Blood Line In the 60’s North Calcutta was still a quaint place to live in. It had an old world ambiance with relatively narrow roads and by-lanes; houses either standing shoulder to shoulder or with only a strip-of-a-lane in between. Amongst these were quite a few small and large houses with their own past. Each had a story to tell linked to the 19th or early 20th century – the British, erstwhile zamindars, reformers, intellectuals, performers, musicians and more. Even some of the street lights had a history – being originally gas-lit ones subsequently converted to electric. Each of the lamp posts had its own switch. Every evening a person from the electric supply company would come by on a cycle. He had a long pole fitted with a hook at the end with which he switched the lights on, one by one. Some times when there was a problem with a street light, two of the company employees came down in two separate cycles carrying one long ladder between them with its extreme ends precariously balanced on their shoulders, like a crow on a thin wire. It was fascinating to watch them manoeuvre, tackling the dogs, pedestrians and tight turns – all without setting a foot on the ground. Most neighbourhoods were decidedly middle class with a handful who had seen wild halcyon days. People resembled the buildings to some extent - shadow of one fell on the other, for good or bad. There was a relatively high number of Joint families with members spanning across the family tree living under the same roof in happiness or sorrow; warring or at peace. In that very neighbourhood lived a woman. She was in her early thirties; had two growing children and a life ahead. Her husband, a professor, was mostly away from home in pursuit of a dream of changing the world and the lives of the people with it. Police kept chasing him because they thought change was a threat to the ruler. So he had to be underground, running from one hideout to another. Naturally, there was no job or assured income. Life was uncertain for him, for her and for the small ones. Still the mother dreamt. She wanted the boys to get a chance in life. But there was no money, definitely not enough for both to go to school. So the younger one stayed at home. Naturally, he lost days, months and eventually a year or two. But the woman did not give up. She worked hard; tutored children of the locality; made toys out of clay; painted saris and sold them to people and small outlets. Relatives, friends and neighbours stood by her. But it still was hopelessly inadequate. Food menu was sparse and dinner-time was largely silent. Oil stained bulbs in the kitchen threw eerie shadows on the walls. Each day seemed to be the last they could endure. Life went on - slow and unsteady. Still the mother dreamt. Eventually, one day she coughed blood. But she could not take a break. More toys, more saris and still more kids to teach. She dragged through – one bloody day at a time. Finally, it wasn’t possible to carry on further. So someone took her or maybe she herself managed to reach the doctor. Most probably she had the elder one in tow. At around ten, he was already the man of the house. The doctor took time and checked. It’s TB, he observed, Quite severe. Mycobacterium tuberculosis sneak into the lung and keep eating away bit by bit; happens to people who have little to eat and lot to do, he continued. Some time ago people used to die for sure. But now, with medicine and good food theres absolutely nothing to fear!, the doctor assured. He did not know but she did. There was little money and two growing children. Nutrition was still a dream away. The family was instead getting used to police informers coming home at odd hours, posing as students - trying to figure out where the professor was; used to being followed on the road or even around the school. They were getting accustomed to looking over their shoulder whenever outside home. With Indo-Pak war breaking out the three learnt to stay close to each other whenever the sirens went off and black-outs followed. The only assurance amidst the darkness were the voice of the landlord from above and neighbours below, “Sister, we are all here, nothing to worry”. Meanwhile, bacteria kept relentlessly wasting away her lungs. Finally one day she could not hold them back anymore. Blood flowed all evening. The boys cowered in a corner and watched their mother being shredded from within. Neighbours knew it was time for a serious intervention. The landlord must have got in touch with the relatives and sat in a corner in mute solidarity. It was past mid-night when her elder brother walked-in. Despite the crisis, it was a tremendous sense of relief. Uncle can make things happen. And he did - packed all three and took them to his home. As the Humber Hawk rumbled through the deserted Calcutta streets, the woman’s flickering dream was rekindled. When they finally reached, there was an unfamiliar man with back-brushed hair, chest long beard and a sharp nose, waiting. That was the only way professor could see his ailing wife and struggling family Many years passed since the fateful night. Professor eventually returned home with an abscess in the liver which nailed him to bed at the hospital and then at home, for eighteen more months. During the same time he went down with lethal infection and pus from the abscess went up to his head. But he survived. Professor could not really change the world the way he dreamt of; instead time changed many of the fellow dreamers into the very ones they set out to unseat. He, however, remained steadfast in his believes despite in thinning company of people around. The latter seemed to hardly bother him. Struggle was on - for him and her. And it was not in vain. Professor passed away just over a decade ago. The woman is now around eighty. She still makes toys out clay. This time it is only because she wants to - for her grandchildren and for the sheer joy of it. Microbes left their trail - like the toppled poles and scattered debris after a storm. Her frame is frail. Only tufts left from her tussle. She fiddles around the house taking care of herself and trying to be of use to others; slightly unsure of herself and a bit short of hearing. She cant or doesnt want to?” ask the uninitiated or those with the arrogance of good health and ignorance of the sheer luck that made it so. The woman squats in front of her God or television or with a book, oblivious of the obtuse. Like a child who never has enough, she wants a part in all of life’s fun and the smallest conversations. Her sons have grown up. Their children too make toys out of clay and dabble with paint – just for fun. There’s no need to sell them anymore. No tears to be shed or years to be lost. Life for her sons is almost what she had dreamt it to be. The woman still coughs blood, sometimes.
Posted on: Thu, 14 Nov 2013 17:41:22 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015