Sampurna Datta
Short Fiction
Memories,
good or bad, occupy a hefty chunk of human mind. We often cherish, avoid, treasure,
and visit them – laughing or crying together. But some memories never qualify
as entirely good or ill – they remain uncategorized.
It
has been almost five years now that I have been travelling from Tollygunje to
Sealdah station, from where I take a brief walk, to my office beside Prachi
cinema hall. With much of its old glory lost, Prachi cinema, is still an
important landmark in Sealdah. The walk past the bustling lanes has always been
quite engaging for me, more than any of my co-commuters, probably because I am
a writer. Life with an array of vibrant flavours are on perennial display and I
would breathe in all of it. The unhindered struggle for survival, is a
celebration of life itself.
Sampurna Datta |
I
did not have to work much. The distinct sound of clapping, broken raucous
voices and severe loud clothes, said it all. These creatures
(human?) are habitually avoided by people. They are not meant to be a part of
society, not to be meddled with, not to be looked at, not to be loved, not to
be remembered. They are not a part of anyone’s life or memory. They have been
forgotten by all – their parents, neighbours, friends, siblings and even the
government. So they charge people for being the Creator’s careless creation. A
strange feeling of guilt had occupied my senses, when I looked at the one
standing in front of me. Champa, was
wearing a pink silk blouse and an embroidered black sari. Her blouse had a latkan at the back. Her hair was scanty
near the forehead, almost exposing a bony masculine face, but was tied in a
long braid that reached her waist. Her body was in a constant motion, some due
to the train and the rest her training, to make people slip out cash. Having
done with a college boy, she turned towards our seat. Her pimpled skin could be
seen under the cheap layer of makeup, her
lips were dark red with lipstick…
I
was carefully observing her, when our eyes met. Something hammered inside my
memory documents. Though hugely altered, I still seemed to have seen that face
before. Champa too had an identical
expression on her face. A smile of recognition came and suddenly vanished from
the corner of her lips. She rushed away from me and went to another side,
almost keeping me on the edge of my seat.
Mr
Majumder had recently moved to our next apartment then, with his pregnant wife
Ashima and younger son, Shubhrojit. He
worked for Eastern railway and was my Dad’s colleague. I was in standard 1 and
happy to find a boy of my age moving in as our neighbour. Shubhrojit was put in
my school and we would go to school together. Either my dad or Majumder uncle
would take us up the road from our colony, where our school bus would wait.
After four months, one night, when we were all asleep a violent knocking on our
door woke us up. Mrs Majumder was in labour and had to be rushed to the railway
hospital. My dad and Mr Majumder, took her down in a chair which looked pretty
cool to me. We all were anxious to hear from dad the next morning, about the
new member. He came back with a strange white face. He took my mother inside
and almost whispered the news in her ears. All I could fathom from their
conversation were three words “not well formed”. It was beyond my capacity to conclude
an answer for my question from those three words – “Is it a boy or a girl?”
After
two days, Ashima Aunty came back with the baby. I and Shubhrojit were waiting
anxiously to see the baby. It was folded in a yellow baby towel and was
sleeping. Ashima aunty had puffy eyes as if she didn’t sleep for days. We both
were queuing up to take the baby when my dad gave me loud scolding to come back
home. My mother went and hugged Ashima aunty and she broke down, behind closed
doors we could hear a lot of blurred words, which made no sense to me and
Shubhrojit.
As
months passed, we were given a free but observant access to play with the baby
girl. Her name was Ashma. She had started to crawl and would soon walk. It was
my daily routine to come back from school, change as fast as possible and go to
Ashma. I could manage to take her in my lap, and jerk it a bit for her to
sleep. Shubhro too would try it at times, but being a girl I was more of an
expert. Strangely enough, there was no ceremony for Ashma after she turned six months.
Shubhro and I, were again left without an answer. Four years later, Ashma was
put into our school, and we, in class 5 then, would hold her hands all the way
to the bus stand. She was like a little
piece of joy in our life. We would keep an eye on her even during school hours.
We had automatically acquired a sense of responsibility towards her.
Time
was passing by gently, when one day, Ashma refused to go to school anymore.
Shubhro
had long been sent to a boarding school in Darjeeling and I was in high school
preparing for my boards. I would no longer go to their flat like before. Ashma
a teenager, have had strange developments in her. Her classmates would often
jeer and call her a “SheMan”. Her
voice cracked, like most teenagers, but had a different tone altogether. She
would avoid talking even with me when we would meet in the stairs by chance.
Her face had a girly innocence covered with a lot of facial hairs, especially
on the edges. I would often ask Maa, about the problem with Ashma, and had to
be satisfied with a vague answer.
One
night, before my Geography exam, the frequent quarrels of Ashma with her father
took the worst turn. Next morning, while leaving for school I could hear Ashima
aunt’s weak and frail cry.
Ashma
had left the house…
I
had met her many times after that day, on my way to office. We both have learnt
to avoid an eye contact.
Brilliant
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