“Haan jethima, amra train e uthe gechhi
(Yes aunty, we have boarded the train)... ki? Haan, haan. Upper, meedil aar
lower. (What? Yes, yes. Upper, middle and lower [berths]),” shouts the
30-something lady over the cellphone within seconds of seating herself on her
seat number 25 in B2.
‘Is this just the beginning of a much
dreaded nightmare?’ I wonder. Oh yes it is – confirms the lady’s next call to
her mother. Well, train journeys are fun in many ways. But trust me, if you are
onboard a Calcutta-bound bogey with ‘this’ kind of a Bengali family, you are in
for some experience!
Boudi -- the tormentor: To everyone, who is someone
What was told just a few seconds ago to sejo
jethima, is repeated in exact words to maa. But since it’s maa, can it just
end there? Ekdami na. And so: “Kotto mishti diyechhe jano jethu... sonhaalooa,
borphhee.. aaro ki ki sab (Do know how much sweets uncle bought for us... Son
Halwa, Barfi... what not)!” the boudi blurts on the phone.
I can’t go out. The train will start moving
in just a few minutes. And why should I? Damn, it’s my seat. I try to curb my
disgusted look, in the process turning it into something like ‘no no boudi, you
carry on shouting... I just have some gastric problem to deal with’.
The train starts moving from platform
number 8 at the New Delhi railway station. Even though I myself need to make a
couple of calls, I pray for a network blackout. Sadly, no such thing happens. This
is India. You may not find hospitals, schools... or people with civic manners – but there’s
always a mobile network to hang on to. Developing nation, you see.
And so, the calls continue. Oh yes,
punctuated each time with a ‘koto kaatlo dekho toh (how much did they deduct
for roaming charges)’ footnote in between the calls.
After one more ‘thik thak uthe gechhi’
call, boudi finally makes her most important call. “Kajol maashi, shono aamra
kaal shakkale pouchhe jabo (Kajol aunty, we’ll reach early in the morning
tomorrow)... tumi esho kintu... lamba chhuti khele toh (make sure you come...
what a long holiday you had)”. Yes, gotcha. This is no ordinary ‘aunty’ but
boudi’s maid in Kolkata – the most important, and probably the only 'relative' she wants to see after returning home from a winter holiday in Delhi.
Though it is a much appreciable fact that
Bengalis never forget to affix something to a domestic help’s name to give that
welcome family-touch, I always fail to understand why maids are always maashi
(mom’s sister) and not a pishi or a kakima (aunties from your paternal side)!
Anyway, back to boudi. So boudi in pink
salwar let’s out a sigh, chuckles to herself and hands over the phone to dada. “Dadashona-r
cali aache, ki bol monai,” boudi pokes her 12-year-old daughter. Here she’s
referring to her some brother courtesy whom the tickets got confirmed. Some
heck of a dada who can get you a confirmed ticket in Indian Railways – aami
maanchhi boudi (I agree).
I, too, thank in my mind THE dude in the
central government ranks who saw that even I was able to travel today.
Monai – the pint sized irritation
Well, the phone couldn’t reach dada – it’s
snatched in transit by the daughter. At just around 3 feet-something, I guess
she’s no more than 11-12. ‘Bapi amar message ashbe (Dad, I’m expecting some
SMS)’, she declares. Ohkk!!!
Well, poor bapi just couldn’t understand
what important SMS might her class 6 going daughter can expect. That, too, on a
holiday. And so, the bapi asks.
It turns out that there is some annual
craft exhibition at school once the board exams are over, and important lil
Monai is in charge of collecting the 2 or 3 odd exhibits that her class can add
to the overall gala! Ain’t that in March, kid???
Excuse meeeeeeee... !!!!!!!!!
And so the important-SMS expectation
continues. With every beep she would make it a point to have the phone from her
bapi – apart from other nonsense. And her partner in crime is her mamoni aka
The Boudi.
‘Bapi knows nothing’, ‘bapi doesn’t
understand’, ‘bapi please tickle my feet’... “Ah, sursuri dite bolechhi,
chulkote na (Ah, I asked you to tickle, not scratch).” Someone please take this
kid away, or else I’ll do what her bapi should have done long time ago – thaash
kore ekta thaappor (one tight slap).
And, to my utter joy, that moment actually
comes. When Monai for the 7th
or 8th time tries to impress upon her dad that this beep may
be her ‘much important SMS’, but it actually turns out to be ‘Plots available
at Sohna Road on first come-first serve basis’, bapi loses it. He grinds his
teeth, “Aar ekbar jadi phone ta chaash, train e sabar saamne maar khaabi (If
one more time you ask for that phone, you’re gonna get a thrashing in the train).”
Yesss, that’s like it my Baangalee bapi.
Monai lets out a grunt and turns to her
mamoni; mamoni turns away and tries to look at me but prefers to see the
NCR-filth outside the window, I look towards bapi who in turn gives out a
sheepish grin.
Bapi – the poor eternal bapi
There’s a saying in Bangla: ‘Bapi bari ja’.
It literally means shooing away some guy who clearly doesn’t belong here –
well, atleast that’s what the others think.
Bapi, also, is one of the most favoured
Bangla nicknames along with Babu, Buro, Bappa – ya, Bengalis still prefer these
pet names over the Rahuls and Rajs of the world.
Also, bapi comes naturally to Bengali girls
while calling out to their dads.
This third genre of bapis provide the
required balance for the boudis to call up everyone from sejo jethima to kaajer
maashi; these bapis will have to hop out at Kanpur to see if there’s any vendor
selling comics for the monais they are bringing up; these bapis will have to
sacrifice a piece of chicken because boudi discovers that her choice of
ordering the veg-thali was wrong; and after all this bapi will be punctuated
after every work by a ‘tomar dara kichhu habena (you are good for nothing)’.
The dada here was a no different bapi.
So, dada can’t shut his senses off – he has
doomed them eternally on his marriage day. But the least he can do is thrusting
his mouth with Rajnigandha and Talab – the idea I think must be ‘if I have to
live with so much bitterness in all my senses, why not my mouth too’.
Well, that’s the emotional truth. The real
thing is dada stays ready – if ever things get on my nerves and I have to spit
on ‘these’ pain in the ass, let that be one heck of a red revolution!
*** The holy dip! ***
“Montu da, tomar barir upor diye jabo ebaar
(Montu da, we’ll be crossing your home),” boudi is on the phone again. I was
comfortably swaying between sleep and consciousness in between the soup and
dinner, when this high decibel burima-bomb brings me back to alertness. We are
crossing Allahabad. There’s a clamour at the window to see if the Maha Kumbh is
visible. Monai is disinterested, but bapi wants to educate her. Boudi is still
busy telling Montu da that they are now crossing the bridge and can’t meet
them.
I look out at the cluster of lights on the
far banks of the Ganga. Beautiful. I take my holy dip in the khaki-white water
along with the train’s shadow. Yes, it works. Even if for few minutes, my mind
just ain’t interested in the nonsense on the opposite seat. I feel cleansed.
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