The Empty Seat

As I sped through the underpass to catch the last metro I looked at the luminescent dial of my Citizen wristwatch, noting amidst several huffs and puffs that I still had more than a minute to complete the 100 metre stretch of staircase ahead of me before the train huffed and puffed into the station. I leapt up the stairs devouring them two, sometimes three at a time and finally catapulted myself to the platform as the last metro entered the station. To my immense satisfaction, the digital watch cum alert system hanging above my sweating head read “10:10”.Few saw the smirk that lingered over my face momentarily as the victory of one battle gave way to the preparation for another – this time the objective being the capture of a seat before the multitude of obese middle-aged, experienced men grabbed onto theirs. I waited with anticipation, sweat dripping of my arched brow and my tensed sinews, body arched forward ready to pounce at the slightest sight of an empty seat, as the train shuddered to a halt. The second’s wait before the electronic doors opened and all hell broke loose was the most important – this is the time when one has to look for a relatively empty door and stand in front of it in such a manner so as to guard other potential competitors and at the same time accord the requisite bit of courtesy to the alighting passengers and at the same time , twist one’s body in such a manner so as to find the tiniest gap to squeeze oneself in without shoving others hence protecting oneself from an otherwise  expected barrage of colourful Bengali abuses . Combining the skills of many wild animals into one, I successfully maneuvered myself and managed to secure a seat for myself as the last metro chugged out of Mahanayak Uttam Kumar station. As I looked around triumphantly, the obese man on my right accorded me a slight smile before proceeding to take out his cellphone. I sighed and smiled back.

The obese man beside me punched in some keys on his cellphone’s keypad before assuming the stoic position perfected by the Buddha. A familiar pinging noise informed me that he had sent a text message. The man proceeded to repeat this action as the train stopped at Rabindra Sarovar and then at Kalighat and again at Jatin Das Park. Intrigued, I peered into the screen of his cellphone as the next station approached hoping to decode the cause for this man’s incessant texting. As Netaji Bhavan approached, I maintained a constant stare at his cellphone screen and as the train shuddered to a halt and the lady over the PA system announced our arrival at Netaji Bhavan station, my eyes watched as his fingers punched in “Netaji Bhavan” into his phone and then as the same few stubby fingers proceeded to type in a 10 digit cellphone number and hit “Send”. My eyes were quickly diverted as my ears picked up the sound of a sardonic cough emanating from my right side. I looked up apologetically at the man’s face, expecting an angry face and a barrage of choicest Bengali abuses but instead as I looked into his face, my eyes were greeted by a warm smile. I smiled back uncertainly.

The man continued his periodic action at every station and finally as Chandni Chowk approached I couldn’t control myself any longer.

“Newly married huh?” I asked rather bluntly.

“No. I’m just 37”, came the quick reply as if he was expecting a question sooner or later.

“Not your wife then, I presume?” I continued unabashedly.

“No. Actually the texts are for my father”, he confided.

Trying my best to suppress the waves of condescending laughter that ascended from my stomach, I looked away, laughing away internally at the 37-year old man’s lack of freedom.

My internal peals of laughter must have reverberated across to my right because the obese man continued “It’s not what you think.” Too shocked and more embarrassed to react, I continued to look away as he continued his monologue.

At some point during the conversation I must have looked up because as the train chugged into Girish Park station, I remember looking into misty eyes. Thinking back, I might have looked through and not into misty eyes.

As I put down the newspaper that had sparked my trip down the streets of Nostalgia, my thoughts circled back to the events of that day, which had started to end so much like any other day but had ended up ending quite differently. The news report was nothing new to the average Calcuttan. It was regarding an accident that had happened on the previous day at Girish Park metro station when a fat, obese man waiting to alight had been pushed and shoved by an onrushing crowd in such a manner that his feet had got stuck in the small space between the bogey and the platform and the train as it moved out of the platform, unknowingly chopped off a part of the man’s leg. I had recognized him from the file picture that accompanied the report. I had scoured through the report again and again trying to find a particular word and when I had found it I had slumped back onto the sofa distressed and shaken. One minor line in the report read “The inconsolable man’s cellphone could not be recovered as the train had crushed it after it had fallen out of his pocket onto the tracks.”

The more crushing news report came in the next day’s paper. Few across the metropolis could perhaps connect the two reports but I did and with a sinking feeling, I realized that atleast one other person will. The report was a small one. Infact if one did not look out for it, one could easily miss it out. For all practical purposes, it could be labeled as insignificant. The 10 line report spoke of the discovery of the dead body of an elderly man in a dilapidated house near Girish Park metro station. The man , the report stated , had been under medication and terminally ill, crippled by complete body paralysis with only his auditory and olfactory senses still working. The time of death had been placed somewhere between 10:30 pm and 11:00 pm on the day preceding the previous day .The report concluded by saying that death had possibly been a painful affair with the man suffering multiple cardiac arrests and multiple organ failure in a matter of minutes, with the investigating doctor suggesting that the cause of such an adverse reaction had been sudden shock.

As I put down a newspaper with a sigh for the second time in two days , I thought of the many things that the report did not specify – how it did not mention that the full body paralysis was due to a metro accident 15 years ago , that the man lived in constant fear of his son falling prey to the “Hell-train” and that his son , to pacify his father had come up with a unique way to keep his worried father informed without him having to move a muscle .It did not mention  how every day  the man received 13 texts – one for each station that his son crossed and the how 13 pinging sounds had become the sounds that dictated his life , that made him wait in anticipation , in morbid fear and on hearing which his soul lay embalmed and cooled .

I am not a doctor but I am sure that the sudden shock which caused the loss of a life was due to the one missing ping, because on that fateful day the inbox contained only 12 unopened messages.

I don’t rush to catch a metro anymore. An empty seat for me hardly justifies the emptiness that fills up another life.

The Colossal Calcuttan Carnival

The preparations start from months in advance as politicians quickly align their priorities and choose which Puja organizers to back vociferously and financially, as actors and actresses are selected to represent the Goddess and the Puja as ‘Brand’ ambassadors, as bamboo poles are planted into the concrete jungles to obstruct traffic and lines of sight, as a dash of vibrant colour is added to the otherwise dull and fast greying ‘city of palaces’.

Behind all the glitz and glamour, however, of the multi-crore yearly investments of faith and money, behind the scenes of the largest and most colourful carnival of eastern India lie the sad stories of many masons, architects, builders and others who shy away from the spotlight once their jobs are done.  The sight of barely dressed men climbing high up on bamboo scaffoldings without any protection whatsoever may be enough to send a chill down any spine anywhere in the world but here in Kolkata, we have become so accustomed to this sight multiple times a year giving realization to the popular “Bangalir Baro Mashe Tero Parbon (13 festivals in 12 months for Bengalis)” that we ignore them completely. The sight of a packed Kumartuli in the days preceding the Pujas with sculptors and artists , again barely dressed rushing against time to meet the demands of a city hungry for more ,may draw some sympathy in many parts of the world but we pass by without so much as a glance.

As D-Day or in this case D-Days get closer, Kolkata starts to get decked up in the most beautiful lights illuminating the beauty of an otherwise sleepy city. Lights overhead, lights on trees, lights on buildings, lights on gates, writings in lights and for organizers with more at their disposal even animation in lights , Kolkata truly gets an ‘illuminating’ make-over during the days of celebration . In fact if the lights don’t blind you at night, the ‘chumkis’ on the women’s saris definitely will, as one of my friends very correctly remarked . Behind the scenes, however no one notices the extra megawatts of current that are drawn to satisfy the needs of an insatiable Kolkata crowd while thousands of villages in India survive without electricity every day.

As the fervour and spirit of celebration of the victory of ‘good over evil’ takes over the City of  Joy and thousands of otherwise sleepy and lazy Calcuttans descend on the streets to get a glimpse of the victory of ‘god over evil’, it becomes practically impossible to get anywhere on time. Traffic snarls cripple the city along the vast expanse of every road from Bosepukur to Bagbazar and drivers trying to negotiate a stretch that on any normal day would have taken 5-10 minutes realize the value of time. It becomes impossible to catch trains or aeroplanes on time unless passengers leave theirs abodes with a good 3-4 hours extra in their hands because “Maa Durga” comes to visit her abode.

As Calcuttans and a true blue fans of pandal-hopping and “Maa Durga”, we are however prepared to look beyond the mundane problems that plague the society instead to focus our attentions on the divine presence amongst us .A city which goes to sleep before the rest of India suddenly draws immense quantities of energy from the hidden reserves to stay up all night and quench the desires to witness a hundred different masterpieces in clay spread out across the city. The carnival of lights and  dash of colours, the holding of hands with your ‘special one’ and joy of finally doing the same, the essence of roadside foods and forgotten diets, the concepts of ‘theme pujos’ and ‘bonedi pujos’ paints a rather inviting portrait with the same old Kolkata as the canvas.

As Durga Puja becomes a more and more money-spinning endeavour as the years pass by and as it assumes a more and more commercial feel about it ,Calcuttans rush in like fools where angels fear to tread .Today , it is the best lights , the best pandal , the best idol of the Goddess that everyone rushes to see , yet few rush to save the girl child from female infanticide , few to prevent their abortion , few speak out against the mental and physical torture of wives and daughters , few dare to stand up against rape and sexual abuse and very few remember that Durga Puja stands for the power of womanhood .

Kolkata wakes up to Durga Puja every year and the first thing that Kolkata sees is the head-count of people in the so-called popular Pujas tabulated in specific time frames in a popular Bengali daily and the immediate instinct is to make frivolous plans to be ‘one’ in the sea of people that night . Durga Puja has assumed a different meaning altogether for Kolkata today, perhaps not in sync with the original intention of this celebration and we have perhaps forgotten that amidst all the competition and commercialization. Yet, behind all the negative things that can be said about Durga Puja, their lies a lot of hope, of true celebration of divinity, of goodness. The opportunity to rush to pandals often gives us the opportunity to get back in touch with our families and friends .The fervour and spirit with which many youngsters and their elders await the Puja season is truly a thing of beauty, and definitely the wait will remain a joy forever for a Calcuttan.

Durga Puja gives every child born and bred in the city of Joy an overflowing basket of memories to treasure for a lifetime –the wait in the preceeding weeks to the Puja, the pandal-hopping, the only times you could stay up late without your parents after your life, the sound of dhaaks wafting through the air and ringing in your ears long after Durga Puja is over, the ‘dhunnuchi naach’ , the ‘Onjoli on Oshtomi’ ,the sumptuous feast that mothers and grandmothers conjure up as if by magic on the Puja days ,the ‘adda ‘ with friends , the sight of the friends you knew but can’t recognize them beacause they’re ensconced in Indian attires , the tearful goodbyes on “Doshomi” , the bhashan dance and many more .

What Durga Puja also gives us is a message that not all of us get –the evil that lives within us must be banished before we can think of the evil without, the power of women, the ultimate victory of good over evil-but maybe in hindsight it’s not too bad a thing because as Francis Bacon once said –“Where Ignorance is Bliss ‘Tis Folly to be Wise” and believe me, “Durga Puja is Bliss”.