Chronicles of a small town. Chapter Two. A Pair Of Trousers

Durga puja was the main event of our life in the little town; everything people mentioned was relative to the puja, either before or after. I often wondered why this was so, but given the plain life we lived, all of us waited for some spectacle to surprise us. But the town was too peaceful for any scandal to erupt or any ghastly murder to take place as it was inhabited by mild-mannered people all of whom worked in the same railway office. On the whole, nothing sensational happened that could offer respite from the humdrum, allow people to gossip like they did in the big cities. It was only during Durga puja when the routine was allowed to be broken; so it was understandable why the puja held such an important place in our life. Even now, forty years after I had left the place for good with no trace of my life there, if I was asked which place I would like to revisit, with eyes closed I would say it would be my home town, especially during Durga puja.

That year, when our gang was reduced to three from four, with Nilu remaining in exile in some hospital in Howrah, we collectively decided to demand a pair of trousers for each of us during durga puja. We used to get new clothes twice a year, first being the Nababarsho that was the first day of Bengali New Year and the second being the Durga puja. In between, we never asked for anything, nor we felt the need. The reason to place our demand simultaneously to our parents was the fact that our fathers had passion for playing cards together. It was my observation that the old men discussed everything under the sun while they played cards at railway institute. The audacity of the demand seemed relatively minor when all of us demanded the same thing or so our parents liked to believe. We were more hopeful to get things going our way this time because we had only a couple of months left to get promoted to class nine and even our school prescribed navy blue trousers for boys of class nine onwards while the girls were asked to wear white sarees with navy blue border.

When Gautam proposed we would wear full pants now onwards, I said I already had two trousers, altered though, courtesy my dad`s old PT dress that he wore when he was a trainee at Secunderabad railway training institute. But both of them objected because my trousers couldn’t be branded as new and hence didn’t qualify here. But they said, however this could be used as an example to support the claim by boys of our age, thirteen to be precise, who required full pants not only to cover their modesty but also to protect their legs from cold during winter. Khokan being the eldest among his siblings had to face the toughest hurdle to convince his parents but Gautam had two elder brothers; so I knew he could always manage a discarded trouser of his elder siblings even if he was not sanctioned a new one. But it was me who got the toughest resistance.

 “Why do you need another full pant?” my mother wanted to know.

 “Don`t you have two trousers already?” 

“Those are not new, but altered from dad`s old pants.” I objected.

 “But they look like new and fit you well.” Mother said. Though both were altered two years ago, my mother was clever enough to keep the legs longer and the waist a couple of inches bigger so that I would not outgrow them so easily. Two years ago, when I hardly had guts to revolt, she had made few extra holes in my father`s discarded belt too so that using the discarded belt I could wear the discarded trousers. At my meek protest she always said that no one was going to look at my waist lifting up my sweater.

 “Even the school requires us to wear full pants from next year.” I said at my last attempt. 

“We will see to it, but before that you have to pass the final examination, my boy!” My mother said. As if she knew I wouldn’t pass the examination and therefore the question of getting a new full pant wouldn’t arise. 

But the reason why Gautam proposed we should put on trousers now onwards became clear later. On the evening of Saptami, when three of us were supposed to hang around together at our own puja pandal, we found Gautam missing. I sat with Khokan, in the music room, which was a tent at the side of the main pandal where a bruised HMV turntable sat on a battered wooden table belting out Hindi film songs. Throughout the day a couple of loudspeakers tied at the top of a bamboo pole forced the entire neighbourhood to listen to songs according to playing list of the older boys who smoked cigarettes and chased weed to celebrate the liberating month that begins with Mahalaya and ends in Diwali. In the evening when they went away for romantic outing with girls of another locality, we were asked to man the coveted spot. I loved the job because like Amin Sayani of Binaka Geetmala, whose voice we simply adored, I spoke in between the songs to let people know that there was somebody in charge now who had a refined taste and therefore listeners could expect a better stuff.

 I was going to change the disc when Gautam hissed from behind. He was wearing his new black trouser with a maroon full sleeved shirt tucked in. As I was going to ask about his sudden disappearance, he silenced me putting his finger against his closed lips. 

“Go out and watch the girl in blue saree standing below the chandelier.”

 “Who is she?” I demanded.

 “First you have a look then I`ll tell you.” I went out reluctantly handing over the charge to Khokan, who hardly had an ear to tell between Kishore kumar and Md Rafi. 

Three girls in their mother`s sarees and blouses, looking clumsy and gauche stood close to each other tittering about something looking at the idol of Ma Durga and her full family. There was hardly anything so entertaining in my opinion except the Mahishashur who had outrageously sculpted muscles despite being such a looser and the bright red penis of the lion standing out of a dark triangle with two grey balls hanging shamelessly. I often thought girls overlooked those things what we, the boys, always saw and enjoyed; especially when the scene had an amorous overtone. But in this case, it seemed that it was the dagger-like penis that had induced the laughter. 

When I came out of the music room and the girls noticed me emerging from the same dugout where Gautam had disappeared few seconds ago they quietened abruptly and looked away as if my impression counted a lot for them. 

All three girls were known faces. I tried to focus on the girl in blue saree and recognised she lived in another locality, close of our school. Her identification mark was one guava tree in their back yard that produced the best guava of the town but was guarded fiercely by few millions of ants who dug deep into the intruder`s flesh if one stayed longer in the vicinity. We always had known it and it was our strategy to hurl few missiles to shake the ripened guavas off the tree before collecting them like paratroopers and banishing immediately. But this was definitely not the reason why Gautam wanted me to judge the lass. But then by now she had acquired the status of a friend`s lover; and so I was expected not to look at places of a girl’s body where a boy of my age commonly stared. 

When I went back Gautam said, “How is she? Good?” Khokan, busy selecting the LPs missed the whole thing. But from our hushed conversation he sniffed something interesting going on and swivelled facing us. 

“Who, are you two discussing?”

 “A girl.” I said.

 “Your girlfriend?” 

“No, not my, somebody`s!” 

Gautam approved my presence of mind with a chortle and tried to shake him off.

 “Not your kind of girl, never mind man!” he said. 

But if you had known our friend Khokan or a boy of his clan, you knew how difficult it was to fend him away especially when the discussion was about a girl, the species we had just begun to fancy. 

“Where is she? “ Khokan jumped off his chair and almost ran to the pandal as if the girl in question was about to disappear.

 “Hey man! Don’t rush.” Gautam shouted. But by then Khokan had already landed in front of the girls like the lone chimpanzee of the local zoo which often resorted to funny theatrics when it saw young women in the gallery. We heard the girls breaking into another peal of laughter when we stepped out of the music room to check on our friend. Khokan looked offended; he took the laughter as a personal insult but having no idea how close the girls were to his friends, swallowed it like bitter gourd sherbet. We looked at each other in surprise, even the girls stopped laughing. I saw few uncles and aunties exchanging curt glances between themselves nodding their heads as if saying, what is going on? You can`t fool us!

 Perhaps due to the scornful gazes of the aunties who stopped their bitching and focussed all their energy judging the shameless girls who were eyeing to corrupt the innocent boys, Gautam`s girlfriend and her friends left. Three of us went back to the dugout.

 “You know her!” Gautam said. I knew he was referring about our last raid of the guava tree.

 “Her name is Lopa.” Gautam said with a smile waiting for me to ask him more about her. 

“Now I understand why you pushed us to ask for trousers!” I said. 

Gautam smiled sheepishly.

 “Where did you go with her?” I asked.

 “We went to Anabari.” 

“Anabari? What`s there to see?”

 “Nothing! No one knows us there. That`s why we went. If you have ever gone there you might know, one road from the T – junction goes straight to the port. We strolled down the road, a long walk actually and chatted for two hours.”

 “Oh God!” I said, impressed with Gautam`s maverick idea of romancing the girl who owned a guava tree in their backyard. But then it struck me what was it that they had spoken for two long hours?

 “What did you guys actually talk for two hours?” I asked credulously. 

“Oh, you are too naive! I can expect Khokan to ask question like this, not you man!” Gautam said.

 Though I was itching to know what the lovers actually talk when they were together, I, having been placed at a higher intellectual status than Khokan, fell silent. Well, by then I had read few novels in Bengali written by Samaresh Basu, that my mother borrowed from railway institute library and had some theoretical knowledge how lovelorn couples peck each other. But I was curious to know if all that I read were true, if the lovers really kissed each other when they sat close together cooped inside a cabin of a restaurant, and if the waiter could be bribed to stand as guard on the other side of the curtain.

Thinking this might be a smart question, I asked Gautam, “Did you go to a restaurant?”

 Gautam smiled, “I wanted to go, but I didn’t have enough cash in my pocket. How can you go in and not entertain your girlfriend?”

 I felt pity for the poor lover boy but at least he had a girlfriend. I had only a pen friend that too she wasn’t actually mine but donated by Nilu. Gautam said they had walked and spoken for two hours. I placed myself in Gautam`s shoes and imagined it was I who was walking with my lover, a girl, whose face I didn’t know yet because she didn`t have any real existence but only a form, that my thoughts had conjured her to be – a silhouette who smiled like an angel, sauntered like a fairy, had hair so black that it reminded you of the darkest night and her eyes, if I could translate Jibananda Das`s poem – a bird`s nest – an impossible metaphor for anybody to understand unless you read Bengali poetry.

Chronicles of a small town. Chapter One. The Fall

When we climbed up the stairs and reached the orthopaedics word to see Nilu, a nurse whom I knew well asked me “Is he your friend?”
 I nodded, “yes”.
 “Poor boy!” She said clicking her tongue.
 Through the half-ajar door she took me as the lone visitor, but there were three more boys, all in half-pants and tees, straight from football field hiding behind me.
 “Go, speak to him but don`t fiddle with pulleys.” She said before disappearing inside the nurse`s cubicle.

We stepped inside, tiptoeing past the heavy wooden door left ajar by the nurse. Nilu was lying on a bed, covered by a white sheet, his right foot sticking out. A huge wrought iron disc hung from a pulley was connected by a complicated system of plastic ropes, which disappeared under the sheet. I suspected those ropes pulled the broken ends together for healing; funny way if you ask me! Why not fix the bones directly up like Santosh carpenter, the way he fixed the legs by hammering nails into of the wooden seat? I thought. But fixing of wood and bone, in all probability, would be different job altogether; so I thought better not to express my outrageous idea.

We stood around his bed watching the huge ward, almost empty except Nilu and another old man who was busy reading newspaper. He had his left hand plastered and hung around his neck in a sling, but his face was absolutely cheerful with no trace of agony of a broken limb. Nilu saw us entering. Actually his bed was just across the door, so he always noticed whoever entered the ward.
 I found his face brightened immediately because he didn’t expect us to visit him in the hospital but he looked alarmed when he recognised I wasn’t alone. Only two people were allowed to visit at one time; the rule was known to us. But neither Khokan nor Gautam, when I suggested them to wait, agreed. I saw Nilu raising his head few inches above his pillow, quickly surveying the ward if the loud-mouth nurse was watching us. I thought that was how the tortoiseshell tomcat watched if the coast was clear before he pounced on fried fish set aside by my mother to be cooked for dinner.

 “Why did you jump?” I asked.
“I had no other option.” Nilu said, shaking his head.
 “You could beg for pardon, that you would never repeat the mistake again in your life!” I said.
“Do you think the end result would have been any different?” Nilu said sadly.

 His father whom we called Batulbabu, from a cartoon character of ‘Batul the great’ of ‘Suktara’, was well-known for his exemplary retribution especially towards his six boys. Legends had it that on a couple of occasions Nilu`s elder brothers met with similar fate when they were caught stealing coins from shrine room or forged Batulbabu`s signature to smuggle shampoo from Ganesh`s grocery. Khokan tittered because he caught the sarcastic remark immediately while it took me some time to register. Breaking a leg for stealing a pocketful of jamun was unacceptable to me. But what was strange, given the brotherly truce we all vowed on oath, no one went thieving alone. How come Nilu, the scrawniest among us, who generally was trusted with ordinary ground duties whenever we stormed any fruit-laden tree, dare to climb up the jamun tree alone? Especially when jamun wasn’t his favourite fruit and the tree stood inside Mr Sarkar`s compound.

The story unfolded after three months when the plaster cylinder was removed and Nilu saw his crooked leg for the first time in three months. All of us went together in the afternoon to Nilu`s house, as if it were an occasion to celebrate. But we got the bad news before we had actually met him. The fifth one of Batulbabu`s offspring’s, whose nick name was Kalu, informed us that three months of plaster was a failure.

Nilu`s fracture didn’t heal and all those ropes and pulleys had failed miserably. Dr Samanta of the railway hospital blamed God for the botched treatment. He argued that somehow the pulleys or the ropes couldn’t maintain the broken ends together despite putting right amount of traction and counter traction. He couldn’t rule out sabotage as well, because he often saw the hands of his adversary`s invisible hand spoiling his good work.

Dr Samanta said that non-union of fracture of tibia was a serious thing and beyond his expertise. He suggested Batulbabu to take Nilu either to Howrah Orthopaedic Hospital near Calcutta, for which he would write a legitimate refer letter or to Dr Mukhopadhyay of Patna, who was regarded as the best orthopaedic surgeon of eastern India at his own cost.

 It was during this poignant moment Nilu revealed his actual reason of climbing the jamun tree. We were flabbergasted when he said it wasn’t for jamuns why he climbed the tree. He told us that the tree offered a clear view of the bed room of the Sarkars. For those who didn’t know who the Sarkar`s were, I could only mention here that they got married recently. But I didn’t know Nilu had bedroom eyes.

“Could you see anything?” Gautam asked.
We huddled around him so that the revelation couldn’t be heard by invisible informers who might spill the beans to our parents and rest of us also end up here in the same fracture ward. Nilu raised his head to look above our shoulders if anybody was eavesdropping. Having satisfied that there was none except the nurse in her cubicle busy filling up some register he fell back on his pillow.

 “It was going to start.” Nilu said narrowing his eyes. All of us came closer. I could make out all of us were breathing audibly. After all, watching live action was different from watching morphed photographs or reading books printed on cheap papers that were smuggled from Calcutta.

“But I lost my grip just at that time. I was perhaps too engrossed to adjust the angle to look at the scene and didn’t notice that I had shifted onto a narrow branch that was going to snap under my weight.”
“Bull shit!” Khokan exclaimed.
 “Kalidas.” Gautam said.
“What happened after that? Did you fell down?” I asked.
 “I slipped and fell about a foot down but during the fall, I luckily caught hold of another branch further down and then was hanging like a monkey.” Nilu said. “The commotion of snapping of the branch and the aborted fall made Mr Sarkar to come out and investigate. When he saw me dangling by a branch he shouted at me. He thought I had climbed the tree to pluck the jamuns. He said he would complain to my father.” Nilu chortled as if to praise his good luck that his real intention wasn’t recognised and he escaped harsher punishment.

 “‘Come down, come down ‘Mr Sarkar shouted, but I was nervous and didn’t know what to do. Mr Sarkar went inside and came out with a stick. I knew if he could lay his hands on me he wouldn’t let me go in one piece.”
 “But you didn’t steal a single jamun!”
 “Stupid! He wasn’t angry for the jamuns but for disturbing him when he hated to be disturbed.” Nilu said. We all laughed out loud.
 Nilu`s mother said, “You shouldn’t laugh so loudly in the twilight; otherwise the evil jinn will possess you!” She smirked at us while passing across the room where Nilu was lying. Gautam told that we were already possessed by the evil jinn but Nilu`s mother couldn’t catch his words. We laughed out loud again.

 Next week we went to see Nilu off at the rail station. We watched Batulbabu talking to one railway stuff probably a TTE (Train Ticket Examiner; the person who examines ticket, if you are still curious!) wearing a black coat over his white shirt and trousers; his brows knitted, assuming a grave look in addition to his perpetual grimacing face.
We asked Nilu, “Where are you going? Howrah?”
Nilu pouted his lower lip sitting on a wheel chair. Dr Samanta was quick to put another plaster cast on his crooked leg. I bent down to watch the new pristine white cylinder around his leg. I was itching to write some parting message, maybe something euphemistic that would remind him about the jamun tree, but I had no device to write on. Besides, Batulbabu was eying us from time to time trying to assess what transpired among us.

“What will happen to your final examination? Gautam said. Then I recalled that final examination was knocking at the door.

Durga puja would start in October and when the festive month would end with Diwali and Bhaiphonta in November, hardly two weeks would be left for the examination. Every year same thing happened; and every year sitting in the hall I bit the lid of the fountain pen regretting the time I wasted in the football field. The recently acquired vice of reading porn books in the lavatory took away lot of time also. I knew at this rate I would definitely fuck up my board result. But right now it was Nilu who was facing life and death problem.

“I don`t know.” Nilu said. “You can submit sick certificate if you miss the examination. In case you come back on time, you can write the examination from hospital bed and then there are more chances that you will pass.”
 “How?"
 “You can hide the book beneath your bedroll and cheat when nobody was around.”
 “Headmaster will send a guard, don`t worry. It`s not that easy.”
We were engrossed in our discussion and I was trying to be helpful when we heard a whistle from afar. The train that still ran in meter gauge came to a halt to the station.

We hoisted Nilu on our shoulders as he hopped in one leg somehow to board the train. Batulbabu smiled one of his rare smiles that lasted for one tenth of a second and I watched in awe the grimace disappearing from his face momentarily. Seated by a window Nilu looked sad for the first time. I saw tears in his eyes or it were mine, I wasn’t sure! For it caught the million sparks of light like a rainbow while the setting sun turned the sky crimson. The train took the speed slowly, the guard’s bogey leaving us mourning for our friend, the engine sending out another whistle before disappearing on the curve.

 Batul babu came back after two weeks.

I met Malu, the third brother I guess, who was two year`s senior in the bazaar following his father with one tote bag in each hand. Batulbabu was walking past the Promod`s cycle repair shop, New Ghosh Diary, Ganesh`s grocery and other shops up along the inclined dart tract that had the coal depot at the end. If you are little confused, then I must tell you this was mid seventies and most of the households of our little town still cooked their meal on coal stoves. I walked fast to catch Malu from behind and whispered, “When did Nilu come back home?”
Malu frowned at me as if I was an untouchable.
“I am Amit” I said. “Nilu and I study in the same class.” I added.
“Nilu hasn’t come.” He said sombre-faced. “He got his leg operated. They haven’t released him yet.” I wanted to ask him when he would come back home, but by then Batulbabu heard us and looked over his shoulder. I noticed his habitually grimaced face became sterner as if I were responsible for all the misfortune that befell upon Nilu and his family. Before he used his Mahendra Dutt umbrella as a fly-swat to get rid of me, I fled.

But Nilu didn’t come next month also. Then Mahalaya came and on the dawn of Mahalaya when three of us were sitting on the culvert squatting like monkeys, Khokan said, “does anybody know what happened to Nilu?”
I said what Malu told me, “Nilu underwent surgery and still in the hospital.”
“Who knows what happened this time?” Gautam said
 “I will find out from Kalu, the youngest one.” Khokan said.
I suddenly felt nostalgic about Nilu. For some unknown reason I began believing that Nilu didn’t survive his surgery. There was no reason to think like that, but his absence for months together from our life made me feel he wasn’t anymore in this world. I often thought like that without any apparent indication. Many a time I saw myself dead, getting lowered to a grave in a coffin made of chestnut wood, shinning with wreathes of daffodils and roses as if I were a Christian. Whenever I told it to my mother next morning she came up with glass of green liquid, freshly made bitter-guard juice that she believed would cure my indigestion and blasphemous dreams together because she believed former was the cause of the later.

“Do people die during fracture operation? I asked.
 “Haven’t heard any!” Gautam said.
“Hey! Why are you asking this? Khokan asked.
 “What makes you think our Nilu died during operation?”
 “I don`t know why the thought came to me! “ I said.

A weird dream

I saw him yesterday. A portly man in majestic regalia with a fitting crown on his head.  He was pacing up and down in my bedroom. Swinging the magic wand in the air to frighten me in the middle of my slumber, he nudged me with its tip. I got up frightened, my mouth dry, and tongue sticky. While I rubbed the sleep off my eyes to focus clearly, blurred by hours of inactivity, he waited and then sat on my wooden recliner. He allowed me to gather myself and when I was ready to ask him who he was, he said, ‘I am YD, Yama Doot, the messenger sent by His Highness Yama, the king of hell.’

I looked around. I was not at the door of hell where this person was supposed to be manning the gate. I am in my bedroom, lying in my own bed beside my wife like other days. The dark room is not so dark any more, gently lit by the aureole of luminous silhouette  making me believe he isn’t a mortal like me. But why is he here? In my room? Are my days over?

I ask myself before posing my query to him. He seems to read my mind.

‘Yes, you are right. Your time is over. Now let`s set out for the long march.’ He sighs, muttering under his breath.

‘But who has decided about it? ‘I scream in disbelief.

‘Hopefully you know about Chitra Gupta, our data entry operator. He has checked twice before handing me over the chit. You can check for yourself. It has your name, address, occupation, phone number, driving licence and even the latest Aadhar card.’ He offers me the piece of paper for scrutiny. I rush through it. All information is up to date. Indeed this is for me.

‘This Chitra Gupta fellow is amazing, I tell you! He never makes mistake!’ Mr YD, as he likes to call himself, explains to me.

‘But who has authorised him? There is no signature or seal!’

‘This is a computer generated document, doesn't need any signature. You aren't au courant about computers, I guess. Of course it`s been done with full knowledge of the king of the hell himself.’ He assures me.

‘Is that final? Don`t I have a chance to appeal?’ I ask him frantically .

‘Of course you have, but that comes with a rider.’ YD smiles as though this is the commonest plea he listens from his victims like me.

‘What`s the rider?’ I ask.

‘If you defer your long march by a year, you suffer more severe punishment for the same period.’

‘Do I have to suffer punishment?’ I ask him astonished.

‘Of course! Do you remember how many times you lied, cheated how many people, cast your dirty glances on how many women? The list is endless, but wait. If you aren't yet convinced, CG will be able to give you a print-out of the full list.’

‘CG?’ I look at him confused.

‘Chitra Gupta! At Hell, we call ourselves in abbreviated names. Who has time for long names? And it`s the “it” thing nowadays. Have you heard about Tamils? They keep long names, but ask them their name; they will tell you the abbreviated truncated one. Even the Yankees do the same. Los Angeles becomes LA, New York becomes NY. So I am YD. Our Highness YR – Yama Raj.’

Though I am facing the worst crisis of my life, I appreciate the humour of YD. The chap, err... the spectre, has good knowledge of racial and regional variation in naming. But then he must be distributing millions of such coupons daily.

But the saddest part is I am not ready to kick the bucket  right now. I need few more years of my dear life on this earth. I haven’t settled anything. At least five EMI are due for the loan I had taken for my flat. Then there are electricity bills, corporation tax, and renewal of my driving licence next month – plethora of things to sort out by  next month. In a word – I have no time to die now. YD, as usual read my mind before me.

‘Come on Mr Roy! This kind of things happens with everybody. I don`t announce my arrival beforehand. That`s the beauty of death. All your worries end with you.’

‘But what`ll happen to my wife, son and daughters? At least I have to inform my wife that I am leaving for good!’

‘Oh Mr. Roy! You speak like an empty-headed moron. You aren't going out for a long office trip. You are going to bite the dust.’ YD gets irritated.

‘Allow me some more time please!’ I beseech.

‘Some more time is vague. You must tell me exactly how much time you want. But always remember the rider – an equal amount of time you suffer harsher punishment.’

Having assured of some kind of consideration, I feel the immediate danger is over, though it looms as a veritable Damocles` sword. But how much time? To think about it I become blank. I visualise my family, relatives, half-done works and my dreams.

The dreams for the future of my son and daughter, about our own things, the trip I have planned in next summer to idyllic islands of Greece. In a hurry I can`t concentrate properly. But YD is staring at me with his popped out eyes for an answer. If I settle for less by mistake none can change it. I shut my eyes tight, try to focus hard, think about my son`s job, my daughter`s marriage, and calculate mentally the return of my FD, PPF and major stocks. YD squints his eyes when I run the tip of my counting finger and smirks at my weird tic. I curse him for breathing on my neck while I am at a loss to decide what will be the safe bet.

‘I can`t wait until the cows come home Mr. Roy. I have other fish to fry. It`s time to cut the bait.’ He says like a bear with a sore head.

I don`t want to rub him up the wrong way for long lest he cancels my plea. So hurriedly I come to a conclusion to ask for ten years more.

‘Ten years! Are you off your nuts?’

‘That`s what I need to settle things YD sir!’ I plead suppliantly.

‘Are you aware of what you are asking for?’

‘Only ten more years Sir! I am fifty now, ten more years will see me through.’

‘In that case you start from level four.’ He grimaces as if he has taken a swig of bitter gourd juice by mistake.

But for me, not conversant with levels he is talking about I get the wrong end of the stick.  YD corrects me immediately.

‘Level four is the worst place even in the hell. You share your bed with whore-mongers and lepers.’

I shudder at the prospect of getting such horrible bed-partners. But then this is not in this life, not when I am alive. Who cares what happens to me after I kick the bucket. I nod slowly, but the unknown devil scares me a bit.

‘Then I take ten years as your final decision Mr. Roy?’ YD frowns contemptuously.

‘Yes, you can say it again!’ I say hurriedly before he flies off the handle.

He scribbles down on the chit, guffaws like a bear and leaves my room.

Once he is gone I take a deep breath as if I have come back from the brink of death. The room is dark again; I tap the side-key of my mobile. It`s three o`clock, in another hour and a half the alarm will go off – my usual time to get up from bed. I watch my wife sleeping like a log – blissfully, not aware of the midnight drama. But YD spoke quite loudly, how come she didn't get up! Did all of it happen in my dream? 

The Blind Lady`s Descendants

The Blind Lady`s Descendants

Anees Salim`s book, “The Blind Lady`s Descendants” won the Raymond Crossword award in 2014 in fiction category. One of the three judges said this one wasn`t included even in the long list of ninety books that they were initially provided. It`s because of Anjum Hasan, one of the three judges, that Salim`s book got listed at the last moment and finally made it to the top spot.

When I began to read the book in my kindle after discovering the above mentioned incident, I was curious to know what was it that made Anjum Hasan to include it. A few paragraph down, I knew why.

Written like an autobiographical style, it`s the story of Amar, a young Muslim boy who turned atheist when he turned thirteen. The reason why he became an atheist is one the funniest anecdote of the story which spans about two decades. The writer never mentions the geographical location of the little town, but from the descriptions it seems to be somewhere in coastal provinces of Kerala or Karnataka. A derelict bungalow with lots of trees around in the front yard, a century old railway tunnel made by British, four siblings, their grumpy father who had stopped talking to his wife for some sixteen years set the mood of a funny, dark as well as gripping tale that will not let you keep it closed until finished.

Having grown up in similar small town, a railway township of eastern India, I found a queer similarity of Amar`s story with my own; and maybe this was the reason why I loved it so much.

The blind lady in question is Amar`s maternal grandmother, who ultimately gets killed by her own daughter Asma, the mother of the four children. Hamsa, the father of the four children, is one archetypal male, perpetually disgruntled for being a loser he was all along his life, who secretly married another woman at Malabar where he allegedly went to buy spices. We know in the end those were his routine visits to his second wife in guise of work.

Sophiya, the third child dies in a boat mishap and Akmal, the second one disappears following his transition from a religious boy to radical terrorist. Jasira, the eldest, gets married to a local professor while Amar, who is the alter ego of Javi, his maternal uncle who killed himself at a young age remains till the end to tell us the story.

Nothing extraordinary happens, but all the small incidents that a common man experiences are there in the book in vivid colours. I liked the way he writes and before this one finished, I got another Anees Salim book downloaded. But that`s for another occasion.

Debashis Deb