When I was all of 14 years old, the end of Annual exams signified diving head long into preparations and rehearsals for the Swiss Park Rabindra Jayanti programme which used to be held with much fervour on the 9th of May every year. In 2009, we decided to proceed with our biggest initiative so far, a stage adaptation of the Tagore classic Daakghor and after due deliberations (read catfights between the wives in charge of the event), I was roped in to play the lead protagonist Amal. Though I tried to mug up the dialogues and nuances of expression with an enthusiasm I never exhibited towards formal studies, a major crisis was brewing. No actress in my age group could be finalised to play Amals best friend and confidante Sudha. To everyone elses chagrin, a neighbour suggested her maids daughter Mawna who accompanied her mother to work everyday, was exactly my age and had a decent diction. She lived in the erstwhile Tollygunge Rail Colony slum by the train tracks which had grown like a snaking weed and occupied many bighas of railway land, a naked scene of disproportionation in an otherwise civilised middle class locale. Mawna gave it her best shot with her limited education and put up a stellar performance on event day. While Amals lifeless body was being whisked away from stage, Sudhas repeated nevertheless futile cries for her friend,dripping with melancholy and longing, had the audience in tears. Our month-long efforts had finally borne fruit when the Councillor stepped up onto the stage to lock us both in an embrace. I never saw Mawna after that night until we chanced into each other near Bijan Setu today. Though she had blossomed into a handsome young woman, her face had not changed much; she still wore those distinctive pigtails. Only the bangles on her wrist and the broad streak of vermilion across her hairline were the two indelible marks of her bondage. She told me that she was married off to a small time contractor in Picnic Garden soon after the Railways razed the slum in 2011 to make way for some visually appealing trackside greenery. She was also the mother of a one and a half year old boy and was going to a clinic in Ballygunge to fetch his vaccination certificates. When I asked her if she had a reasonably happy married life and if her husband was good to her, she slowly nodded and put up a wry smile that spoke volumes. Once we had bid each other goodbye and I was in the auto, I realised how destiny had reversed our roles. Amal had survived the grind of fate because of his liberal, privileged upbringing, but Sudha and the artist in her had died a little inside everyday,her childhood murdered bit by bit by the shackles of poverty and her dreams crushed by the machinations of a blind,conservative social structure which is especially unforgiving to the less privileged. The autowallah stretched out his palm and irritatedly asked for the fare. We had reached Rashbehari.....
Posted on: Sun, 30 Mar 2014 19:46:30 +0000
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