My Brother

My Brother

Tapas was born fifteen years later. I grew up almost alone but on the year I wrote my board, he, suddenly announced his arrival. I thought his birth was mistimed as neither my parents were ready for another child and nor did I need a kid brother at fifteen to give me company. Nevertheless, he arrived, unwanted, unwelcome.

Just after birth, he looked like a shrivelled baby monkey with big ears sprouting out of his puny head with eyes that had oblique slant. He didn't cry for a long time after birth that made everybody wonder if he was really breathing, and when he did, he didn't sound like other babies. Like an abandoned fledgling of shalik, he squeaked till a nurse held a piece of moistened cotton to his lips.  Later, when my mother came home with Tapas, I was relocated to my study room finally to make way for him. I wasn't angry, neither was I jealous. The tiny baby, who hardly cried and rarely threw its limbs, seemed too gentle to me. Nevertheless, he grew up slowly, never reaching the adulthood, both mentally and physically. We knew he was like a blighted seed; his DNA missing its sequence in the long haul of meiosis and that he would remain so for the rest of his life.

I grew up, finished my studies and joined a job while Tapas still learnt the alphabets and the nursery rhymes.

One day about a week before my marriage, mother called me in her room.

“You might find this a little disturbing, but I feel I must tell you this.” She said in a sombre voice.

“What`s it ma?”

“So far we three have been good and caring to Tapas. Now a fourth person is going to come and she might not be as considerate as us. It`s your duty to take care of your brother. Don`t let him feel that he is a burden to you.” She said and began to sob.

I didn't know what to do. Neither could I imagine what was going on in her mind on that particular day. Tapas was fifteen year old then, but he still played with my old stuffed toys and rhyme books.

“Don`t worry ma, I`ll take care of him.” I said.

Since then, Tapas remained as a fully authorised member with a fixed chair allocated to him at the dining table. My father passed away at seventy and my mother followed him a couple of years later. On both occasions, Tapas accompanied me to the crematorium, performed all the rites but in the days that followed, I found him aloof and hiding in the bedroom that he shared with mother in her last days. Finally he stopped coming out of the bedroom even and remained holed up under the bed. I tried to talk to him, cheer him up, but he gave me a frightened look of a mouse caught in a mousetrap.

Next week we had to shift him to hospital.

The doctors said he had fever, a chest infection perhaps, and there was no reason to worry. But I had my doubts for his eyes that were always cheerful, appeared blank and glazed. Despite all those strong antibiotics, he didn't improve and we were called on one evening to take a decision.

“I am afraid, your brother hasn't responded to anything we have done so far. His blood pressure is falling, urine output is decreasing. We are giving him oxygen by mask, but soon he will need assisted ventilation. He won`t be able to sustain himself.”  The attending doctor said.

“What do you want me do doctor?” I said.

“Unless you tell us specifically that you don`t want your brother to be put into breathing machine, we will put him into ventilator if required and keep all our resuscitative measures on.”

“Is there any chance of recovery?” I asked.

“See, it`s difficult to predict death.” He said.

I looked at my brother. His tiny body was hidden under the green bed sheet; only his head was visible, his face under a transparent cone, pumping oxygen to his stiffened lungs. I went close to his bed and put my hand over his bald head. He opened his eyes. I heard him say, sign up brother, it`s time to go.

I got the final call in the morning. The doctor said he passed away at four am. I could take my time and reach hospital after eight.

Chronicles of a small town. Chapter five. Notes

On the first day of our new class, our class teacher while calling out the names of the boys stumbled at the first name. From that year the school had begun affixing student`s roll numbers according to his or her position in the merit list. Jahar sir, who taught us Mathematics, frowned deeply looking at the name written against roll number one. He always wore his glasses at the farthest point on the nose, and had the habit of peering above them when he had any reason to focus. Now, finding an unusual name at the top, he sucked his teeth then pouted his lips twice, contemplating to strike it off thinking it was a wrong entry or a bad joke the clerk played upon him. Then he looked up, swiped his gaze around in an attempt to identify the boy if he really existed, who had the audacity to ascend to the top displacing his favourite. Unable to recognise the face, he yelled, “Amit Roy!”

I stood up.

“Oh, you are Amit. Bah! Very good!” He said. But from his face, and also the subtle sarcasm that filtered out of his praise, I got the message that he wasn't happy. I never imagined the teachers could be biased, and they had their own favourites to root for.

“Subham? Where are you?” Jahar sir screamed.

Subham, the eternal first boy of our class stood up.

“What`s the matter Subham? Have you become a little complacent nowadays? Are you taking things too easy? When the time has come to gear up you are faltering?” Jahar sir said.

I saw, along with rest of the class, where it was going. I felt as if I had done something awful to beat Subham, as though only Subham could come first – a position he held since nursery and had the birth right to hold on. Bipul, who was the eternal second boy had kept his position intact, and therefore when Jahar sir came down on the list and found Bipul`s name where it always had been, was little relieved. At least the coup did not shake up the entire class!

He came back to me.

“So Amit Roy, what`s your favourite subject?”

“Bengali.” I said.

The whole class broke into laughter. I knew all of them thought I was acting funny, but the truth was, I wasn`t. I really started loving literature much more than Science and Mathematics, which were scoring subjects no doubt, but in my opinion, hardly allowed the creative minds to flourish. You couldn’t have worked out a problem in a way you liked; there were well-sorted steps already; you need to learn them. I thought Jahar sir might ask me the reason, but he assumed a poker face and threw his tiny head back. When the rumble settled, Jahar sir told us that Bengali was a language spoken by twenty crore Bengalis throughout the world and ranked fifth among all the languages. Our national anthem is also written in Bengali; so there was no reason to be ashamed of one`s choice if he liked the language. But, he added, for a professional career one has to choose Science and Mathematics, as they formed the basis upon which a student builds up his future.

“I don`t want to become an engineer or a doctor.” I said, inviting him into the debate.

“You said you like Bengali and want to go ahead with it. Are you sure?” Jahar sir asked.

“Yes sir.” I reiterated.

“Wonderful! So what do you want to be in your life?”

“A writer.” I said. As I said so I felt the whole class was looking at me including Jahar sir, who now stared at me incredulously, with his mouth gaping and eyes peering over his glass. In a moment however he resumed his composure. Then he sat down in his chair and because it was so low in comparison to the table, only Jahar sir`s head was visible, rest of his torso disappearing. He was stamped at my choice, an unusual aim in life of a boy who lived in a suburban railway town, where meritorious boys always became doctors and engineers while mediocre students joined banks or railways.

Writer? Is it a profession? Do you think you could actually earn your livelihood by writing books in Bengali?
I thought this was what he felt at that moment, though he didn’t say anything. Later, Gautam and Khokan grabbed me during the break when I, with a poetry collection of Jibananda Das, that I borrowed from school library, was sitting below the gulmohor tree, enjoying one of his famous poems.

“Are you seriously contemplating to become a writer man?” Gautam asked.

I looked at him. He had a sneering disbelief in his eyes.

“It`s not easy to become a writer, you understand! I don`t know if I am fortunate enough to pursue what I dream, but in any case unless I get first division in class twelve, no one is going to listen to my plans.” I said.

In my next letter to Banochaya I wrote that I wanted to become a poet and a writer and wanted to know her opinion. She said, she was planning to study Sociology at Presidency College, the most famous college in Calcutta and she flatly remarked that a man needs to earn first to get the household going. She felt, Bengali was an inadequate choice for a man to pursue; it wasn’t necessary to study literature if one wanted to write!

                                       ***************


That year I got a letter from Kaveri, a girl of our neighbourhood, who had the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. I regarded this incident  as one of the milestones in my life, an important point in my journey towards adulthood that was never linear but like saw-toothed edge of a hacksaw.

I was all too busy with my studies and tuition, and writing letters to Banochaya in my free time, who had become a good friend now.

The letter in question came in the disguise of a missile, a stone draped in a piece of paper that fell close to me on the grass when I was manning the goal post in a friendly football match and my all attention was fixed at the penalty area of the opponent where the action was going on. I saw something dropping near me, and then as the missile rolled, the stone and the peel separated with the missive taking a flight in the wind like a paper aeroplane. I sniffed a plot immediately because I heard stories from my classmates who had already hooked girls and all of them vouched about the layered missile to be the most versatile and faithful weapon in the beginning of the love-war.

It said nothing but quoted a time on a particular date at a particular place. The letter didn't have name of the sender, and immediately I appreciated the wisdom of the letter writer. The cryptic nature of the message was thrilling and for once I felt good that a girl had expressed to see me. I looked around. There were six houses nearby from where this could be flung, but which one? I knew all the families and like a student of mathematics I began my exclusion one by one.

In between the ball came flying twice to me, somebody trying to stun me from a distance by taking a blasting left footer, but my reflexes were too good for him. I gathered the ball easily and yelled at my stoppers to be more careful because I had, by then, reduced the number of probables into two and wanted few more minutes to deduce the most probable.

However till the match continued I couldn't identify a spoor that could lead me to the window from where the missile was hurled. Back home, I took a shower and changed to a tee shirt and trouser and came out whistling. Mother noticed me going out in an unusual time and became suspicious.

“Where are you going now?” She asked.

“To get my Social Studies notes from Gautam.”

“Are they your notes? “

“Yes.”

“When did you give him?”

“Yesterday, in the school.”

“Why can’t he return himself?”

“How does it matter ma? It won`t take much time.”

“Okay.” She cooled down for some reason and before going to the shrine room warned me to come back early. I knew she would remain occupied with her deities for one hour at least. I counted one day; she had eight Gods in total. Kali, Laxmi, Ganesh, Hanuman, Shiva ( a ivory lingam actually), Kamakhya, Ramkrisna- Sarada ma, Krishna- Balaram- Subhadra ( I count them as one because they are in one photo frame); all of them in the form of miniature idols and photo frames occupied the wooden throne in a dank small room labelled as shrine room, that had more cockroaches than anything.

I watched the time in the wall clock hung in our drawing room and walked fast to reach the designated spot on time. It was a narrow road, one takes as a short cut while coming home back from railway institute. A small pan-beedi shop on a raised platform of four bamboo poles lit by a kerosene lamp stood below a lamp post. The street lights had already come; however, half of them didn't have bulbs, so the road was quite dark – blessing in disguise I thought. I didn't know for whom I was waiting; all I knew she was a girl who was in a generous mood for friendship. I stood below the street light for a minute and saw the shopkeeper was watching me in suspicious eyes as if I was planning to throw a stone to blow up the bulb. I had stopped doing this kind of naughty things nowadays, but before a year or two, when four of us were together and there wasn't anybody watching us, we often hurled stones at the tiny bulbs of the street lights just to find out whose throw was most accurate.

I bought a packet of chewing gum from the pan-beedi shop thinking that the suspecting shopkeeper would now stop minding my movements and exclude me from the clan of boys known for shenanigans. Besides I`d have something to munch on to kill time till my lady love appeared. So, I gave him a reassuring look, a kind smile and peeled the chewing gum packet and began munching.

Then I saw silhouette of two girls approaching me, and as they came close, I knew who they were.

It was Kaveri and her friend whose face was familiar, but I didn't know her name. Kaveri was two years junior and she went to the same school as I. Both of them were talking and when they approached near, glanced at me beckoning with a half-gesture to follow them. I understood, there was somebody in the vicinity and it wasn't safe for us to talk. Therefore, I should just follow them till we had reached safe waters.

After awhile, when he entered a relatively deserted stretch, Kaveri said, “You topped in class?”

I nodded my head. I could make out she was watching me from the corner of her eyes.

“What did you do with your notes?” she asked.

Oh, heck! she was after my notes! I thought. Something told me, caution man! Be careful!

“What notes are you talking about?” I asked.

“Didn't you prepare notes before the exam? “She asked.

Of course I had made notes, especially for Science, Social studies and Maths. My sister, who would be writing her school final after two years, was the legitimate heir of my labour. But here was a situation where there was a conflict of interests. I decided instantly that I wouldn't commit my notes to her just like that; she would have to prove her superiority over the natural inheritor.

“I believe in reading the books thoroughly. And that`s what I did.” I said.

“You mean, you read only the text books?” Now she turned towards me. I saw her kohl-lined eyes. I felt she was the first woman who was looking into my eyes, the gaze reaching the bottom of my heart, a depth from where no one was allowed to come back, and I, getting transfixed by the surreal magic was losing out in my stand.

She picked up the cue instantly and smiled. The smile was an admission of what had transpired between us in last ten seconds and the combination of the smile and the gaze was a lethal one for a fifteen year old to survive. I didn't remember what I said to her but I was excited and felt pity upon everybody else I met on the road because it was I who was the fortunate one.

Chronicles of a small town. Chapter Four. Pen friend.

After Diwali, Nilu returned, but he was taken straight to the hospital from the rail station. We heard the bad news: the surgery failed to fix his broken bone and the surgeons at Howrah orthopaedic hospital had to operate him again after two months. On the second occasion, they used some bone chips from his waist to bolster the patch-up so that the errant bone, which so long was playing truant, could finally be put back together. Apparently, it was due to the primitive and obsolete technique adopted by Dr Samanta on the first occasion that had botched NIlu`s chances big time. Nilu whispered the story to my ear for fear of retribution because now he was transferred to Dr Samanta`s care again, albeit with fresh list of instructions from orthopaedic surgeons of Howrah.

I found he looked paler and thinner than before, and a faint blue line had appeared above his upper lip, like rest of us. I went to the hospital alone, sneaking in just on time, few minutes before the visiting hour was over. I met Nilu`s full family on the hallway, Batulbabu in the lead followed by his wife and five boys like the gander being followed by the geese and the ducklings, but quickly skirted the main corridor and climbed up a narrow staircase. A blue-uniformed attendant, who was walking past ringing the hand-held bell to announce the end of visiting hour, tried to shoo me away; but the podgy nurse, recognizing my face, allowed me for a while. Almost half a year in exile had cost him one academic year, and when I told him that we were going to write the final exam in December, he chuckled sadly. When I asked him to take leave, he told he had something interesting to share.

“What`s that?” I asked.

Nilu took out a bundle of blue envelops, one end open, that seemed to have been read quite a number of times judging the grease and finger marks.

“Read this” He took a letter carefully out of its envelop.

“Whose letter is this?” I asked.

“My pen friend.” Nilu said. His eyes lit up in bright sparkles.

I never heard about pen friends, I didn’t know how they were made, so I looked at his face like a half-wit expecting him to elaborate. Nilu laughed a knowing laugh as if six months of exile in Calcutta, though it was only in a hospital, had made him smarter than rest of us, who by default stayed back.

“Pen friend is somebody who writes letters to you whom you write back.” He said.

“But what will you write to somebody you don’t even know?” I asked.

“You get to know your pen friend slowly through the letters and that`s where the charm lies.” Nilu said.

I didn’t find the whole concept much interesting, but because I didn’t want to hurt his sentiments, more so because he had been bed-bound for half a year, I agreed to read the letter. But one paragraph down, I became glued to it and read it in bated breath fast like a fascinated lover as if this was a love letter, for the sheer joy of reading well written prose. I felt goose bumps while I was reading and began to like her instantly. Suddenly I recognised if I ever had a girl friend she should be capable of writing like her though I didn’t know how she looked like. But I saw her in my mind’s eye; a dainty thirteen year old, who wore her hair in two thick braids. I came to know from her letter that her name was Banochaya Sen, and she lived in 6, Sadananda Road in Calcutta.

Not only she wrote well but her handwriting was also beautiful, matured enough so as to pass easily as that of a post graduate student, but what set her apart was her use of simile and metaphors. She had an enviable knowledge of both English and Bengali literature. I had read few Bengali classics but her repertoire at such a young age was unbelievable.

She wrote Nilu`s plight reminded her about Jem Finch, the elder brother of Scout Finch, also a thirteen year old, who had broken his left elbow in a book called ‘To Kill a Mocking bird’ written by one American writer Harper lee, who had written only one book in her life. I hadn’t read English novels, though I could name some of them because my father was fond of reading Bengali translations of English crime thrillers and borrowed them from railway institute library. Authors like James Hadley Chase, Arthur Halley, Agatha Christie, and Sidney Sheldon, all translated and hard bound in boring maroon covers featured on our dining table. Nilu`s pen friend was in class nine like us and she went to a school called Loreto Convent, a Christian missionary school in Calcutta, unlike ours, where the medium of teaching was English.

When I returned the letter to him, Nilu said,” Impressed?”

“Yes. She writes very well.” I said. With my limited knowledge of literature, I could make out the girl was well read and was few notches above us.

“Where did you find her address?” I asked.

“I got it from newspaper.” Nilu said.

I didn’t know what to say except praising his luck to have such an intelligent pen friend, but he said he wanted to dump her. I was shocked.

“Why? She writes so beautifully!” I said. But soon realised perhaps Nilu was suffering from inferiority complex for he knew he would have to repeat class nine. Or maybe there were some other reason he didn’t want to divulge.

“Have you seen how she addresses me?” Nilu said.

I missed out the opening lines for the excitement of discovering a thirteen year old girl`s writing brilliance, but when Nilu pointed it out I noticed it. She had addressed Nilu as Nila, a female name.

“She doesn`t know that I am a boy!” Nilu said.

“How is that possible? “ I was surprised.

“I enrolled myself as a girl. I am Nila to her.” Nilu smiled mischievously.

“Why?” I almost shouted.

“Because the rules say only girls can write to girls.”

“Oh, you wanted to befriend a girl and know her secrets?” I burst out laughing.

Nilu assumed a funny face for I caught him red-handed. Then he turned sombre, “Not really. I wanted somebody to share my pain. I wanted someone whom I could tell what was going on with me, how I was suffering!” Nilu`s face looked suffused, “There was none in that hospital who knew me – no friends, no acquaintances. I lay on the bed all through the day with plaster on; hardly anybody spoke to me. I was so depressed! The day somehow passed but the night seemed never-ending because I couldn’t sleep a wink. I took to reading books, magazines and whatever I could lay my hand on to. I read the newspaper every day, each word of it until I was tired. One day I noticed a small advertisement given out by a Pen-friend club inviting interested people to become member. So I wrote to them and became a member. They gave me a list of names and addresses and advised boys to write to boys and girls to girls. I don`t know what struck me, maybe I liked the name ‘Banochaya’ and decided to write to her. I could only write her as a girl. So I took my pen-name of Nila.” Nilu paused. “Once I thought of telling her that I was a boy, not a girl. But she was the only friend I had. I couldn’t afford to lose her. I had a feeling that she might stop writing if I told her the truth. So I carried on.” Nilu said.

Oh, God! I thought. I never thought that way. It never occurred to me to consider Nilu`s plight, his frustrations. Seating across him while he lay half-reclining on the bed I put myself in Nilu`s position. What I would have done if I were to face a similar situation? Apart from opening my bleeding heart to a girl for sympathy? Nilu did the same, but he hid his identity. He had to, because the rules said so. I felt bad for him, the poor boy! It must have been terrible to be in a hospital, unable to move about, asking the ayahs and chowkidars all the time to give you pots to pee and shit.

Nilu said Banochaya was a sympathetic listener. On her subsequent letters she wrote about her worries, about her own world, about authors whose name sounded Greek to Nilu and at one point Nilu felt he wasn’t able to keep pace with her. His initial curiosity was gone and he was convinced she would remain a pen friend only. But now Nilu was convalescing; the doctors said in few months Nilu would be able to walk. With the promise of return to his normal life he didn’t require a friend who existed in letters, he wanted his real friends back. Besides, he was tired of his fake identity.

“I had enough.” Nilu said. “If I continue further I might get caught. After all how long you can fake yourself? This girl is too intelligent; I am no match to her. I want you to take over from me?” Nilu said. I felt proud of myself for being judged intellectually superior by my own friend.

“You want me to pose as a girl?” I asked.

“Depends. “ Nilu said.

I suspected Nilu to cook something weirdo again. The boy had a head-full of loony ideas!

“You can tell her that you are my elder brother, or a senior from school if you don`t want to pass for a girl.”

“But what reason should I put forward for writing to her suddenly? You said, only girls can write to girls; in that case I`ll be breaking the rule. What guarantee is there that she won’t stop writing for good?” I said.

“See, in any case I am not going to write to her. If you are interested you can take it from here. You can try. If it works fine, if it doesn’t, let her go to hell!” Nilu seemed peeved about his little genius pen friend. I understood the once sweet relationship now had lost its meaning for Nilu, but I was baffled how to introduce myself in Nilu`s place as a boy.

“Kill me in a road accident.” He said, “Tell her I met an accident, a speeding truck crushed me and I died instantly, or some other kind of drama, in your first letter and introduce yourself. I can guarantee she will reply.”

I was dumbfounded. The little rascal seemed no less a creative genius than his pen friend to me.

“Whoa! What an idea!” I said, happy to see my job now was just a cake walk.

“Now, write a nice little letter, kind of condolence, telling her that after my death, you found out this treasure of mine and felt it was your mighty good duty to inform her about the heartbreaking news and so on etcetera.” Nilu bundled up all the letters and dumped them on my hand.

I watched the bunch of letters curiously wanting to read them immediately but didn’t show my eagerness to Nilu as if I were not so interested in this pen friend business, but only not to upset him, I was accepting this offer.

“You have to update your literary knowledge frequently. The girl reads a lot.” Nilu finally warned.



On my way home, holding the bundle carefully, so that I don`t drop any loose sheet, I felt like a hero who had returned home victorious. I almost wrote the introductory letter in my head but discarded few lines which sounded too sappy.

Later when I reached home, I climbed up roof and in the shadow of the gable read the letters. I read all of them, ten in total, twice over and knew few things that stupid Nilu didn’t tell me.

In one letter, which must be in reply to one of Nilu`s, she wrote she wouldn’t marry ever because she felt she was incomplete. It seemed a mystery to me; I wasn’t sure what that word ‘incomplete’ meant, but she didn’t write anything about it, leaving the reader to guess, the inner meaning of her cryptic statement.

She wrote if there was any character in any novel she wished to resemble, then she would like to be lady Chatterley of DH Lawrence`s ‘Lady Chatterley’s lover’. I hadn’t read the book, but wondered how it was possible to become Mrs Chatterley without getting married to one Mr Chatterley, but later, when the writing bug had bitten me and I devoured all the books that DH Lawrence wrote, understood what was going on in her mind when she wrote that.

Random Ramblings: One. Ilish

This post is only for connoisseurs of fish, sorry vegans! Since last week, when finally monsoon descended into our parched city, the ilish of Bay of Bengal began swimming upstream to the Ganges, allegedly to lay eggs in its sweet waters. No, I am no marine biologist; this is just widely held view about behaviour of ilish, which Bongs have been devouring since ages. Bengali cuisine is incomplete without at least one item of ilish from its numerous delicacies, made famous by each district of undivided Bengal.

But, have you ever seen a live ilish? Hardly can you find out a fish eater who has seen an ilish fish gasping in a drum of water like koi, magur or even rui. It is such a sensitive fish, and dies soon it is taken out of water. All attempts to grow it in ponds failed for its habit of living in estuaries where fresh and brackish water mix to produce the unique aquatic environment for them; I was told by one old fish monger long back. And this was perhaps the reason why the quintessential Bengali angler never experienced the joy of catching an ilish with a fishing rod.

I have never went fishing, my experience of fishing was limited to watching my pishemoshai ( auntie’s husband) armed with his half a dozen fishing rods moored on the bank of a large pond, opposite to the railway stadium.

One day, while watching the bait bobbing in the placid waters, I got a shock of my life when the wheel of a fishing rod suddenly zapped and began to whir. I saw in horror, the spool of the fishing rod spinning at a tremendous speed, the nylon string unwinding out rapidly, the rod shuddering from the tug as if it were going to disappear into the water. It seemed the bait was swallowed by a watery monster that was trying to set itself free. It would have disappeared deep into the waters unless pishemoshai had secured the other end against a pole driven into the earth. Both of us, languid following Sunday lunch, stirred back to life and jumped over to catch hold of the vanishing rod, and for some time it was a tug of war between a giant katla fish and two human beings.

Finally, after swimming all around the pond, the fish became tired and decided to surrender. Pishemoshai, thrilled to have caught one of the prized catch, closed in, rewinding the line, and I had a glimpse of the giant fish, its silvery fins now catching light as it came almost to the surface. But, at the final moment, the fish leaped away back into the water, disengaging the bait, which was a puzzle for me. But, pishemashai, told me it was possible for a giant fish to tear itself away.

Though this was hardly the story of ilish I began, this was my only first-hand experience with a live fish. Every year at the beginning of the season, I often hear the fish mongers at Jodhpur Park market discuss the greatest chance of getting a big catch of ilish is the full moon night during the monsoons. I often visualised myself sailing with a fisherman boarding a small boat in the Ganges, the man throwing his net in the dark, and the moist wind brushing against us, the night whispering its symphony to my ears, too romantic for a fishing expedition. But, one day I met a person who actually went for fishing ilish during the monsoon.

I know this will interest you more than eating the fish; I was also hooked and cancelled few appointments to listen to his story.

It was actually a trawler, fitted with crude engine that sailed from Diamond harbour with three or four people on board. They sailed for days, sometimes weeks even before they came back. The man, Liton Sardar, who had sunburnt face and gnarled limbs said, “For days you don’t see anything but only water all around. And when it rains, with the gusty wind blowing, you see nothing but the grey sky above and expanse of water below touching the horizon all around. It`s scary, even for us.”

“Have you ever been caught in a storm?” I asked.
“Many times.”
“The trawler can capsize if waves are too wild!”
“Yes, it happens during every season.” He muttered something under his breath and then said, “So far we have been lucky. But don`t know what`s written in the future!”
“What do you eat?” I asked, excited about the possibility of surviving on only ilish for a week.
“We carry our food, rice, dal some basic spices.” He said.
“And ilish?”
“You get tired of it.” He said.

That was true, of course. Too much of anything is bad, even the ilish.

Chronicles of a small town. Chapter Three. Spice it Up!

Dashami was an oxymoron. It was the saddest day of the year when the week-long jubilation abruptly came to an end but for young boys it was also the happiest day as on this afternoon their guardians went easy on them, overlooking their wayward gazes or naughty things they indulged in, like smoking cigarettes, chasing weed or gulping down few pegs of rum. That year in September, I turned fourteen and in case you had missed it, I`d like you to take note; fourteen is the watershed year in the life of a boy when he moults out of his baby-skin, and this was so remarkably true for me because that year, I, along with Gautam and Khokan broke into the elite circle of big boys who went to the river bank for the immersion ceremony.

It was an unsaid rule that boys who were granted permission to board the truck that carried the idol of Durga for immersion should have consumed some form of poison on Dashami afternoon. All, except few uncles, who were past their heyday, got stoned by late afternoon, before the lorry came. We had one senior called Bhanuda, who specialised in spiking up cigarettes with marijuana. It was a tedious process of emptying the tobacco and replacing it with crushed marijuana leaves, but Bhanuda did it effortlessly without dropping a smidgen even without looking at it.

That year, when we received the green signal, it was too late. We had a little meeting among ourselves, but it seemed an impossible task to arrange a bottle of booze for us because the booze-shop remained closed on Dashami. What a waste! I thought in my hind sight. I could visualise the long queue in front of the grilled facade of the booze-shop on Dashami afternoon; people hurriedly collecting their poison and the shop surpassing all its past record. How they could be so foolish, I thought.

So, left with no option but to beg, we snooped around the probable hideouts where the older boys were priming themselves for the occasion to take pity on us and share a swig or two, but were shooed away like street dogs. We caught a glimpse of the grand session going on through half closed window like hungry beggars; the old bustards drew long swigs of rum mixed with Campa cola and smoked spiked cigarettes as well. Lastly, feeling lost and looking haggard, we flocked at the music room where Bhanuda sat with his friends smoking roaches. A weird smell filled up the air of the tent and Bhanuda looked fully primed up. Looking at our upset faces he gave us a mysterious smile. Then nodding his head as if he recommended our promotion, he said,

“So, you guys got permission this time?”

“Yes.” I said.

“So, any special preparation from your side for Dashami?



“No, nothing.” We mourned together as if to reinforce our urgent need for some poison.

“Sit down.” He said, “Let me do something for you.”

We looked at each other and having satisfied that we would have something at least, huddled on an empty bench. Bhanuda, in a swift hand, emptied two Charminars and stuffed them with a mixture from his stock.

None of us had begun smoking yet, but having been presented the roach by Bhanuda himself, that was perceived a rare privilege, we took few drags each ignoring the nasty cough it induced as if unless we went high on grass we would be thrown out of the Noah`s ark.

After few puffs, my head began to spin and my friends` faces appeared funny, distorted. I began to laugh; soon Gautam and Khokan joined me. Three of us began laughing like crazy, splitting sides and after a while I forgot why I was laughing in the first place. My jaw remained unclasped in a perpetual laughing posture despite my effort to close it. A weird feeling struck me for a moment, and I realised my muscles were working on their own and there was some serious fault in the nerves connecting the brain to my end organs. I saw Bhanuda watching his new protégés with the satisfying smile like that of the devil watching the peasants being successfully corrupted. He gave us three strips of red cloth to tie on our forehead like bandana, to complete our look of Dashami reveller.

We came out laughing and sat on the ledge of the empty veranda of Uncle Jose.

“Why are two of you laughing?” I asked Gautam.

“I don`t know.” Gautam said in between the bouts of uncontrollable laugh.

I tried to assess Khokan`s level of intoxication. But he closed his eyes and clenched his mouth shut to escape estimation. The veterans watched us amused; one of them advised to stuff ourselves with some sweets. Later, I came to know that sweets made people laugh more.

In the meantime the lorry arrived and we hoisted the earthen idols on the back of the truck. The idols were too heavy to lift, ( I seriously thought about advocating to reduce the size of idols!) and all three of us, zonked and charged, huffed and puffed along with uncles and the labourers to hoist the deities on. I heard somebody commenting about the absence of the young brigade, but I was pretty sure that he was aware of the special preparation going on at different hideouts, forgetting it just at that moment.

Three of us, like possessed, ran around and did everything we were told to do. I heard ramblings of junior boys, pointing at us, jeering something out of jealousy because now we were counted among the privileged. Sitting on the edge of the wooden covers of the truck that were bolted back, I tried to look at the assembled crowd consisting of girls and older women from our neighbourhood with few bystanders and guests visiting their relatives. Most of them were busy showing their last respect to departing mother goddess by touching their joined palms to their forehead in great obeisance; a few made shrill sounds twisting their tongue as the driver revved on the gas.

Soon the truck began roll out of the triangular field, and the young brigade, so long busy in preparation came out of their respective hideouts with red bandana tied across as if it were the trade mark of our neighbourhood. They boarded the moving truck like hopping monkeys one by one.

Somebody worked up a small fire in an earthen incensory with dry coconut husks and threw a handful of frankincense into it. Grey reverent smoke rose, the drummer and his assistant began playing, and the hopped up boys shouted slogan in slurred voice, “glory to the goddess Durga! When again? Next year!” We joined the chorus as well and watched the truck negotiating bends and intersections. Few lucky boys sat on the rooftop of the cabin, the most coveted spot if you ask me, which would take few more years for us to reach, and yelled in unison when the truck passed below a stooping tree. They had a small cross-like weapon made of bamboo that they used to push up low bugs that might snap the crown of the goddess.

After some time, when the truck entered another neighbourhood, closer to our school, made famous by some pretty chicks who lived there, I found a dozen of boys jumped off the truck and formed a dancing vanguard. The music became louder and wilder rising to a crescendo and I watched in surprise that hundreds of people had thronged over on both sides of the road, mostly women, watching the funny theatrics. I tried to spot a familiar face in the crowd, but to my horror, I found everybody had two faces, almost similar, with some blurring of the features. I was sure rest of the boys were no better, given the royal priming they had.

I asked Gautam. He said presently he held his eyes closed for fear of getting knocked off. He said he was feeling hungry.

We crossed the railway hospital, our school, and the RPF barracks comparatively faster because not many spectators were there, but our tableau came to a halt at the railway crossing as the gate was down for some train to pass. We saw a staff sticking his head out of the window of the east cabin watching the signal at a distance. A couple of trucks stopped behind us, as well as some taxis, people craning their neck to have a glimpse of the departing mother goddess.

At the four-point crossing we got off the crawling truck. By now our procession had reached the bazaar. All the shops were closed except the sweet shops and the paan shops. All three sweet shops had extended their counter outdoors, stacking jalebi and amriti on brass plates. We pulled our pocket money and bought two platefuls. While we gorged on hot crisp jalebis, Bhanuda sent us one more spiked cigarette through a messenger.

“Our tableau will wait at the four point intersection for ten minutes. Quickly finish your eating and come back.” The messenger warned us.

When we joined back, a small crowd was dancing to the beats of drum and the drummer himself was cavorting playing his drum slung in his shoulder and his accomplice, a scrawny little boy kept the rhythm beating the brass disc with a wooden gavel and walked by his side. Bhanuda sheepishly asked, “Want to dance?” Though I wasn’t sure what kind of dance was possible when your legs didn’t listen to your commands; for the sake of pleasing the devil, we joined the party.

There were some boys who, while dancing wildly, held a lighted torch in their hand and sprayed a mouthful of some liquid into the flame making the fire rise up in the air that looked scary. It seemed as if we were part of a legion, going to plunder a city that we had held under seize. I smelled of kerosene in the air and wondered what these boys had consumed to shut their mind off from the danger of kerosene poisoning!

Later when we reached the river bank, we saw at least a dozen of lorries had unloaded their idols and the frenzied volunteers were dancing like mad on the soft mud made mucky by throwing water on it. We saw the crowd standing on the bank beyond the cordoned area. There were many search lights strung across make-shift bamboo poles that had twin loudspeakers fastened at the top bellowing police orders. The entire area was lit up like carnival and temporary stalls sold tea, sweets and petty playing items. Police roamed around guiding the trucks to unload at specified spot and once the immersion was done hurried them to go back.

When our turn came all of us got off from the truck and the idol was lowered from the truck to the ground for a final round of aarti. Boys in red bandanas, stoned by an array of intoxicants began dancing to the tune of the drum again.

Three of us decided to climb the roof of the truck`s cabin instead of dancing. By then the effect of marijuana had almost drained away. We were in desperate need of some poison again, but we had nothing. I felt my mind was clear now and I was able to focus without seeing doubles. In the anonymity of dark, for the trucks were parked at the periphery of the lighted area, we were able to scrutinize the spectators, especially the girls who were watching the animated dance moves of the boys. Gautam, sitting cross-legged next to me suddenly whispered something to my ear. I saw he was holding a half-pint bottle of XXX rum that still had one third of its content inside. It was quite possible that the older boys, who had been sitting here and were brandishing the cutlass of Durga in the air, had bought it for the occasion. They must have forgotten about it after gulping down mouthfuls of neat alcohol that had provided them with instant kicks and in all likelihood wouldn’t come back given their ominous dance moves. Only a couple of them was still upright, on their feet, but rest of them, half a dozen at least, lay sprawled on the ground zonked out and dozed off.

Before I could suggest anything, Gautam unscrewed the lid and took a swig. I followed him and soon Khokan followed the suit. The liquid burnt our throat as if we had swallowed some kind of acid, and felt like suffocated. But we had a bottle to finish! At last when the bottle was finished we were too squeamish to climb down. So, we decided not to risk our lives and slept like puppies on the top of the cabin spiced up, spiked up!

When we got up from the slumber, we found the truck had returned to our pandal and the priest was throwing the incanted water to the devotees. I heard somebody calling my name in the crowd when she couldn’t find me. Craning my neck I saw my mother was looking for me. I shoved my sleeping friends to get up and climbed down.

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.