Hot, humid. Summertime in the City of Joy, Kolkata. I sat in the shade of a decrepit shop, watching the world go by. More than the heat, it was the humidity that was killing. Sweat dripped off my brow, tiny rivulets making me squirm as they trickled down my neck. How the heck were you expected to look composed, ready to face the inquisition of an employer for a job, when all the body wanted was to lay itself down, preferably in an AC room and sleep. Why was i even here, i thought, this city was not for me. I would be physically drained even before i got to work. The frequent power cuts, 'load shedding' ( why did they call it that? Because the profound heat made the city a sauna in which the kilos simply dripped and fell off one's body ! ) only added to the woes of the long suffering populace. The amazing irony was that, you could die sweltering in a packed mini bus in the traffic, while a long winding procession took over the streets, demanding, protesting against everything but their living conditions. Conditions that made their lives hell on an everyday basis.
Decision made, i got up from the step on which i was sitting. I was going home. To Mumbai. The city of dreams. My dreams. I may have been born and bred here, but now this was an alien city, an alien way of life. I could make my peace with a brutal way of life, but i wasn't prepared to handle inhuman environs, this apathetic way of life.
The soft tinkle of bells jarred me back to the present. The rickshawpuller had stopped beside me. He was an old man, his 'bhara' (fare) was a small boy. Amazed to see a five year old alone, i watched while he lifted him in his arms and entered the nearby building. I followed them in, dire thoughts of abduction in my head. I saw the old rickshawallah painstakingly climb the stairs, carrying the child in his arms, the little fellows school bag slung across his back. . 'Arrey ! ' came a shout from above. 'Nobody's home. His mother left in a hurry. Her father fell in the bathroom and hurt his back.' By now the little fellow's face had crumpled. The rickshawpuller emerged again from the building. Seating the child in the shade, he consoled him talking softly, offering him water from his satchel, carefully, slowly, pouring it from a height into his mouth. Soon the child was fast asleep, the old man sat fanning him with his 'gamchha' ( the cloth most labourers sling around their shoulders.)
Sighing, i made to leave. Across the street was an old familiar haunt. Ganguram's. The rosogolla shop. I went in, siting on the bench (was it still the same ? ) i was mopping my brow, when an old familiar face, peered at me from across the counter. I offered a smile, and was rewarded with a toothless grin ( That was still the same!) A stream of bengali followed. ' Arrey, bachha, (Child. This to thirty plus me!) . You've come after a long time ! How are you ? " Before i knew it, i was plied with all my favorite sandesh. The 'aabar khabo', the 'cham cham. ' ( bengali sweetmeats ) I revived like a wilted plant on which water had been poured lovingly, just before it would have died forever ! The sweet dulcet tones of the women around me, speaking in a tongue that was straight out of a Rabindra Tagore book, the respect and courtesy they showed each other, the warmth with which i was served, nay showered with !
I sat there, imbibing all of the attention, revelling in it.
Mumbai. The city i had chosen to migrate to. That day, i had boarded the subarban train to return home, from work. Packed to the gills, we were hanging on for dear life, near the door. The girl standing beside me was struggling to take out her cell phone from her bag. Then she stood talking, i could hear her reassure a child, saying she would be home soon. The rod struck her all of a sudden. As the cell phone fell from her hand, she lunged almost reflexively, to catch it. Instinctively, i lunged too. In a fraction of a second it was all over.
We sat on the station, weeping. She almost incoherent with gratitude, i almost in a faint, over what had just happened. She had lost her phone, knocked from her hand by a hoodlum from atop the train. But i had managed to hold onto her before she fell on the tracks. Traumatised by the incident, i had fled the city. In search of peace, i had returned to Kolkata.
I got up and hurried out. Anxiously i hailed a cab. If i hurried i could still make it to that interview. Kolkata. The hot, humid but humane city.
Decision made, i got up from the step on which i was sitting. I was going home. To Mumbai. The city of dreams. My dreams. I may have been born and bred here, but now this was an alien city, an alien way of life. I could make my peace with a brutal way of life, but i wasn't prepared to handle inhuman environs, this apathetic way of life.
The soft tinkle of bells jarred me back to the present. The rickshawpuller had stopped beside me. He was an old man, his 'bhara' (fare) was a small boy. Amazed to see a five year old alone, i watched while he lifted him in his arms and entered the nearby building. I followed them in, dire thoughts of abduction in my head. I saw the old rickshawallah painstakingly climb the stairs, carrying the child in his arms, the little fellows school bag slung across his back. . 'Arrey ! ' came a shout from above. 'Nobody's home. His mother left in a hurry. Her father fell in the bathroom and hurt his back.' By now the little fellow's face had crumpled. The rickshawpuller emerged again from the building. Seating the child in the shade, he consoled him talking softly, offering him water from his satchel, carefully, slowly, pouring it from a height into his mouth. Soon the child was fast asleep, the old man sat fanning him with his 'gamchha' ( the cloth most labourers sling around their shoulders.)
Sighing, i made to leave. Across the street was an old familiar haunt. Ganguram's. The rosogolla shop. I went in, siting on the bench (was it still the same ? ) i was mopping my brow, when an old familiar face, peered at me from across the counter. I offered a smile, and was rewarded with a toothless grin ( That was still the same!) A stream of bengali followed. ' Arrey, bachha, (Child. This to thirty plus me!) . You've come after a long time ! How are you ? " Before i knew it, i was plied with all my favorite sandesh. The 'aabar khabo', the 'cham cham. ' ( bengali sweetmeats ) I revived like a wilted plant on which water had been poured lovingly, just before it would have died forever ! The sweet dulcet tones of the women around me, speaking in a tongue that was straight out of a Rabindra Tagore book, the respect and courtesy they showed each other, the warmth with which i was served, nay showered with !
I sat there, imbibing all of the attention, revelling in it.
Mumbai. The city i had chosen to migrate to. That day, i had boarded the subarban train to return home, from work. Packed to the gills, we were hanging on for dear life, near the door. The girl standing beside me was struggling to take out her cell phone from her bag. Then she stood talking, i could hear her reassure a child, saying she would be home soon. The rod struck her all of a sudden. As the cell phone fell from her hand, she lunged almost reflexively, to catch it. Instinctively, i lunged too. In a fraction of a second it was all over.
We sat on the station, weeping. She almost incoherent with gratitude, i almost in a faint, over what had just happened. She had lost her phone, knocked from her hand by a hoodlum from atop the train. But i had managed to hold onto her before she fell on the tracks. Traumatised by the incident, i had fled the city. In search of peace, i had returned to Kolkata.
I got up and hurried out. Anxiously i hailed a cab. If i hurried i could still make it to that interview. Kolkata. The hot, humid but humane city.
yes, in no other city will you find people going out of their way to help..
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