Not so long ago, when I was growing up in Shillong(Meghalaya), Kolkata, WB was heard to be a brobdingnagian city with spread out arms. It had huge Anglican churches, schools, reputed colleges, libraries, pandemic roads one would likely get lost if crowd was in mood to sway you. I remember pleading my dad to handcuff me whenever he took me there. I was petrified of that place.
Nothing much has changed from thereon. Today, it is my hubby who literally handcuffs me as we trod across the lanes of Kolkata (if I am blessed to walk).
Transfer to Kolkata is showing us different layers of life and almost forces on us to see the other side of human face.
This city of joy is for sure joyful in the eyes of many my close friends who have claimed to love it for being the centre of culture, heritage, literature, art, food and have gone all gaga over it. Yes, independently, such claims go unrifled. Ignore all those that happen to your car when your neighbor teaches his kid to scratch on it. Turn a deaf ear to the day long political lectures rattling from the loudspeakers. Narrow lanes are not a problem at all if one enjoys human touches! Forget your vehicle; you’ll come back adorning it with paan stains. The neighborhood shopkeeper refuses to give you the grocery because someday you might have purchased something else from the other one who is affiliated to the opposing party.
Politics, politics and drum full of it is in the air.
Driving 4/5hours away from the state capital: one would instantly understand why Shyam Benegal, Mrinal Sen or any art director’s dream location ends up being Bengal & outskirts of it. Deep forests, palm trees, dirt tracks, oodles of water bodies ( pukur) and spread out fields. Women folks draped in traditionally 9mtrs saris. Picturesque! Handpumps still in use. The wells still on the main road and women folks just out from perfect movie scenes form queues and carry water pots on their hips and heads. Any photographers, movie makers dream place. Aha!
As night falls, one understands and confronts darkness. One wonders if one traveled through a time warp. No electricity, no poles in sight. Electricity supply from generator comes at a premium: a bleak possibility across large tracts of rural Bengal . The sound of vehicle brings out people from their warm hideouts. Sound of night insects, crickets, animals haunts as one stands wondering to find a way out.
Having met a father who fell on my knees howling and cheeks wet, I was astounded for a minute before the movie shot. His son was killed by unidentified men and his body immediately fuelled political machinations. In death a village boy attained martyrdom. The parents denied the last rite.
Sunk in tears, they sat silently at the threshold of their mud house, as the eerie silence gnawed at their very being.
The noise of silence struck from all around. Fear propelled denial of information when one looks for them. The village assumes a dumb look. No one knew them when we didn’t.
As they begin to talk in inaudible voices, from nowhere a crowd gathers. Threatened and curious eyes greet us with looks of a cornered lamb. Wolves lurk behind. We had to move. Move quick before the dark gets darker. And so we did. Speeding out of the dirt track for almost an hour till we reached the pitched road, we carried along the silence of the grave. Uneasiness loomed large. Words in Jangalmahal travel fast… faster than us…
Does it really make a sense to diary this account or for that matter does any news piece make a difference? Somewhere, somehow a little change may follow. Hope can only ring aloud.
