The Evening Bus to Lake Town They were friends. She was a friends girl, alone in the city, managing work and NIIT classes. He was away from home, had nothing to do after his sales job, and she was his everyday friend. They both met after work, shared a kabiraji cutlet, spoke about their frustrating jobs, and the future looked bleak. The girls boyfriend was trying his luck in Delhi, so it was his duty to look after her in his absence. Toward the end of the month the kabiraji cutlet gave way to roasted peanuts in the park and they were thirsty for tea in chipped china. Adi Sutripti, he still remembers. Somehow they never went to Basanta Cabin. Or did they? He cannot recall. And then, every evening, he would go with her in a bus all the way from Gariahat to Lake Town, to drop her to her PG. He forgets the route now, but it was always a packed bus with people hanging from the doors. His job was to find her a seat, or at least a manageable standing space in front of the ladies seats. And they would keep talking, sometimes him shouting from outside the bus through the open windows. Some nights they were late and the bus would be somewhat less crowded. He would get a chance to stand in front of her and keep talking. They talked of Durgapur, of Chittaranjan, or parents, of luchi on Sundays and home cooked food. They missed home. Mothers. But they were happy with the breeze every time the bus moved even on a summer evening. Ei toe besh hawa aschhe. The conductor would ask him to move from the ladies seats. Cant you see this is meant for the ladies? Why are you standing here? Craving for a touch? He would move, grumbling under his breath, but again come back. One day I will show them their place, he thought. And they continued as best friends for over a year. His house was back in New Alipore, almost an hours journey on the other side. But when he caught the last bus back home, there was always a smile on his face. A smile punctuated by a sudden irrational urge to beat up the conductor. He looked at the conductor of this bus. They all look the same, lean, haggard, smoking diesel fumes, saying the same things to young boys and girls. Eighteen years passed and he grew a mustache among other things. She married his friend, moved to Delhi. They still meet up sometimes and drink to the old days. And she still calls him from the airport, Soumo, we are coming, will you pick us up from the airport? The car is air-conditioned, but I would never know if they still crave to catch the evening breeze from a running bus. (with Sayantani Ghosh, Suchismita Guharoy, and Shuvo G. Roy...and a big hug to Soumo Thakur, who looked after my girl for a year.)
Posted on: Wed, 16 Jul 2014 17:38:52 +0000