A Wall At Harisava Street

The Harisava street comes alive on a sunday. For that an outsider would say that a Sunday is just an excuse for the Bengalis. But Harisava street is an exception. One of the darkest streets in Calcutta, the Harisava street is in Kidderpore.

Close to the port, Kidderpore historically was inhabited by the fisherman clan. Hence even today the street is mostly inhabited by the lower-middle and lower classes and not to mention the faint smell of dead fish throughout the day. The Harisava street has tall buildings which are no sky-scrapers but are the old chawls built for the british soldiers to rest. The buildings are so high that they cover the sun almost till noon and for the rest of the day a little after noon. And in
one such building lived Dibyendu Bhattacharya and Proloy.


The Vintage writer
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Dibyendu Bhattacharya looked out of the window, his hand held on to the rustry grill. He was waiting for the 'Jhalmudi' wala to come. Sundays was when he would come a little early than usual. Dibyendu coughed and cleared his throat. He had kept all the empty packets of milk under his bed and his writing table so that he wouldnt have to walk to the bathroom every time to spit the phlegm. He would spit in the empty packets and dispose them once a week.

The Jhalmudi wala arrived at the window. He mixed his spices to produce magic. That is what Dibyendu called him-'The Magician'. The Jhalmudi always tasted the same, not a pinch of spice less or more, just as Dibyendu wanted.

Dibyendu picked up the Telegraph. It pained him when he read through the paper. So much had changed about the paper in the last two decades.Dibyendu had retired as the editor-in-chief of the telegraph in 1988. Since then the standard of news had degraded and the sanctity of the media had been lost.

Dibyendu had not stopped writing though. He was known for his views on politics and his anthology of political essays was widely read and appreciated. Just as Dibyendu finished with his Jalmudi, the bell rang. It must be Joyeeta, his maid who had been with him and taken care of his since his wife had passed away.

As Dibyendu stood up, the bell rang again and then once more. It could not be Joyeeta then. She would wait for him to open the door. It was Proloy, Dibyendu's neighbour. Lean and Nimble, Proloy was the irritating neighbour of Dibyendu or at least that was what Dibyendu thought of him. The irritation had nothing to do with Proloy's attitude but it was to do with what Proloy and his generation stood for. It was something Dibyendu could not relate to and unfortunately every mannerism of Proloy's reflected that standpoint.The other unfortunate part for Dibyendu was that Proloy was a columnist in the Telegraph as well. He wrote a popular column for the youth, the content of which Dibyendu detested. He must have come to borrow a packet of milk, as always, thought Dibyendu.



The Gay Columnist
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Proloy had been living in Kidderpore since he was born. He could not imagine himself living outside. Hence, after he became a columnist at Telegraph and started earning, he shifted within Kidderpore itself. He adored Harisava street and somehow Proloy felt that the darkness stimulated him to write. It was as though his creative stimulus reacted to the faint luminiscence than anything else.

Though there was one more reason to move. Since his childhood, Proloy was a loner. Both his parents were highly read and had a bent towards literature and there were no marks for guessing Proloy's professional bent. Yet, somehow Proloy was different. He would never go out and play and rather go out with his mom to buy clothes, vegetables and loved it when she bargained. He loved watching his mom putting on make up. He always felt that men were deprived of a lot when it came to fashion. As years passed by, Proloy realised that there was a woman inside him that yearned to get out but could not because of social stigmas
attached. Worst things happened when he hit upon guys and could not control it.

Revealing the same to his parents had caused a huge hue and cry. His mother was supportive but lost hope when she realised that it was not a passing phase. His dad had threatened him and told him that he should get out of the house.And that is what Proloy did. His columns gained popularity and he soon became one of the leading columnists in the Telegraph.

He was proud of it and hoped that his parents thought the same. Then one day, tragedy struck when he heard of his mother's death. His 'maa' was no more. He was shattered. For once he thought his 'baba' would call him back. It never happened.


A Birthday forgotten

--------------------

It was Proloy's birthday and he wanted to see his Baba once and get his blessings. Every year Proloy would go with a cup of Kheer to his Baba's house. His ears would yearn to hear a wish and his shoulders would warm up for a hug. The ego though was too huge and the shame too damning for his father. Today was yet another birthday and there was yet another hope. He rang the ball. He rang it twice and then again. The door opened. The disgruntled Dibyendu looked on.

"Eei samanya kichu apnar jono" (This is something for you), said Proloy. His father did not utter a word.

"I thought it was Joyeeta", said Dibyendu. "Hows is work and all?", he asked.

"Good. My columns are being appreciated by everyone", said Proloy.

"No heart and no soul. Your generation is about quick bytes and short cuts. They will never understand true writing", said

Dibyendu skeptically. "And by the way, how has the taker become the giver. What is this kheer for?".

"Have you forgotten Baba? Its my birthday today", said Proloy in a strangely innocent way.

Dibyendu stopped walking. It was his son's birthday and he had forgotten. His Tuktu's Birthday. Thats what he called him when he was young. Thats what he named him when he was born. His heart felt heavy. He turned around. He put his hand on his head and said, "Happy Birthday Son. Hope you have great year ahead."

Proloy was hoping he would say more but Dibyendu kept the kheer and did not say a word. Proloy understood and took leave. As the door closed behind him, he could feel his eyes turn misty. He wished things were normal. He wished his baba understood. He wished so much that his baba would call him back.

Dibyendu on the other side was experienceing the same. Pain, emotions, guilt. He wanted to forgive his son but somehow could not. He felt ashamed of his son for what he was and that ashamed him about himself.

Life had to move on. Inside the chawls of the Harisava street lived many Dibyendus and Proloys and yet the street looked and sounded ecstatic on a Sunday.

V.V.Vikram