Baba the Skunk and other stories
When baba realized that I would be writing this blog then he laughed an embarrassed laugh. Even more reason for me to embarrass him. Ha ha ha...
So, he refused to wear this dress again even when I wore all my puja dresses and showed him. So, he was getting ready to go to a student's place and luckily wore this dress again. I clicked this picture against his will.
The laal-gengi's dilemma
The man wearing the red t-shirt (or laal-genji) finally boarded down the bus and the polluted and humid Kolkata afternoon air smelled like roses for the first time to him. Unfortunately, the poor man had developed severe nausea and retched many times over drains that fell on his way back home. So, when he turned the corner that led to the street he had called home, the cha-wala Chhotu da called him loudly. The laal-genji only greeted the cha-wala and ran back home. Chhotu da did not understand why Laal-Genji did not dilly-dally and talk to Raman Kaku who was enjoying a good gossip and lebu-cha sitting on the rickety wooden bench as usual. It was so uncommon for Laal-Genji to not great his favorite Raman Kaku. Only if making relaxing cups of tea could make Chhotu da an antor-yami, he would use his clairvoyance to peep into Laal-Genji's mind.
Laal-Genji had a dark complexion just like dark chocolate and greying hair. And so did the Skunk man on the bus. So, Laal-Genji had initially been so eager to share the seat with the Skunk man relishing in his resemblance to Raman Kaku but now he decided otherwise. Raman Kaku had always played with Laal-Genji when he used to be a child and told the whole lot of children in the locality stories. Raman Kaku was an excellent story teller and so much so that Laal-Genji and his lot lovingly called these stories as 'Kakur jhuli'. Yes, India truly is going gender neutral. The old granny's story collection is still called 'Thakumar jhuli' but Uncle Raman of the neighbourhood could rival this Granny any day when it came to story telling. Anyway, Laal-Genji found the stench so potent from the Skunk man that even his favorite Raman Kaku was reminding Laal-Genji of it. So, he ran for his life because he was sure that his poor little nose had had to withstand more than its capacity in that one bus ride itself. So, his nose was no longer at any risk as it had been damaged beyond repair already.
He urgently knocked at his door and hit the bell again and again fearing that his partially deaf elderly mother might not have heard it. And, an irritated but warm voice of his maa called back, "Oh baba! Coming! Coming!" Then opening the door with a clang, she sang proudly, 'The bus did not delay today, you aren't late a bit. Now, khoka, go and have bath and I will serve you hot lunch. Don't delay, it is one o' clock already, eating at a-bela is not good for health..."
"Maa", snapped the young man, "I am not hungry yet, I cannot eat anything this bela, keep my lunch, I will eat it for dinner, later! I need to bath!" Saying so, Laal-Genji rushed towards the bathroom armed with a gaamcha and ignoring his mother's calls, "Ayi Khoka! Ayi Khoka! What's wrong? This is your favorite, Basanti pulao r kadhai panner..."
Only if the tender and tired old woman would know how her Khoka, her beloved son, was crying in shower after hearing what she had cooked for him. 'O maa go!', thought Khoka who had turned the shower on so that flowing water might somehow muffle his mother's tender, tantalizing voice. On hearing the name of the dishes, his salivary gland gave way and his mouth demanded the lunch of his choice while the nerves in his nose started a shrill protest. No, he was hungry and he wanted to eat and even had the appetite to, only if there were a switch to turn off the nose, how can Krishna, his creator, not have remembered to give nose lids for noses like he gave eyelids for eyes? Khoka began to curse everyone, his nose, his creator, his work, his mother, his food, everything, all except the Skunk Man remembering whom would be a catastrophe to the plight of his poor nose, watering mouth, and grumbling stomach. 'Hey Bhagovan! Dear Gods! He was tired, hungry, and needed food and rest but his nose would not stop protesting against the vivid images of the Skunk Man that his mind kept showing it!"
After Khoka emerged out of the bathroom wrapping his modesty in a clean and damp gaamcha, his mother looked at him questioning, concerned. Before she could remind him of his lunch again, he disappeared into his room and slammed his door close. There, he changed, tears of frustration falling off rapidly blinking eyes, wiping them off with the damp piece of cloth that had saved his modesty.
But he stormed out of the room as soon as he had his spotless white shirt and maroon-black stripped boxers on. "Maa", he shouted to the concerned, curious, wrinkled face, " Do you know what happened on the bus?"
"Did the conductor bicker Khoka?", asked the mother for bus conductors in Kolkata can sometimes be really really terse.
"No, Maa, not the conductor! A bloke, a bloke with greying hair! He was sitting beside me!"
And his nose protested again filled with the non-existent but potent foul smell of a shirt washed in sweat and dust for three days without interval. Khoka's eyes could not smell but strangely, they joined hands with his nose and shed tears of anger in protest as his nose made a sniffing noise and started breathing rapidly.
His tongue continued, " And, and, O MAA GO! KI DOOR-GON-DHO! I could not stomach the smell! And now I am hungry, thirsty, and exhausted but nothing agrees to pass down my throat!"
And poor Laal-Genji Khoka began retching in vain while rushing to the nearest kitchen sink.
And, the old mother's throat vibrated in laughter. Strange is my Krishna who created us all. Tears of joy, tears of anger, tears of sorrow, and so on are not unheard of. But, angry peals of laughter! Khoka was hearing them for the first time from someone for the first time in the past 38 years of his life. My God! Just what is impossible in this world?
"And you know Maa?", spoke Khoka more coherently as his retching gave way to speech, "He looked like a bhodro-lok, he was wearing a shirt and pants like any decent man! He even looked educated and polite. He looked like a sik-khok, like some kind of an ideal teacher or something! Who will believe that people who look that civilized can also smell that bad? It looked like he had even bathed! But Maa, he was even farting noiselessly! O Maa Go!"
And the poor old Maa hit her forehead twice or thrice with the hardest part her calloused palm had and went inside her bedroom. Near the bed lay a perfume bottle which she sprayed generous amounts of into a hanky until the piece of clothed literally dripped with the sweet jasmine smelling liquid. Then, she handed it over to her Khoka and held it near her retching son's nose.
"Maa!", cried Khoka in anguish, "Now even the jasmines will begin to smell like that bloke! Don't make me smell this perfume otherwise I will never be able to use it again!"
"KI RE! What do you think you are! Some kind of Maharaja? Laat-saheb?Zamindar? Am I your mother or what? Wake up early because Khoka is coming back home, go to the market to buy fresh paneer, chop and grind onion and garlic because Khoka loves it that way! And now, I can't even eat my lunch on time! Are you my master and am I your slave?", even the old woman had had enough.
Khoka softened a bit and said, "Maa, please take your lunch, I will eat everything for dinner, yes, I will smell this hanky too. My mistake, Maa! Please, please don't cry!"
The old woman shouted,"It is not your mistake, curse our fates, baba!". And saying so, she retreated.
The Laal-Genji wala bloke stood there feeling sad, guilty, humiliated, childish, and began to curse his selfishness.
It is so strange, Krishna, the way you gave us emotions and love and misunderstanding at the same time. We often end up hurting whom we love maximum. We want to release our emotional turmoil on whom we love, forgetting about the emotional turmoil of their own. We often disappoint, hurt egos, and feel very callous towards the ones whom we love because we have so much of emotional baggage and only so much strength to lift it all and walk with ease. We want to hand them over to our loved ones but forget that they are laden with burdens of their own and come to us to share it with us too.
The old woman lived a monotonous life where the younger generation sought to ignore her. The new fangled technology was far beyond her grasp. Her usual crowd of friends in the temple were her equals, she could not shower her motherly love on them. And when her son returned back home, she could be motherly again, she could pamper her Khoka with her Maa-yer-hath-er-ranna, her delicious Bengali cuisine which Khoka would miss elsewhere in the world. It gave her a purpose, a meaning to live her life, a way to love and be loved and feel wanted, respected, and appreciated.
Khoka too would miss the homeliness of his mother's home, her non-stop fussing over her, her caring for him, her chastising him, her feeding him and her making her bed despite her old age and aching joints. He missed massaging his Maa's feet with mustard oil, its strong aroma waking him up for the time being from the stupor of boredom that the overcrowded paying guest life gave him. When he was younger, he craved for freedom and life in some other city as a paying guest appealed to him. The prospect of being surrounded by peers his own age was so exciting. Now that he had it all, he realized the cacophony of the entire situation he was in, the utter homelessness of being in a strange city as a guest made to pay for his meals and lodging. He too would look forward to returning home where he belonged, its peace and warmth making him feel worthy again. And, foodie he was because his mother was the best home cook who ever lived!
Alas! The mind Krishna, which makes us so self-centered is always conflicting with the heart which knows to love and be loved unconditionally. Mind is emotional and heart is rational but we often succumb to the pressure of our mind and forget rationality and argue and fight, hurt and be hurt! And that was the situation with our dear old lady now and her son came to make up for it.
"Maa, I am sorry! I just... I was tired, I was irritated, of course, I am hungry now, let me serve us lunch, come, please be seated.", Laal-Genji apologized to his mother.
"Na, Na, Baba! That foul man saw that you are so nice and innocent and came to sit beside you! It is all his fault!", the matriarch reconciled with her son too.
"Next time, I will take my bike to Howrah, then this won't happen again... only if you allow.", added Khoka sadly.
"I would have told you to take your bike to Howrah this time too but you did not have your helmet. I could not risk it, son. It is too dangerous and busy during the office hours. Now, who borrowed that helmet from you?", asked the old woman with better spirits.
"Pentu took it two weeks back and is yet to return it.", replied Khoka truthfully who knew full well that the elderly matriarch would never let him ride his bike all the way to Howrah from Behala, Kolkata. Yet, agreeing on something is the best way to soothe each other's ego and reconcile to a point where logic and rational diplomacy can lead way to peace.
"All take advantage of your meekness, baba. Pentu Gosai, that man on the bus, everyone. Now, let me serve you some muri, when you feel hungry this evening, tell me, I will give you your lunch then.", said the tender matriarch and lifted herself off the bed and walked firmly towards her kitchen.
Khoka's nose again gave a shrill protest at the mention of this bloke's name who was the reason why his mother was hurt but he agreed anyway. A bit of puffed rice soaked in water and sweetened with sugar would both fill his stomach and not torture his screaming nose again. Then, he could smell the sweet smelling hanky and let his mind drift into a pleasant siesta. Then, he would wake up in the evening and eat all the delicious stuff he had been so eager to return home to.
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Finally, around 1:30 pm, the mother and her Khoka had their lunch with each heartily agreeing with the other's opinions of anything and everything.
"The Gosai boy, Pentu, was always like this. He would take pencil, kolom, eraser, everything from you back in school and never return it. Now when I meet Pentu, I will make him go back home and return your helmet, my son, we are meek people, everyone takes advantage of us.", the old and wrinkled woman with a shining face said getting hearty nods of agreements from her Khoka, and occasional 'Hmm.." too as a sign of vigorous support form her son.
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So, that evening when the poor Pentu Gosai was returning home after a hectic day, the matriarch called him and asked about her son's helmet.
"Oh! Yes Kakima! I had completely forgotten, yes, I will return it tomorrow morning when I go for work.", replied the newly wed man wiping his brow with his hanky. He was desperate to go back home and steal another glimpse at his notun-bou, his shy bride, who was now his obsession. His absent mindedness gave him away and the wise matriarch could almost read minds.
"Tui Jaanees? Khoka could not eat anything today, he is vomiting all day since he returned, you know?. You will go home and eat cha-muri with your notun-bou, but what about your friend? He lying on bed because you did not return his helmet, son!", chided Pentu's Kakima.
"Did Khoka eat something funny? Does he have indigestion? Kakima? I will just return and take him to the doctor right now?", asked Pentu, the chele-belar-bondhu, the boyhood friend of Khoka, concerned and confused unable to find the connection between not having a helmet and not being able to eat.
"I said that he could not eat anything, then how could he eat something funny? Just go home and return his helmet baba, that would be so much favour!", said Khoka's mother. Pentu dare not enquire further as the matriarch looked really angry so he meekly obeyed.
After ten minutes, Pentu returned with Khoka's helmet and the Kakima accepted it with a nod. She did not even feel like looking at the boy Pentu, the forgetful, and whipped around and walked back inside. Pentu found no reason to dilly-dally so he walked back home to the company of Modhu, his honey-like bride.
Inside the house, Khoka lay sprawled on the bed watching Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, his favorite movie, for the thousandth time in his time. As his mother returned him the helmet and placed it on his bedside table, he burped and relished his delicious meal of the sweet pulao and savoury panner again and thanked his mother with a full heart.
"No matter how old you get, Khoka, you will always be my Khoka and need me", said the matriarch with loving superiority as she left the room. Khoka had to silently agree 'Maa is always right'.
Happy ending!
Cheers to all hard working home-makers and their home cooking!
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