RELATIONSHIPS ARE LIKE TREES..

I had gone to this party hosted at one of my friends’ house; he was celebrating a major business win… It was real stag party; none of the fellows present had brought along their wives or girlfriends or kids….

As many expats know – it was that time of the year when the schools close for a five-week break and the wives rush back to their homes in India along with the kids leaving the hubby alone…. And I will let you in on a secret – many hubbies look forward to this break… They actually find so much work to do in office that they cannot accompany their families.

And in that group there were some who had a different story to tell…. The most effervescent among them was going through a difficult divorce…. Another friend, who had already made a pile with his contracting business and football betting, was an abandoned husband – his wife had left him for “higher studies” and moved to Australia with the kid – he was on a sort of two-year notice to give up his gambling and betting habits, and drinking…. A third fellow had just come back from India; his bride-to-be had eloped with her lover the day before the marriage was to take place… While there were quite a few like me who had left their families back in India for the sake of the children’s education….

The fellow who was hosting the party was a classic case – he was from Sri Lanka, purchased property and settled in New Zealand, and had married an Australian lady; one of his daughters was doing her post graduate studies in Canada while the younger one was in college in Australia and his wife spent her time shuttling between three countries and had no time to visit him. The last time they met was at Singapore’s Changi airport, two weeks before this party – she was flying east across the Pacific to Canada; he was flying west across the Bay of Bengal to Sri Lanka.

There was one poor fellow from Bangladesh whose newly wedded wife simply refused to leave her country and accompany him…. These were the “hardcore bachelors” of that expat community – always viewed with suspicion by the wives at the regular parties ….

The exotic addition to that party was crocodile meat… Crocodile, being an endangered species, is protected in most countries that do not have a crocodile farm, and in some countries their meat is simply banned…. And yet some unfortunate crocodiles get entangled in fishermen’s nets… the fishermen sometimes do have to kill them to protect their catch and the nets; and then they sell the meat clandestinely when they come ashore… It was through one of these channels that some crocodile meat landed up on our party table….

We had barbecued crocodile with whisky, then crocodile “nuggets” with whisky and finally crocodile curry (jhol !) with steamed rice, and of course, with no one frowning in the background, whisky kept flowing freely…

The conversation as usual was loud and covered a wide range of topics from how that particular friend had bet on a football club in some European league and won a handsome seventeen thousand dollars sitting halfway across the world and how he had followed that club for four seasons before hitting his “jackpot”, to how women in India no longer cared about expat husbands any more and were more interested in marrying IT fellows back home…

After a few rounds of whisky and crocodile meat, some became philosophical…we talked about how unfair life was for the crocodile that ended up on our table….. and something should be done about it, that being an endangered species and stuff – a conversation that was adequately stopped by more barbecued crocodile and one more round of whisky…

Then people started saying their goodbyes and leaving – they wanted to get home while they could still drive, finally leaving the stage for the five of us… we gathered together with one more round of whisky and barbecued crocodile…. And started talking about life….

And then one of them said, “Life is actually like a tree; you need to decide what kind of tree you want to become as you grow old…..” He went on to expand, “You can be a coconut tree or a casuarina tree or a banyan tree… the choice is yours…”

“If you are a coconut tree then you can be noticed from far but are not only of no use to people near you; you can be dangerous… If you are a casuarina, then you are definitely beautiful and do provide some shade to people, but the grass does not grow near your feet and many creatures shun you… Whereas if you are a banyan tree, you can touch the lives of those around you and make it beautiful for them…..”

As I drove home that night sozzled to the gills, those words rankled in my mind….. I tried putting it against the backdrop of some of the relationships that my group of friends had…. Trees ? Yes, some of those relationships were like winter trees without leaves casting scrawny, spiny shadows in moonlight, like a chiaroscuro of life that had gone awry….

But that is life, isn’t it, with its infinitely varied forms…

***

There have been many years and many parties between that one and today – but those words still haunt me as I search for my model tree….

***** 

Somoy Nei (No time !!)

Kolkata to Dhaka is a thirty-five minute flight. My ticket had been booked for the late afternoon, on a 48-seater, twin-propeller aircraft. Nothing wrong with that, except for the fact that it was overtaken in mid-flight by a flock of geese, also presumably flying to Dhaka. The disgusting part was that the geese not only overtook us, they flew above us …. One of those fellows perhaps even cocked a head to look back at us…. but I will discount that piece…

On board we were greeted by 1.582 air-hostesses – the decimals attributable to the thinnest lady I have ever seen in my life – almost a sari-clad fountain pen, and taller than me. A gentleman is not supposed to discuss a lady’s vital statistics in civil conversation, but there are always exceptions - in this case the numbers should read 25-25-25 – if my eyesight has not forsaken me….. She was ideally suited for that kind of aircraft, with its narrow aisle.

As the plane started to rumble on the tarmac, she came along with a cardboard tray; I asked what she had and she said supari and toffees and that I should hurry up with my choice – “somoy nei.” Then, after the obligatory pantomime on safety measures, we took off. Within minutes, the captain’s voice could be heard telling us that we would be flying at 13,000 feet and “Inshallah” we would be landing at Dhaka in about twenty-seven minutes. “Inshallah ? Whatever happened to navigation instruments, GPS and the ATC network ?” I began wondering.

The air-hostesses began serving refreshments, and I asked what it was, and the thin one said non-veg and I should hurry up because, “somoy nei”. Half-way through my samosa she cleared my tray with a casual “May I?” but I was not looking at her, the geese overhead, by this time, had my attention – what with bird hits being the “in thing” these days…….

Then began the short descent – with the ground kind of rushing upwards, the other air-hostess spoke over the PA system that we were due to land “Inshallah” at Dhaka’s Zia International airport. “Inshallah ? When the ground is rushing up to meet you at over two hundred kilometres an hour ?” I bit my lip.

In all my travels before, I have never seen aircraft wheels actually make contact with the runway while landing – now I did, and, believe me, it was scary – a fear multiplied many times over by the captain and crew’s constant “Inshallah” refrain. We reached Dhaka forty-five minutes behind schedule. And she was saying, “Somoy nei.”

I was braver on the return flight, now that I sort of knew what to expect. I met her tray half-way and picked up the toffee with alacrity, and when they served the food, tore the sandwich with both hands to gulp it, dropped the samosa to the floor in the process, pocketed the chocolate bar for my kids – in short, managed to clean up my tray before they yanked it away. Superman could not have done it faster. Did not give her the chance to say, “Somoy nei.”

We reached Kolkata – a thirty-five-minute flight, seventy-five minutes late….. Cannot write much more about a 35-minute flight…. Oto somoy nei….

Next time I’ll take a jet to reach Dhaka. And beat the geese to it. 

Inshallah.

The tea-boy

April 1982

It was another of those beautiful sunsets that take your breath away. I stood outside my site-office on top of a hill, deep inside the wild, untamed jungles of the Eastern Ghats in Koraput, taking it all in and sipping a late afternoon cup of insipid tea, when he caught my eye.

There was this group of tribals huddling around another office at the foot of the hill, beside the river bank waiting for their daily wage of five rupees. Some were washing up and preparing for the long trek home, some were readying their torches made of kerosene-soaked jute balls attached to a stout piece of a branch; some of the young men were intent on checking their bows and arrows – a simple precaution against the odd predator in the jungles. There were a number of fellows with drums –  each procession would have two drummers - one leading it and the other bringing up the rear as they made their way back to their villages  through the densely forested hills.

Among them stood this boy I speak about, not yet a teenager, bare-bodied, with just a pair of faded shorts, silent, frail in build, but with large wistful eyes – eyes that wondered at everything they saw, eyes that knew that a lot of those things could never be owned…. I had seen him around the sites a couple of times, serving tea to people – he was too young to legally work.

As the labour contractor (they called him “sardar” locally) and his three henchmen came up and settled down on a rocky outcrop, there was quite a bit of jostling and pushing in the crowd, while this boy stood silently on one side. It was my first job and the first time I had come across these labour contractors. Three words described them aptly : insidious, lecherous and dangerous.

The sardar started calling out the names, the labourers came up in a single file, put their thumb impressions on a sheet of paper, collected their daily wage and moved away to a spot nearer to the river to wait till all members of their village had been paid.

As the sun started setting behind the hills, the first of the processions started moving away – five flaming torches in front with three or four armed men, a couple of torches at the back with some more armed men, while the women-folk made up the middle. And of course, the two drums with a steady beat – dumdum – dumdum – dumdum... they continued, slowly fading into the jungles.

The crowd was getting smaller as each group of people left…. This boy was still standing quietly, observing all that was going on. Finally the Sardar called this fellow and paid him his due…. The boy took his money and breaking away from the group, started skipping home, which I presumed from his direction, was at the labour camp further downstream…. He seemed happy to have been able to make his contribution to the family for the day.

Call it instinct, call it something else, I found myself suddenly trotting downhill in a bid to catch up with him. As I got closer, I yelled at him. He stopped dead and turned around, eyes suddenly fearful …. I got closer, and asked him his name… “Jogen”, came the reply….

“How much does your Sardar pay you each day ?”

“Five rupees, Babu”, said he…

“How long have you been working for him ?”

“One month”, came the reply… “Let me see your money”, I said…. He looked straight into my eyes as he clutched his money in his fist.

“I will not take it away, I just want to see how much he gave you,’ I said, with a smile.

He slowly opened his palm, his eyes intently fixed upon mine. Something must have told him that all was not well…. “Is this OK ?” he asked….

I did not answer him, but turned away and started walking back to my office, leaving him alone in the fast-gathering gloom…..  

It was a one-rupee note. I was sure he had put his thumb impression for five.

***

April 2012

I had gone to the Gariahat offices of KMC to pay the Corporation taxes…. The lower floors of the building house a large market while the upper floors house many offices and KMC’s payment counters. After about three hours of waiting with an electronically issued token, I got the chance to pay my dues, and made my way back through the labyrinthine stairs and shops till I reached the sidewalk.

I felt I had to have a cup of tea and a smoke before I went home. As luck would have it, a “Mashima’s” tea-stall at the gate of the building, was empty – apparently Mashima had not turned up. I started walking around – there were shops and hawkers selling all sorts of things but no tea.

I finally spied a couple of young men walking with two cups of tea in their hands. I asked them where they got their tea from and they guided me to an alley across the road. I crossed over to the tea-stall. It was a typical, single-table affair with a kerosene stove hissing fiercely while an open tumbler of tea boiled incessantly. The stall owner was a well-built fellow wearing a Manchester United jersey and a blue lungi – busy reading a newspaper.

Beside him a little boy, barely eight or nine years old, or perhaps younger, was playing with a broken bey-blade, trying to spin it and failing miserably. I asked for a cup of tea. The fellow, without even looking at me hollered out, “Ei – sahib ke cha de”…. (“Give Saheb some tea..)

The little boy picked up his bey-blade and tried to stuff it into his pocket. He took perhaps a couple of seconds longer than usual – the stall-owner put down his paper and gave the boy a resounding slap on his head….. The little fellow teetered from the blow, the bey-blade fell out and broke into quite a few pieces around his feet.

“Eki, marlen keno?” was my instant reaction.. (Why did you hit him ?”)…

“You do not understand,” came the reply, “he is always playing and does not pay attention to my customers..”  I thought of saying, “Neither did you, when I came,” but my gaze turned to the little boy. He was pouring the tea into an earthen cup for me, silent tears rolling down his face, his lips pressed together tightly. As soon as I had taken the cup, he turned around to pick up the pieces of his toy.

I paid the three rupees to the man and moved away – the tea tasted really bad.

***

It was another time, another place…. three decades had passed … and yet, the more the world around us changes, the more some things remain the same…..

***