have celebrated Christmas during school days will remember the calmness, the silence, and the beauty of evenings by the bonfire. Stories added to the charm of these winter evenings.

Since it is the Christmas week, I thought of keeping-up the tradition of the oral narratives that have been the heart of cultures for centuries. Today’s story comes from the mountains. The story was narrated to me  by an Army Officer who has retired from his services in the Infantry Battalion of the Indian Army . The story is part of his personal experience and personal diaries.

The year is 1981 and the place is Mana Pass (also known as Mana La). Mana Pass is just beyond Badrinath town.It is roughly 18,400 ft above the sea level in the state of Uttarakhand. It connects India and Tibet through the Himalayan mountain range of Nandadevi.  The Saraswati river has its source in Mana Pass, and as the connecting link between India and Tibet, the pass is a sensitive army camp. The roads through this pass are extremely narrow, prone to landslides. If one lost even a slight balance  on the mountains, they will land-up in the gorges of Saraswati river thousands of meters down the slopes. The pass has been notorious for deaths, ambushes, and accidents.

This officer was sent to Mana Pass as in-charge of a sensitive army post across the Indo-Tibet border.

A young infantry officer, 27 years at  the time, Maj. R.N. was known to be a stubborn, but responsible person. He had got married recently and was given quarters at the army base area of Mana town. It was R.N.’s habit to travel across the Mana Pass everyday to inspect the camps of that area and come back to the town once in every two-three days to make sure he gets time to spend with his wife.

One October evening it got particularly late for him to return to base camp. The camp inspection took longer than usual and it was beyond the usual hours of descending through the mountains to the town. However, R.N. was determined to walk back to the town, because it was a clear moonlit night and the visibility was very high on the mountain pass.  The Jawans who were with him tried to dissuade him from traveling through the pass, they requested him to spend that night at the camp since it was already late. He refused. As per protocol, they could not say anything more to stop him from leaving the camp.

It was a full moon night and the valley shone like a pearl surrounded by the black oyster of the Himalayan nights. The moon light on the rocky mountains and on the snow covered peaks creates the feel of a huge crystal blazing in the darkness. The riverbeds blaze like steel in the moonlight.

R.N. began his descent downhill with a high-spirit. Since it was later than 7.oo PM, he was sure he would not meet any villagers or shepherds on his way. His life in the Indian Army had taught him to be vehemently independent and a loner by disposition. Moreover, his habit of reading English novels and watching Second World War movies had kind of made him an idealist and a romantic.

He started walking humming some Mohammad Rafi song, confident that if he kept his regular pace, then he would be at Mana town within an hour and half.

After leaving the camp and crossing the first kilometer through the pass, he stopped for a moment to take a breath and light a cigarette.  Then again he began his descent. About half a kilometer later, he heard someone’s footsteps following behind. Very confident that local villagers are afraid of the Army uniform and are terrified to approach an Army officer, he decided to turn back and find his fellow traveler, so that he can strike a conversation and get company.

When the Major turned back, he couldn’t find a soul in the valley. In the clear moonlight it was tough for someone to hide in the rocks of the mountains, so he was even more intrigued. R.N. was sure that if it was someone from the other side of the border, he will either attack him or take him as a captive soon. However, since it was peace time, the chances were less for such an event.  He started walking the mountains once again, but now with his hands on the loaded revolver in his uniform pocket. The moment he started walking, the sound of the footsteps resumed too. He stopped and looked back again, there was not a soul. The Mana Pass is so narrow that it is tough for two people to walk without being cited by one another. This happened several times, the moment he stopped, the footsteps following him stopped too.

After a while…a voice started speaking to him. He told him loudly in Hindi, “Kya dekh raha hai Kudd Jaa” (What are you waiting for jump down)! The officer turned back to see who it was calling out to him — there was no one behind. Again the voice called out and continuously spoke to him in Hindi “I told you to jump down, just jump down”.  This time the officer retorted back with the choicest slang and asked firmly “who is it who wants me to jump down”. He kept walking with an increased pace, faster than it was before. The voice kept telling him “Kudd Jaa” (jump down). The voice was testing his patience as well as starting to make him nervous. However, he knew clearly that if he lost patience even once or did something out of impulse or anger, he would fall down the mountains into the river. R.N. decided to keep silent and not speak back whatever may come. Therefore, he just kept a brisk pace and kept ignoring the voice that followed him.

There is one juncture at Mana Pass where the mountains are connected across each other. The point is extremely steep and narrow, full of dangers. One wrong step can throw you down into the core of the earth, into the river bed. The moon shone even brighter, and the voice started growing stronger as the Maj. approached closer to this narrow connecting link of the pass.

He was getting more nervous every moment. The voice told him once again “What is this? Jump soon” .R.N. could see the lights of Badrinath now. He suddenly realized that the voice was only motivating him to kill himself, it really didn’t have the power to manually push him down the mountains. He thought for a moment that a high-point in this drama will come when he needs to cross the narrow bridge between the two mountains. He stood at the opening of the bridge for a moment and gathered all the strength that he could muster. The voice was still nagging him, at times laughing, at other times whistling and motivating him to jump. The officer decided to keep his cool and not get disturbed.

He looked across the bridge and felt as if the warmth of Badrinath town was inviting him to cross the bridge. R.N. knew that his wife was waiting for him in the town, possibly she was worried about his safety. He took the first step on the bridge and the voice behind hissed loudly, “now is your time (mauka aagaya!). Jump down!” The Maj. took a deep breath and decided to avoid the voice, not look behind even once until he crosses the bridge.  He started to walk on the bridge with a quick, steady pace. The voice kept calling. When he was right at the middle of the bridge, the voice loudly shouted “Maan jaa! kudd bola na!” (Listen to me and jump).

Finally, he could walk across the bridge and the moment he reached the other end, R.N. turned back to see once again for the last time, who this person was. There was no one on the other end of the mountain, but the voice loudly laughed out, “bach gaya” (survived)! A moment later everything went lull and all that he could hear was the gurgle of Sarasvati river, the deafness of the rocks, and see the glow of the full moon on the snake-like valley.

Being in a safer situation, fear overcame his patience now. He ran towards the town with full strength.

When the C.O.  (Commanding Officer) and other officers of his regiment heard this story the next day during camp inspection, they were perturbed. They told him about the deadliness of the pass, and how many officers and Jawans had succumbed before him to the call of death that rings through the pass in the evenings. The Jawans indicated that was the reason they had stopped him from traveling at late hours from the camp….

You might name the voice as a self-doubt that drives you to kill yourself, you may name it as ghost or spirit, you may call it a nervous projection of the mind, or a psychological breakdown, I have no definite answers….

If you observe the current Google Map of 2011 (30 years later) to calculate the distance between Badrinath town and Mana Pass, Google Map shows two poles ‘A’ and ‘B’, one at Badri and the other at Mana,  with a statement that: “We could not calculate directions between Mana Pass and Badrinath, Uttarakhand.” Surprising na? However, it’s the Defense forces that exist in these unreachable coves of the Himalayas.

Imagine, that  people walk or cover that distance to protect the borders. ‘Enemies’ across the borders are not the only adventures that they encounter, there is much more to life than lines drawn on the face of earth and people visible to human eye ….

A very goodnight! Take good care of yourselves.

Ahilya

This summer my search for articles for Iris, led me to many unsaid aspects of life.

Have you heard of the name Ahilya? Those of you who are aware of Hindu mythology and stories of Ramayana will recall that Ahilya was the beautiful wife of sage Gautama. She was transformed into a stone by a curse of Gautama  because of the debauchery of Indra the king of gods. Ahilya was freed from her stone form when Rama touched her with his foot.

I had heard this story as a child from my grandma and she used to narrate to me the story with so much religious fervor that at the very moment in the narration when Rama set his foot into the Gautama ashram , I used to clap and jump with joy.

However, that was childhood. Growing up, I hardly gave the story a thought, and I am sure even if I would have given it a thought it would mostly be cynical questioning the intention of all these men who could transform a woman into stone and human being alternatively at their own pleasure, just because they had the power to do so.

However, Ahilya the name came back to me in the flash of a moment in a strange way.

There is a Devi temple around 56kms away from Bhubaneswar towards Berhampore (south Odisha), called Ugratara. The temple is an ancient one and one has to go a few kilometers away from NH-43 in order to reach the shrine.

One afternoon we just decided to drive to the temple for the sake of a long drive. The heat in Odisha exceeds forty degree scale and humidity added to it makes life unbearable. Sitting in air conditioned cars and going for long drives are no great adventures or achievement in such a context. Anyway, we reached the temple around 4.00-4.30 pm with the extremity of the heat waiting to greet us the moment we stepped out of the car.

Bare-footed I ran across from the car to one of the shady corridors of the temple. I was angry about the selection of the time and the place for this drive and was muttering something against  the travel in anger, when a lady came and stood before me with a large cane basket of  red hibiscus flowers (supposedly a favourite of Devi) and some bilva leaves with her betel-nut stained teeth opening into a large smile. She was short, dark in complexion, with tattered saree, a large Kumkum on the forehead and a dab of rubbed-off kajal in the eyes.  Irritated with the intrusion and the heat, I said “na! na! darkar nahin, ja tume” (not needed, you go from here). She must be in her early forties,  not for a second perturbed by my angry resistance to her red hibiscus. She said affectionately, “na ma, mun phoola bikuni tate, tume nua asicha ta, seyithi lagi gote phoola neyiki jaa maa pakhaku, sabu dukha sunibe siye tora.” (transl: no daughter, i don’t mean to sell you flowers, you have come to this temple for the first time, take one flower to the goddess, she will listen to all your prayers) .

My cynical self refused to give-in and I said, “mausi jadi maa sabu dukha sunante tebe tume phoola biku nathanta” (aunty if the goddess listened to everyone’s prayers, you wouldn’t be selling here flowers). I knew these are tactics in almost all Indian temples to get you to buy stuff. She broke into an easy laughter and said,

“arre, arre, Ahilya mausi phoola bikiba payin phoola bikeni …tu eyi phoola ne aau jaa maa ku deyi debu. ” (Ahilya doesn’t sell flowers for the sake of selling, take these flowers for free and give them to the deity) and she pushed a long garland of flowers into my hand. That’s how the name Ahilya struck me — I liked her name and the way she pronounced the name as Ahalaya in colloquial Odiya.

Being in a hurry and because of the heat I thrust the garland into my mother’s hand, impatiently went to the shrine and came back from within the temple after a brief sojourn. I sat by the shady courtyard watching the mango grooves gently swaying by the early evening warm breeze. The lady came back to me after some time and inquired whether I had presented the garland to the deity, and I absent-mindedly responded with a ‘yes’ (she gave a look of satisfaction). She didn’t seem to be affected or perturbed by the heat. I thought that the heat is their natural habitat, so what big deal. I handed a 10 rs note to her in lieu of her flowers. She kept the money in a knot of her saree pallu and sat there in front of me gazing my face. I was not very surprised because in rural Odisha if you have an urbane dress-up (jeans and tee types) you are quiet often stared at.  I got a little uncomfortable with her gaze because her eyes seemed to have a lot of admiration as well. It was a strange look — she looked at me with immense compassion as if she had a great treasure and I was the poorer seeker asking for some money or some benediction from her and her deity. I decided to start a conversation with her.

I asked her about her family and where they stayed. She said she stays in a village a kilometer and a half from this temple and comes early morning, sweeps the temple premises, collects flowers, makes garlands, and sells them. Very proudly she announced to me, that the priest himself requested her to make these garlands because they are so loved by the deity that she fulfills the wishes of the devotees who buy them. I asked her how much she makes in a day from this business, and she happily said “jiye jaha dela mun niye…mula bhava karena” (transl: whoever gives me whatever I accept, I don’t bargain), Rs. 40-60 rupees and sometimes on festivals Rs. 100 per day for the bigger garlands. With a smile she added that she has two sons,  and a husband who is suffering from Tuberculosis and might die.  I was surprised! How can someone die in the 21st century from TB? ?

I informed her that the medicines for TB are free and available in all local hospitals. She nonchalantly said that they had to buy those medicines and that food itself was so expensive what will she feed a TB patient, because TB needs a lot of food. She informed me that the deity is very kind and takes care of her husband and her children and never lets them go hungry for a day. Whatever she earns in a day suffices to help her buy ration for that day. She also added as an information that very big ministers, devotees, and business men come from the city and buy her garlands. “They become richer, get their daughters/sons married, or their political issues solved when they buy my garlands, and it is so satisfying to see them happy” . She kept the conversation on for a very long time, talking to me as if she knew me for a very long time. I requested her to allow me to take a few pictures of her and she very happily willed and posed for the camera with her flower basket.

It was getting late and the time to leave was at hand. My family had finished saying their prayers, their wishes, and their demands to the deity. Ahilya walked with us to our car and bid us farewell saying, “Ma toh sabu iccha pura karantu…eyi ahilya mausi ku bhulibuni” (transl: may the mother fulfill all your wishes…don’t forget this aunt of yours). I was surprised by her warmth and her nonchalant innocence — why do we with all the available resources, riches and power lack that basic humane-ness? On retrospect I feel sad and guilty — am doing nothing extraordinary or humane. I too am selling a story like many others in this profession,  for Iris. You may call it selfishness or cowardice.

We drove away from the temple, but I’ll never forget the charm, the smile and demeanor of Ahilya in my life….

Through the Sepia Tint: Love Stories from the Past

I have not written about love stories since long. Thought of revisiting some unknown love stories of a few common people from the ‘black& white’ era. The love stories I am about to narrate seem important in my understanding and important for a narration on a public platform because of two reasons: (a) we talk of our era as ‘bold’, to-the-point and frank in terms of expressing love and maintaining relationships as compared to say someone from the 50′s-60′s or 80′s. But there is something called commitment and guts which perhaps the generation that we live in lacks may be because of career consciousness or may be because of image consciousness; (b) Love has become in my opinion more conservative than it was before. We move from empty Emotional Quotients (EQs) into emptier life-styles where love is marked by the number of pizzas or pastries or the number of movies seen together in a multiplex or else the amount of gifts purchased from malls and markets. Love is determined by the consumerism of today’s existence where an i-phone or an expensive watch or a flat in Lokhandwala or Bandra becomes the benchmark of a ‘true’ relationship. I am not saying that love doesn’t exist, I am just trying to say that ‘true’ love is a rare phenomenon these days. Finance and career consciousness have taken over in the race for stable relationships. Perhaps, many of us are afraid that commitments can take a toll on our careers or else can lead to an emotional trap. Very true, commitments can lead to an emotional trap and this is a world where expressing emotions are seen to be signs of weakness rather than strength. Of course there is the concept of the ‘metrosexual’ male or female who is not afraid of crying in public — emotions however do not mean only ‘crying’ or ‘cribbing’, they go much beyond….

The love stories that I am about to narrate are that of real people, people like you and me (I have/had their permission to write the story). Let me take you back to 1952, the immediate post-independence India. The locale is Pune and the specifics are Dehu, Army Camp near the Ordinance depot. This was the era of independence and Anand Math; jawans woke to the rhythm of Vande Mataram at early dawn. Monsoons were particularly interesting because of the amount of rains Pune and Mumbai received during those days, also because of the dampness of the make-shift canvas tents, and because of the stickiness of the black cotton soil of that belt.  The nation was fresh with vigour to establish itself as a ‘free’ world.  Freedom was a state of mind for people also — the youth of that era tried to live the newly gained national freedom in their lives. However, freedom comes with its own set of bondage — unemployment, casteism and communalism were rife.

One particular young man had newly joined the Ordnance factory –  tall, very fair, slim, sharp features, grey longing eyes. He had recently enrolled into the Indian army as a Sergeant.  Inspired by Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, grown up reading Tagore and Gandhi, this young man had a romantic disposition added to remarkably good looks. Indian army of those times was still ‘British’ in its ways and the training that this young man had received along with his deep insight into literary texts, made him an instant hit in his regiment, army mess and with the townsfolk. He had an added quality — he was a poet and had already published a series of his poems in magazines like Illustrated Weekly and leading newspapers of the time like The Statesman. Every Saturday morning he traveled with a group of colleagues to Mumbai from Pune station through the Deccan Queen express and stayed at the army base in Mumbai, enjoyed the monsoons in Juhu and Nariman Point and returned back on Sunday evening to Dehu camp. It was on this train that he met Bano the daughter of a Parsi merchant of Pune.  Bano was a dream-come-true for the young officer, she was the most beautiful woman he had come across in his life. She was studying in an undergraduate college in Pune — very pretty, sophisticated, cultured and full of grace. The intimacy started growing and Deccan Queen became their meeting ground week after week. Her charm and her beauty added to her delightful understanding of education made her a prized possession for our hero. Months went by and the young man and Bano fell deeply in love. Things changed when he received a telegram from his village that he is needed urgently at home.

The life that this young officer had lead was all through books and his romantic idealism had made him forget that he belonged to a remote village of Odisha near Dhenkanal, his family and his parents were orthodox Brahmins who would never accept a Parsi girl in their home or even near their village. His dreams got a severe jolt through the telegram that he received — he had to go home urgently. His wedding had already been fixed by parents and those days (as it is even today) you couldn’t say a ‘no’ to your parents wishes. Moreover, he was the eldest in the family and his father was a farmer. His education and job meant a lot to the family and he could never deny their wishes. Our hero got married to an unknown girl, around thirteen years of age when he went home. There was grief, there was heart-break but soon the wife filled the emptiness of our protagonist’s life. She too came to know about Bano from the young man and his description of her always aroused curiosity and sometimes jealousy in the wife’s heart. She longed to meet Bano when they returned to Dehu. They deliberately traveled by Deccan Queen every weekend and sometimes weekdays just to catch a glimpse of Bano. Sometimes, they frequented the old Parsi coffee-house of Pune where he used to meet Bano but no one knew her  whereabouts. The couple never was able to trace her. Two years went past and the ghost of Bano still haunted our officer at times. However, married life had its own demands and with a baby born in the camp, there were more reasons to rejoice than to miss a mysterious lady who had only a few days presence in this man’s life.   Soon a posting order came and the Sergeant was transferred from Pune to Jhansi with a promotion. The couple decided to travel to Mumbai, stay there for a few days and then leave for Jhansi from Mumbai. It was a Friday and they boarded the Deccan Queen for Mumbai as usual. In the same compartment was a little girl, the youngest sister of Bano. The officer was surprised, his happiness knew no bounds and he immediately introduced his wife to Bano’s sister and inquired about her. Strangely, the little girl divulged no details about Bano’s whereabouts. He understood her sentiments — requested a piece of newspaper from a fellow passenger and in a hurry scribbled a few lines in English with his ink pen on the already shoddy newspaper surface that read ‘Dear Bano, leaving for Jhansi on Sunday. Hope you will forgive me. My first book will be dedicated to you’ .  They left for Jhansi that Sunday and he never got to meet Bano again during his lifetime and he never got a chance to visit Pune. A few years later his first book released in Odiya and the book was called Adbhuta Chakra (The Strange Cycle) and on the opening page it was written For, Bano. Three of his subsequent books were all dedicated to this lady….

I am not sure if Bano or someone who knows her is reading this post today. She must be at least seventy-three years now. He is no more…. But even during his last days he talked about her and had once asked me to write a profile of Bano. I never had the courage to do so, but today when I feel the agony of observing our generation love stories, I get the courage to write about Bano. Bano, if you are reading this article (I am sure you’ll not be because blogs are for ‘our times’ but if your grandchildren read this probably they might inform you) it is just meant to let you know that Bijon did talk about you and considered you as his inspiration throughout his life.

We live in a world where perhaps casteism does not exist so vehemently as it did in 1950s. However, we have the problem these days of emotional honesty where to own-up that you are in love is not only a risk but also a big game. Mobile phones, smses and partner-swap have taken our time and energy rather than books, ideals and emotions that can even be remotely called love….

I shall continue this post with another love story situated in 1980s in my next post….

A Handful of Wishes

The horizon was deepening into a band of evening orange-red when the train from Midnapur touched seams of “Howrah Station” .

Blare of train horns, noise of the passengers, vendors and the beggars melted into a unique symphony, a symphony common to all railway stations in India. Nalini alighted from the train — her large Kohled eyes looked with awe at the hugeness of the station. She thought to herself that if the station was that big then how big would be the city! A shiver went through her spines. Her uncertain alta marked feet and the jewelery laden body clearly said that she was a newly wed bride who was left by her family to face the huge city alone and begin a new life — by herself with Naren (her husband but a stranger in her life).

Naren followed Nalini out of the train with luggages, goodies, coconuts and betelnut baskets. He too had his apprehensions. He was young, in his twenties, was a clerk in a small accounts firm, had a tiny house somewhere very near to Boubazar main road. Getting married was not in Naren’s priority list but parental pressures and his own health problems caused by unhygienic food habits drove him to get married to Nalini. Little did he realize that he was being married off to the beautiful Nalini. He fell in love with her instantly. Nalini too liked Naren but she was too young to understand the feeling and her distance from Ma-Baba was painful for her to bear.

Since, it was her first day in the city, Naren took Nalini by a taxi so that she would enjoy the sight seeing and get a good view of the city while they journey into their new life. They reached “home” – a decrepit, small two-bedroom house in a narrow-winding gully. Unused to this suffocation and claustrophobic from the constant gaze of neighbours, Nalini immediately went out of her new home to catch some fresh breeze, when Naren went for his bath. She had been outside for only a few moments when Naren worriedly came rushing after her. He commanded her to come inside and threatened saying: “Ki Pagol Me ta! (What a crazy girl) Don’t do this again….This is one of the most notorious localities of Kolkatta…Do you know that this area houses pimps who can take you away? I will take you anywhere you want to but you don’t you dare to get out without my permission…Now come in!”

Nalini burst into tears…not only because she was shocked to have been thrown into a world so different and so terrifying from the beauty of her little home in Midnapur but also because she was shocked to see Naren behave so rude with her. But soon he cooled down and then they started becoming friends bit by bit. However, Nalini could never forget her first evening in Boubazar. After Naren went for office, she would cling to the railings of the back window and keep staring at the roads with blank expressions. She loved Naren and there was no doubt about it! But she also loved her freedom — longed for her life in Midnapur where she ran from friends’ houses to her home late in the evening, was scolded by her mom, yet repeated the story again the next evening. Here she was caged — with a man who was away for work the entire day, came late in the evenings, took her out only on Sundays and brought her home before night-fall and left her with nothingness for the rest of the time.

Once Nalini heard Naren talking to a kid in the neighbourhood about a new temple that had come up close to their locality. She begged Naren to at least let her visit that temple each morning — Naren accepted but asked her to be careful. Since then, the temple steps were Nalini’s recourse after Naren went for office. She would spend there a few hours after Pooja and Arti, just sitting quietly and watching the passerby.

Nalini came to the temple everyday. After a few days, she noticed a young girl, tanned skin, large eyes but extremely attractive watching her movements with intense curosity and happiness. She was afraid for a moment and thought of Naren’s cautions, but then thought “she’s only a girl, she can do no harm“. Nalini noticed that the girl came everyday to the temple and observed her movements. One day she went close to the girl and asked her, “Ki re! Ki bepaar? Why are you observing me everyday in the temple? What’s wrong and who are you?” It seemed the girl was aroused from a deep trance with Nalini’s voice. She was taken aback, but then responded with a polite but curt tone: “Aamar naam Devi (My name is Devi). I sell flowers here boudi, but I like watching you. You are so beautiful and you are newly married na? Aami sab kicchu jaani… (I know everything) I see you coming everyday and offering flowers and also see that you are missing home a lot.” Nalini was touched…she didn’t have much to say and neither was there too much time left in her hands…that day she was unsually late for home. But she liked the girl and she wanted to talk to her…

Soon the friendship between Nalini and Devi started to flower. Each morning Nalini came to the temple after Naren left for office, bought some flowers from Devi and came back, sat on the steps and chatted for hours with Devi. They would discuss their childhood, their toys, friends and Nalini would happily talk about her life with Naren, but for some strange reasons Devi would become uncomfortable and sad. Both were nearly the same age, Nalini was 21 and Devi a year or so older than her. Often, Devi would tell her that she was very fortunate and that not everyone is fortunate to get a wonderful husband like Naren. Nalini would retort saying: “Dhut! You will also get your Rajkumar and then you will tell me…I’ll envy you then!” Devi would then immediately change the topic and harp on how naughty Nalini’s kids will be and that she would herself knit a scarf for the kid when it is born. Devi had a coarse, rugged accent while Nalini was melodious. She had finally found that one friend in Devi whom she had been searching for in Kolkatta. But there were certain things mysterious about Devi like she never told about her whereabouts and she never went inside the temple even when Nalini called her, even though she sold flowers there.

Naren too noticed this welcome change in Nalini. She was now comfortable in the place. She had already gossiped about her friend with Naren and every evening she would enthusiastically wait to tell Naren about the day’s happenings. Naren was curious as to who Devi was, but he understood Nalini’s loneliness and liked the fact that she was talking to this girl of her own age. Each morning after Devi sold the flowers, she had ample time for Nalini and both sat on the steps till noon.

One day Nalini announced shyly to Devi that she was pregnant and Devi was ecstatic. Both discussed all the possible names and would spend hours talking about the health of the child, what food to eat and all that stuff. Soon, Nalini could not go out much and Naren stayed back most of the times to take her care. One day she met Devi and told her she won’t be coming to the temple for some months now. Did she sense tears in Devi’s eyes? Nalini was not sure…Devi replied with a smile: “Of course you should now take rest at home….Why should you come here? I wish I was in your place, be a mother and have a naughty little kid…but…hmmm…leave it….Baudi you’ll come to meet me after the baby is born? I wish to hold the baby in my hands… I have never called anyone baudi in my life” . She held Nalini’s hands in her own hands tight and before Nalini could speak a word she vanished into the alleys.

Many months had passed. The baby was born and Nalini had named her Mrunmoyee (as suggested by Devi). She was caught up with the affairs of the world, but Devi, her eyes, her sharp words and her smile came intermittently into Nalini’s mind. She thought of her only friend in Kolkatta who had taught her to love the city. She had now grown into a woman — firm and in control of herself as well as the world. Naren had no more fears regarding her safety. One day Nalini was restless…she wanted to meet Devi and show her the baby. So, she went to the temple after Naren went for the office. There was no one around and she waited for many hours on the steps — but no sign of Devi. Next day also she went to find her friend and again Devi was nowhere in sight. The process continued for a week — Nalini would come everyday with the baby, wait till noon and go back disappointed.

Finally, in the weekend when Naren was at home, Nalini pestered him to go with her and find Devi, meet her and show her the child. Naren relented to her request. They first went to the temple, asked the Pujari, the flower-sellers and many others around about Devi’s whereabouts, but no one had any answer as to where she was. Finally, a fruit vendor gave a clue, “Oh that girl…she hangs around Chittaranjan Street close to Boubazar…I have seen her there. She was telling another phool-walli that she lives in one of the old houses there.” Naren and Nalini went to the place, looking into the ghettos of people residing near the street. Truck drivers, small shop keepers, pan wallas, children playing with punctured tyres, females wearing old tattered clothes, young girls in colourful salwar-kameezes peeped out from the balconies. The gullies became narrower as they went deeper knocking at each door and asking for Devi — a tanned skin, large eyed girl. Naren was getting nervous and impatient. Nalini pleaded that they should try one more house.

Finally, Naren knocked at the door of a dilapidated old bunglow that looked like British architecture but seemed to be now occupied by illegal occupants and suspicious elements. The door was opened by a lady in mid-sixties dressed in a floral printed saree, crumpled and soiled , with a large bun messily tied. She looked at Nalini and then at Naren and asked in a menacing tone looking at Nalini all the time: “Kai re? aar kauno badi jaga noe, aamar badi theke kyano thuk-thuk karo? (What You don’t have any other place except my home?) Naren was terrified now for he knew where he was, he tried to drag Nalini out of the place, but she retorted and asked him to stop a moment. Confidently, she asked the lady who had turned back to go: “Mashima aekto sono (aunty listen to me)”. The lady was slightly amazed to see this girl’s audacity, so she stopped for a moment and said : “Ki? Bak.” (speak) Then Nalini gave her the description of this girl called Devi and asked her if she knew her or had her address.

The lady was silent. She stood still for a moment and then asked calmly if she was Nalini, the wife of a certain clerk babu? Nalini nodded….The lady replied with an inscrutable tone: “Devi died a few months ago.” Nalini gaped…Naren stood in fix and disbelief as he held Nalini to give her support. “How?” asked Naren…Nalini was blank…“But she was…” the lady filled up the rest: “yes she was very young…like you…she was my girl…no not my daughter but was like my daughter…she worked for my clients”.

“What!!!” screamed Nalini….”Yes she was a ‘worker’ here in the gumnaam streets of Boubazar and she died of this job. She had AIDS for the past one year…”

Nalini and Naren stood still at the threshold of that house. The lady too was quiet. Time had stopped. Devi’s smile haunted Nalini. After what seemed like many hours(but only minutes had passed), Naren held Nalini to lead her away from the place and the memories of Devi. Just as they were about to leave, the woman called from behind: “Nalini ektu thak (wait for a second!) Devi has left something for you.” She went like a bolt inside the darkness and brought a packet from within which she pushed into Nalini’s hands. Nalini was in a shock and so Naren opened the packet. Inside there was a beautiful pink and blue scarf hand knitted with wool and on it was stitched in white “M” …

Nalini said quitely to Naren: “that “M” is for our “Mrunmoyee”… Devi had wished to see her.”

Nalini slowly sobbed and then broke into tears…Kolkatta skies had again coloured into a deep evening orange as they silently walked home.

( P.N : This is a work of Fiction)