Brevity may be the soul of wit. Since this narrative is neither witty nor
does it come with any baggage of soul, I choose to describe things here in ‘vilavari’, meaning lengthy detail in Tamil. Now, you can just skip
the rest of this narrative at this very point and attend to better things. Or you can struggle to finish reading the
piece and then curse me. But don’t say I
did not forewarn.
Where shall I begin this final part of the trilogy? (Trilogy? But of course! The term is fashionable and I
like it. Scroll back to my 'Ratabari Rishkawallah' and 'Memories of another life' and you now see why I call it a trilogy) If it should begin
at the beginning, then the Sugar Mill administrative Officer it should be. Forgot the gentleman’s name, too bad. Ungrateful it is to forget the good soul who
arranges a house for you at your first
request, that too at a princely monthly rent of Rs.90/-.
When I got posted to Chargola, I thought it was the end of
my career life, even before it began. The
posting order was a bolt from the blue and it was a brutal wake-up call for me
to go out and face life. What splendid
six months we five spent in Silchar and Badarpur! What fun and frolic! All that is going to end. The joy of Ambicapatty and the lovely land-daughters. What the hell, I did not even have the
faintest idea of where on earth Chargola was. Not many locals too had heard of the place. Just as we had no idea of where Cachar was some six months back. But Cachar was presently discovered by us and it needed no Columbus. The Cachar adventure was just a trailer, I realized later. The
main film was yet to begin. In July
1990, the trailer abruptly ended and I was suddenly catapulted into the main
film called Chargola. I felt like crying
when I received the transfer order but two things prevented me from doing so –
the first being the age-old saying that ‘men don’t cry’ and the second of a more
recent vintage and more truthful, that
crying in my Bank only begets more crying.
To make things somewhat better for me and to prepare me for
the solitary confinement ahead, my friend Samal suggested that I move
to R.K.Nagar and stay there with him temporarily, till I found out a house in
Chargola. This Nagar (nagaro for sylhettis) was just 7
kms from Chargola and I can commute.
Doggy buses ply regularly between the two places. The ones which took birth as trucks and gradually evolved
into buses - the front will look like a run-down Benz truck and the rest of the creaky vehicle made of tin sheets, with holes
gorged out on the sides. The holes went by
the name windows. The seats were of back
and butt breaking wood.
When Samal broached this idea, I asked him ‘Are there hotels
in R.K.Nagar or Chargola?’ He looked at
me strangely and I could as well have been from another planet, judging by his
look.
“Hotel? Gaon hai
bhai, gaon” he said and my heart sank. Reluctantly
leaving Silchar behind, we both caught the ASTC bus to Dullabcherra at 2.30
that fateful Sunday afternoon. And alighted at nagaro as dusk was beginning to fall. Samal asked me to make myself comfortable in
the new home. He can say, because he
already has made himself comfortable in a house in which he himself is a
trespasser. The original occupant was on
a temporary transfer to some other place and he had allowed Samal to occupy his
house till he was away. And this Samal
had kind of sub-let the house to me, even without asking the original owner!
Good soul, Samal, he still is. The
perfect host, as I am to re-discover years later, at his Bhubaneswar home.
Coming to Calculus, sorry, Chargola, I discovered to my amazement that my Bank’s
Chargola branch was not actually in Chargola!
It was once in Chargola village,
within the Cachar Sugar Mills compound.
The mill closed down, business floundered and thus the bank branch, ever
the fair-weather friend, shifted to a
relatively busier place called Anipur.
But the name of the branch still remained Chargola. RBI rules you know, branch can shift but name
can’t change…The day I joined, my branch
manager heaped effusive words of sympathy on me. ‘Why they put you
here? That too as a Rural Development
Officer? How can you talk to the
customers? You don’t even know the language. How can you live in this place…” with frequent interspersions of ‘Don’t worry,
I will help you’. Help he did.
The first day itself this gentleman, the administrative officer of the
sugar mill (the first para wallah) walked in and my manager introduced me to
him. Narrated my plight to him and
requested him to provide accommodation for me at the Sugar Mill quarters.
A word or two about the Sugar mill, Sugar mill employees and the Sugar mill
quarters. The sugar manufacturing plant
was put up by the State Government some 15 years back, in that backward village
of Chargola. Sugar cane cultivation was
encouraged to be taken up all around the village. Our bank opened a branch right inside the
mill complex. The bank extended finance
for all the sugarcane cultivators. Paid
all the salaries of the huge army of staff at the mill. Extended personal loans and all such stuff to
the staff. After a few years, you
guessed it, the mill went sick, got into ICU and one day was very dead. Production halted completely. Machinery went
into rust and disrepair. Our bank’s
loans went kaput, cane cultivation stopped.
In short everything dropped dead. But the staff remained! Not a single worker was retrenched or sacked,
and not a single worker took retirement. ( no, Assam was not ruled by the Communists then). They all happily remained on the rolls on subsistence wages i.e. some
minimum salary for not reporting to work.
Everyone had some private business to keep the kitchens running. They need not even come to the mill office
and sign the muster, not even on pay day, because pay was automatically
credited to their bank accounts with our branch. They were provided with staff quarters when
the mill was running and they continued to remain there with families. Two of the staff quarters were allotted to the
bank staff and even after the mill stopped, the quarters continued to be
occupied by us. The bank and its staff were just extended family for the sugar
mill people.
It was one of those quarters the administrative officer was
kind enough to allot to me. I was in
seventh heaven or cloud nine or some such numeral-tagged place suspended in
space when I got the allotment letter, but I should have known better. I should have contemplated on why that
particular quarters remained unoccupied all these years. When I landed up after office at that
‘quarters’, I was shell shocked. For
one, the quarters was not any quarters at all.
It was a ramshackle, dilapidated Assam type hut complete with a thatched
roof, bamboo fencing and cardboard walls.
The entrance door was just a functional swinging contraption fastened to
metal hinges to ensure some opacity from onlookers outside. It did not even have any pretence of trying
to prevent a burglar from entering. It
needed no lock, there just was no point.
For, with a push and a light shove, it would give away, the lock
remaining in tact. But there was no
need for me to bother, since I had nothing to hide from the burglar, even if he
entered. My earthly possessions at that
time would have made a sadhu- sanyasin blush.
I paid Rs.20 to a maid (who eventually would become our
kajer lok, our mashi..) who cleaned up the interiors. The hutment had one hall, a bed room and a
small kitchen and the toilet. It had not seen any
repairs or upkeep for the last 15 years ever since the mill was set up. Not a single time the straw on the roof was
changed. When it rained, it poured cats
and dogs. Inside the house, I mean. Another lesson learnt. The thatched roof was just to block sunlight
and it had no wherewithal to block heavier stuff like rain. Countless rainy nights were spent inside that
house with my single cot moved to the centre-island of the ‘hall’ and I blissfully asleep, not
bothering about the pouring rain water all around me.
Chargola abounded in snakes.
At night, strange creepy sounds would emerge from the rooftop and with
my heart in my mouth, I would wonder what’s causing the noise. It was no ghost, I was sure, since even
ghosts deserted the place when the mill shut down. Some said it was cats and others said
snakes. Having seen no cat during day
time, I was pretty sure it was the reptile variety making those noises right
over my head. Had they fallen on my head, I
would have attained martyrdom at the age of 23.
They did not and so here I am, penning these lines, quite alive. I
immediately bought mosquito nets and felt safe, ensconced within its confines
at night. The mosquito net doubled up
for me as a snake-net.
A word about the landscape of the colony. Each dwelling unit was so thoughtfully conceived
and beautifully executed. Imagine this
picture-postcard scene. A velvety grassy
meadow, hillocks yonder, a small stream flowing, blue sky, birds chirping, the setting sun, no
vehicle, no pollution, a scene not very unlike the famous vistas wallpaper of Windows. On that meadow, trenches dug alongside the circumference of a
circle. With a space of about 20 feet
separating two trenches. Houses built on
those trenches. From the ground level up from the meadow, the individual houses would be barely visible, as they spring up from some 10 feet below ground level. Imagine something like this. And imagine I was staying in that piece of
heaven for about 2 years. By paying a
pittance. The only flipside being I had
snakes for company.
Besides snakes, I had a few interesting people too for
company. Talking of company, what is a colony without the people in it? Opposite my villa, to the right, was my manager’s house.
A typical Dr.Jekyll and Mr.Hyde, my manager. Inside office, he was ever the serious, poker
faced manager Sen Babu out to extract his pound of flesh from recalcitrant
borrowers. By 4 p.m. he would shed his official cloak and transform
into a typical Bengali fish lover. Office was officially till 5 but at 4 the fish-sellers would start spreading
their day’s catch right below our Bank. We would shut the bank, and troop out to the
balcony. Sen Babu’s countenance would
brighten up. “See that Hilish, ki darun…
Aajke ki nebo….Ki ba kotho kore?” He
would marvel at the varieties on display.
Slowly saunter from one vendor to another, to ensure the catch is real
fresh and no seller dare double-cross him. After a great mental struggle, he
would decide on what variety to buy and make the purchase after tough
bargaining. By this time, it would be
5. Ayub Ali would be waiting for us at
the rishkaw stand and perched on his chariot, we would majestically make our way in the cool evening breeze to the quarters about a mile
away. Time for Sen Babu to transform
from the gourmet to the artistic and poetic Ananto Da, after reaching
home. Ananto Da was an exponent of Rabindra
Sangeet. He was very shy and reserved
and it took a lot of cajoling and pleading to make him agree to render a
song. The way he would close his eyes
and render soulfully a ‘Gagane, Gagane, aapnor mone, ki khela…” would bring
tears to the listener. As it did even to
me, one quite clueless about
Rabindrasangeet and Bengali. Most of the
evenings were spent in this Sangeet mehfil environment.
Consider my company to the right. The wife-beating Sarkar,
despite him being the only unemployed in the household and his spouse being the
real earning member, notwithstanding the pittance the male Sarkar got every
month from the mill. But you have to see
the way he talks to us bank folks. Very
polite and respectful, always part
closing his mouth with his left palm. I
initially thought it was out of some feudal-type respect but later on realized
that it was to block the odour of alcohol.
Where on earth in Chargola he managed to get his regular supply from, I used
to wonder. (It was quite a while before
I figured out where from. The discovery
did help!)
Or, the company to my left?
The Banerjees? The company that impacted me the most during my two year stint in the sugar mill
quarters (refer last paragraph for more graphic details).The boisterous man
with a lovely wife and an adorable kid.
He was the primary school teacher in Dullabcherra Govt. school. Off to school whenever he pleased and out of it,
again, whenever it suited him. (Teaching
profession in India was and still is one of the best jobs in the world!) Banerjee Babu could talk about any subject in
the world, he was the veritable chatterbox Chatterjee, rather the blabber-box Banerjee
in that colony. He would be there, sitting on the porch and watch us enter at 5
o’clock. Invariably his welcome question
would be “Nomoshkar, mohan babu, aajke ki – mach, mangsho or dim?” (What today,
fish, meat or eggs?) I first used to think he was kidding since he knew that I
could not cook. Later realized that this
is the most common greeting of Bengalis. Not without reason, someone remarked that the easiest way to the
Bengali’s heart is through his stomach. Banerjee could have given Sarkar a run for his money in wife-beating, for I could daily overhear (no need to actually overhear, our
houses' walls were made of wooden sheets so it was not even windproof, let alone
sound proof) the high pitched quarrels the husband and the wife exchanged every
night. But wife-beating he could not
actually accomplish however much he apparently hated his wife, for two reasons
– for one, his wife was actually lovely and beautiful (as most Bengali ladies
are) and second, his wife never feared any one and used to pay back abuse with
abuse. She could well have been the lone
husband- beater in that complex, well, but what happened between those four walls,
who knew?
Or the company right opposite? The soft-spoken post-master of Anipur Sub
post office, Taslimuddin Khan? The
density of population in his quarters was the highest in the entire complex. While I had the entire 500 square feet of my
villa (!)at my single disposal, he had to share the same space with 7 of his
family members. One wife and six children. The eldest of his offsprings appeared to be
his younger brother and the youngest, his grand-son. I used to marvel at his ability of
accomplishing what he accomplished within that 500 sq. feet of space. Who said it needs privacy to procreate? Now all this is in a lighter vein and truth
being told, Mr.Khan was one of the finest gentlemen I have moved with. A man of few words and belonging to that rare
specimen of Govt. servants who toiled eight hours in office. Imagine the sub postmaster of Anipur village
reaching office daily at 9 in the morning and toiling away till 5 in the
evening. And by the way, his family
members numbered 7 when I entered Sugar Mill and it remained at the same number
when I left. Again quite an achievement
for Mr.Khan, against all odds. Did I say when I left? Yes, the last paragraph
is coming very soon.
There were others – my beloved Mashi, my 60 year old house
keeper-cum-cook-cum-well wisher. This
soul was also loaned to me by my manager babu, used to loaning he is. She
used to work only in Ananto da’s bari but when I arrived, as usual, my manager
took pity on me, on my inability to cook, inability to manage the house-hold
chores and a general inability to do anything productive. So Mashi was forced into doing part-time
employment for 4 hours daily in my home, 2 hours in the morning and two in the
evening. The kind soul must have
departed from earth even as I write these lines but she is one soul I would
pray for anytime. For she kept me from
starving. For she cooked me those lovely
dal-bath and crispy parattas day in and day out. She swept the floor daily, did odd jobs and
never said no to any request, reasonable or unreasonable. No sick leave or no kam-chori.
Time to come to the last paragraph. Two years passed since I moved into Sugar
Mill quarters. I had conquered my fears and
cleared the cob-webs by then. What
looked like unsurmountable obstacles when I entered now seemed child’s play. I
had learned to live with my snakes. I
had learned to live with 15 hour power-cuts.
(God knew, even at that time, that I would eventually settle down in
Tamil Nadu, so he had prepared me well for the adversities). I had learned to bargain with the fish
seller. I had learned to do the rounds
of interior villages on Ayub Ali’s rickshaws
for my recovery drives. I had
learned to attend Gram Sabhas with the village Mukhiya. More important, I had learned how to reject
loan proposals, and was almost on the verge of becoming a well-rounded rural
banker. I had learned to spend hours of solitude
night after night, without electricity, with only the moonlight and Murphy two-in-one for company. Listening to BBC’s “This is London… Tattada tatta
tattada tatta....” lilting symphony that
precedes the world news. And Radio
Bangladesh’s crystal clear reception of Tagore’s “Ami chini go chini tomake,
ogo Bideshini..” and the static filled Akashvani’s 7 p.m. district news
bulletin of Silchar radio station (Gothokhal Hailakandi jilai ,blah, blah, blah......…). But all good things must come to an
end. My tryst with good times at the
cachar sugar mills came to an end unexpectedly at about 10 p.m. on a winter
night. My left side neighbour plugged in
a high watt bulb in the outside verandah
to the socket and switched it on. The
bulb shone for an hour or two. And then
it exploded. He did not know. He was inside the house, immersed in that
night’s tiff with his beautiful spouse.
The small explosion (short circuit we later learnt) produced a small
fire. It spread fast. I could spot it from my home
immediately. I rushed and immediately
called out “Banerjee Babu, agun legeche.
Bediye ashun..” before he could hear me, gather his wits and rush out
with his family, the entire thatched roof of his home had caught fire. Within no time, it spread to my adjoining
hutment. Our only priority during those
nerve-wracking 10 minutes was to remove the LPG cylinders from both the houses
and whatever else we could salvage. I
could salvage my suitcase containing my important documents and
certificates. Could salvage nothing else
as within 10 minutes the raging fire swallowed everything. Within a matter of minutes, I found myself without a roof, under a starry
sky, in biting cold, with that solitary suitcase and the lungi I was clad in. All lost.
All my earthly possessions. My immediate concern was how to go to office
the next morning. For all my bravado, I
could not dare venturing into office in a lungi, no not even in Chargola.
But I need not have worried.
For in all adversities during my stay in Assam, unsolicited help always came
my way. This time it was Senapati, my
deputy manager, who took me into his house that very night, lungi and all. The next day, I did manage to attend office
in his oversized pants. Later events can
fill another story. Ah, did I say “last para” in the previous para? Sorry guys, my tales don’t seem to end. The last paragraph never manages to keep its
promise of being the last. What can I
do? Perhaps there is a case for another sequel to
this narrative. A whole life can't be capsuled into three or four parts. Sequels will continue as long as the journey of life continues.... Despite my warning in
the first para of this being the last of a trilogy. By the way, what do you call a four part
narrative, a quadrilogy or a quadrology?.......
