Afternoons in Kolkata

 

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Miss Melanie

Miss Melanie was an enigma in herself, with her dangling silver pentacle necklace and green-grey eyes. She fed the pigeons every afternoon at three ‘o'clock with her left over puffed rice and beckoned to us whenever we passed her wooden worm-eaten door, peeling the shavings absent-mindedly.

Anyone who had had more than three conversations with her knew that she was a former singer at the very popular Park street night bar, ‘Trincas’. But that was before cabaret singing had gone out of fashion. She worked as a typist after that in Esplanade and had retired fifteen years ago. She used to be regular at her parish charities, but that was before the rheumatism set in. Anyone who had had more than three conversations with her also knew that she was crazy.

So it came as a surprise to us when a fancy, yellow Bugatti rolled up in front of her worm-eaten, wood peeling door one cloudy Monday morning and a portly, middle-aged gentleman stepped out, swearing briefly as he narrowly missed stepping in dog-shit. He knocked and the door opened a crack and he immediately disappeared into the dark.

I was hanging outside the sweet shop aimlessly, waiting for the shopkeeper, Raja, to pull up the shutters after his brief afternoon siesta, when I witnessed this strange sight. I didn't even know Kolkata HAD such a fancy car, which seemed to have raced right off an F-1 track and into my sleepy neighbourhood in Central Kolkata.

Miss Melanie didn't emerge from her house to feed the pigeons at three ’o’ clock that day.

I went on to the ‘para’ football club to emerge in my regular ‘adda’ session and catch the latest news on the Mohun Bagan game. My dad hadn't paid the cable bill and our television line had been disconnected. I lied about the bill payment, obviously, and my friends snickered behind their rough hands, obviously and I clenched my fists into a ball.

It was no secret that my dad was an alcoholic and never gave my mum any money, unless she stole it from his wallet when he was drunk. Most of the times he wouldn't find out but the days he did, my mother would be nursing a pack of frozen peas to her jaw, avoiding my eyes.

So that day, after a brief quarrel with my friends, as I made my way towards the Tram Depot, I heard Miss Melanie beckon me. I noticed the Bugatti missing and sighed. I could have taken a selfie with it and cranked up a few likes on Facebook.

Wearily, I walked up to her and gave her a wry smile.

“Kemon acho, mashi?’ (How are you, aunty?’)

“Good, good. How’s my favourite neighbour doing?”

“I'm doing great! Summer Vacations are the best.” I lied. I could lie with a straight face but maybe that day Miss Melanie saw something in my eyes because she invited me to her house. I stared at the space behind her and looked back hesitantly. When I was younger, I used to make up stories about my neighbours and in all the stories that featured Miss Melanie, I cast her as a witch. Nobody was on the street. If I was killed or kidnapped, nobody would miss me. I shook myself out of the silly thought and followed her.

There were books everywhere. I could see heavy Encyclopaedias amid last month’s copies of Cosmopolitan. A gramophone that would put any iPod to shame loomed majestically on a rickety coffee-table, next to a , surprise-surprise- iPod. The shelves had old knick-knacks and jars of bottled jam in colourful glass bottles. The walls were lined with old black and white photographs of a strange group of people. I looked closely and they were labelled in clear, cursive writing.

They were pictures of the INA.

I shook my head in disbelief and looked at Miss Melanie questioningly.

“Oh those? I was a former child-spy for the Azad-Hind Fauj.” She drawled, nonchalantly.

“What do you mean ‘child-spy’?” I stuttered, unable to comprehend the supposedly simple explanation.

“Arre, I was part of the INA. Many children did spy-work for them. Specially when the Japanese overran Calcutta in 1942 and bombed our port. Where do you think Israel, Africa and Romania got the idea from? Our very own Netaji. I’m sorry, it doesn't feel right to call him that, he will always be Subhashda for me.”

“Why are you telling me all this!” I suddenly realised the meme I had last liked on Facebook. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you…” I shrank back against the time-stained wall and looked at her closely. It was almost evening and the shadows were getting deeper. I could hardly see Miss Melanie’s coloured eyes. Her pentacle caught the illumination of the hanging lantern overhead and light bounced off its pointed ends but when she spoke, her voice was tinged with kindness and a hint of nostalgia, as if she had rehearsed this conversation in her head many times before.

“Because I have seen you when you’re home. I've heard your parents. I may be touching eighty but I’m not deaf. Now look here, I am too old to be continuing this work any more. Today the man who drove up, well, let’s just say he wasn't a salesman. He came with news that I need to find a replacement soon and I really need a break. It’s been over 60 years that I've kept this secret and frankly, I'm tired. So, let me make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

You must be wondering about what happened next, about the offer and my answer and whether this is fiction or fact and other seemingly important details like that.

Well, I could tell you, but then I’d have to…

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Please Shut The Door

Sia lived in the flat above Sunny's apartment in Park Circus, a middle class locality in Kolkata. She was only fourteen when she first started noticing him, while playing badminton with her first-cousin, Suchita. He used to hang around with his friends near the muddy football field after Chemistry tuition.

It took him a year or two to start noticing her. And how could he not? Sia was beautiful. With honey-brown skin that shone when she was walking with her mother in the bazaar (Market) buying vegetables and her shy smile as she coyly put in another stick of dhania  (coriander) into her cloth sack. Her fish-like eyes were a riot of emotions ranging from initial hurt and disappointment when Sunny was oblivious to her existence, to a giddy  love-sickness that struck her to her core when he first held her hand under the shady mango tree the year they turned sixteen.

It was first-love.

And like most first-love stories, it came to a bitter end when Sunny's parents split in the winter of 1998. Eighteen year old Sia was caught between circumstances adults always trap young teenagers in love in and she cried her cotton handkerchief to a purple pulp when Sunny broke the news to her that he was leaving for a bit but that he'd be back. His father continued staying in the house above her.

The 90's were not an age of mobile phones and gadgets, so every Thursday and Saturday, Sia made her way to the local telephone booth to call Sunny, who was now living with his maternal uncle near Lalbazaar (Red Market).  Young love is always passionate and rebellious, hoping for a miracle.

 

But a miracle was far from the red-hued Kolkata skyline that monsoon when Sia turned into an adult. The last thing that had miraculously happened was when Sia's old neighbour, Miss Melanie had suddenly adopted a kid from a broken home near her place.

 

Three Monsoons passed. 

Sia was now studying medicine at the National Medical College. She hadn't heard from Sunny in a year a half. She had called every Thursday and Saturday for a month, but nobody had picked up. She had even, coyly ended up taking bus No. 42B to Lalbazaar, but without a fixed address, she had hung about there only for an hour, before coming back dejected.

 Yes, her heart had broken but when you’re in Medical school, you only get that much time to dwell on first-love, however precious, amid practical files and crisis situations in OPD’s.

And so, with much trauma, (Because Sia was more pretty than smart), she got her Doctor’s degree.

After her graduation, Sia and her parents made their way slowly to her aunt’s place in Ballygunge, an uptown residential area in the heart of Calcutta. Just outside Beena Mausi’s ground floor apartment, a delivery boy on a scooter showed up. It was from the new Chinese joint, ‘Momo Plaza’ that had just opened a few blocks away, Sia’s aunt informed her animatedly.

But Sia just stood there, speechless. The delivery boy, in a horrid red t-shirt and matching red cap, pulled low above his eyes, was getting the change from Beena Mausi. He half- turned to go and turned back again, catching Sia’s eye. He stood rooted on the spot.

It was Sunny.

Sia took in Sunny’s face, weather-worn and sweating, his dirty shoes and decimated frame and looked down at her black graduation robes. She looked up at Beena Mausi’s questioning face and back at Sunny- so obviously in distress.

“Please shut the door.” She replied in an eerily calm voice.  

 

 

 

 
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Chicken Is Blue

Don’t write, unless you have a story to tell.”

*FOR A LONG TIME MEERA HAD PONDERED THESE WORDS SHE HAD HEARD FROM HER ENGLISH TEACHER, MISS BANERJEE

IF SHE TELLS THE WORLD HER STORY, WOULD THEY BELIEVE HER?*
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For thirteen year old Meera, the world is a colourful and wonderful place. But it was different a few years ago.

It all started when Meera was in Kindergarten. Her teacher, Miss Williams, had asked the class to draw an apple tree. Meera drew the best apple tree she could. Her teacher praised her and was pleased. “What a beautiful Apple tree you have drawn, Meera.” She exclaimed, holding up the white crumpled piece of paper up for the whole class to examine.

Meera had drawn the best apple tree in the class and she was given a prize for it. The next day, Miss Williams brought her a real apple to eat, from the market place.


That was the last time she ever won a prize at school. After that had come the Alphabet.

Meera sighed as she sat down to finish her homework. Homework was difficult.

Letters were difficult.

The first day her teacher wrote ‘A’ on the blackboard, she looked at Meera expectantly. “Do you know what this is, Meera?”

Meera stared back at the letter. It could only be...

“P..Pink.”

There was pin drop silence as her teacher looked at her strangely. She didn’t reply but asked Rohan, the boy in the third row to answer.

“A... A for Apple.” Rohan chimed shyly.

That day, Meera went back home and opened the first book on the coffee-table. ‘Cricket for Dummies.’ Her dad read that a lot. She called her mum.


“Where is ‘A’?” She could see the strange letter that looked like a tent on stilts in the book. It was red like an apple. But then her mum pointed out ‘a’ in the word ‘bat’ and it was green like a caterpillar. And the same letter ‘a’ in ‘ball’ was mango-lemon. Meera also heard a strange ‘swissshh’ sound when her mother read out ‘bat’.

Meera started crying.

“It’s all different Mummy.” she whined.

Now Meera’s parents loved her very much but they could not understand why she was seeing things differently. Some days her mother scolded her because she did not want to go to school any more. But her father was patient with her. He lovingly coaxed her into going to school, even though she was not doing that well.


Her teachers at school were worried.

“Have you considered a special school?” Miss Williams asked her mother at the end of Kindergarten.

Mrs Gupta was crushed.

However, they went through the tough decision of keeping her in school. Mrs Gupta sat with Meera everyday and tried to make her learn the letters by heart.

Meera put in more effort in writing and reading, and they promoted her class after class, because of her exceptional grades in Mathematics, Art and Music. In all this, her parents were her constant support.


Her father even started visiting local doctors to find out if Meera had a disability. But he never made her feel ‘different’.

Every night, tired after being bullied at school, Meera found it difficult to sleep. But her father used to calm her by telling her magical stories.


One day, Meera asked her father.

“How beautiful these stories are! I wish I can make a story someday.”

Her father smiled at her and encouraged her to make her own story. And for the first time, Meera felt that she could achieve something again. She made up her mind to write a magical story.


But then the next problem emerged. How could she write a story when she was having difficulty in reading words and long books? So she locked away her dream in a multi-coloured box and never thought about writing a story again.

That is when her seventh grade English teacher, Miss Banerjee stepped in.

One day in class, she announced.

“We will work on writing for the Summer vacation. You can write on anything you feel like. It can be long or short. But it must come from you.”

The class was in chaos. Students were high-fiving and smiling but Meera was slinking slowly down in her seat.

“And remember class, SHOW, don’t TELL.”

“But don’t write unless you have a story to tell.”

Meera raised her hand slowly.

“ What should I write about, miss?”

“Write a story.”

“About what?”

“Write a story about your world.”

Meera stopped to think.

“Can I paint too?”

Miss Banerjee replied, “Paint with words.”

Meera brightened up instantly. This is what she always wanted to hear!

The following weekend, Meera eagerly sat down to her writing task. The world was suddenly brighter and full of colour. She wrote about a family which had a mother and a father that were loving like her parents. The story was a happy one. The parents always ate dinner together with their children- a daughter and twin sons.


Miss Banerjee was very happy with Meera’s story.

“What a lovely dinner scene you have described Meera. The twin boys are so naughty. And the mother is such a good cook. What has she made for the main course?”

“Chicken.” Said Meera confidently. Meera was a vegetarian but always curious about her friends who ate meat. She was strange like that.

Miss Banerjee chuckled, “What kind of Chicken, beta?”

“The chicken is blue.” Meera said tentatively.

Miss Banerjee was silent for awhile. She looked at Meera and asked her to sit down near her.

“What do you think of when I say ‘potato’?

“It is a brown vegetable.” Meera replied in monotone.

“What about mutton?”

“Is it a music instrument? It makes a strange whistling sound in my head.”

Miss Banerjee thanked Meera and told her to go to her seat.

The next day, Miss Banerjee called Meera’s parents, without her knowing.

Her mother was concerned but her father seemed calm.

“Mr and Mrs Gupta. It seems to me, Meera has a condition. it is brilliant and terrifying at the same time. It must be used to help her and aid her, and it will be a gift to her. I have reason enough to believe that Meera hassynaesthesia.”

Meera’s parents stared blankly back at Miss Banerjee.

“You don’t have to worry. it is a genetic condition where the senses of a person are mixed up. Something like cross-wiring of the senses. If you say a word, they will see a colour. If they hear a sound, they may taste an essence. I have strong reason to believe that Meera has lexical synaesthesia, which could be the reason why she has had problems with reading and writing for so long.”

“How do you know so much?” Mrs Gupta asked, bewildered. It was a lot of information to take in.”

“I was under observation for the last ten years when I was in Chicago, at the University. I had Synaesthesia. But a different kind-*Chromesthesia*. People with chromesthesia hear sounds and these automatically and unintentionally make them experience colours.” Miss Banerjee finished.

Because of Miss Banerjee and Meera’s parent’s hard work and loving support, Meera began to use her words to express her world more. Instead of locking the colours in- she poured them out, mainly in Art, but also in words.

It turned out that you can paint with both.

All you need is a story to tell.

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