As the Airport-Jadavpur mini turned its nose away from Moulali, and right towards Convent Road, I adjusted the volume on my earphone and settled down for the second half of my bus-ride back to home. Usually after leaving Ananda Palit Road, the journey becomes a bit easier with less traffic signals, less traffic jams and increased reading on the speedometer dial.
But tonight was really boring. I was already late. I was supposed to reach home by 7 o'clock but now it seemed that wasn't going to happen before 7.50. The traffic jams from Ballygunge Phari to Park Circus had really pissed me off (may be they were like this every weekday around 7.00/7.30 pm; it's just that I usually return home not before 9). The inside of the bus was crowded with tired people with grim faces that could depress you enough to consider jumping out the window. Really, I mean sometimes the people around you inside buses all seem to be contemplating suicide - and the mood can be very infectious. But I guess with the hot and humid weather outside, I should have empathized with them.
Then suddenly, it happened! A fresh cool breeze wafted in through the windows and woke me up from my slumber. "What's this?" I thought, as I fumbled to put my specs back on which I had taken off to give my eyes some rest. I looked left and right. No, no, I wasn't imagining things - there it was, again, that chilly wind. . . .And wow, guess what, now I was beginning to sense that peculiar earthy smell that always signals "Aha! The rains are here!"
But my fellow passengers were still busy looking pathetically moronic! What are they, stupid?! Can't they smell that "soda maatir gandho", when the cold waters from the clouds hit the dry, parched earth after a deep-frying summer? I guess not. Because the lady and the gentleman sitting in the next seat to my left were also peering outside for a clue. Just then the bus swerved right and came up onto the over-bridge above the rail tracks coming from (or going to?) Sealdah. Blasts after blasts of dusty, earthy and cold air blew in from our left and right. Finally, was this it? Were we going to have a Kaalboisakhi after waiting for so long?
As we were entering Palmerbazar I caught my first glimpse, not of rain, but of a wet road at a distance to my left. Damn! Now we are in business! Then the first droplets of water hit the windowpanes, shone bright yellow in the sodium vapour lamps from the street, and a light drizzle greeted us. Well it was all wonderful. . . .but "dil hai ki maanta nahi"! How about more, a little bit more. . . .no, on second thought, a lot more?
Shit man! What was wrong with this traffic signal? In front the storm was picking up pace on the open Beleghata Main Road; my head was being Clubbed To Death (soundtrack from The Matrix - its got an hypnotic rhythm); it was looking like I wouldn't make it home before eight; and all this mini could do was to stand in line before a tortoise-paced red light with a bunch of sweaty, smelly (including me), lifeless men and women. Aarghhhhhh. . . .
. . . .ghhroovroooom. . . . the bus came to life! The signal has turned green. Come on man, step on the accelerator! Yes, finally we're on the main road, taking the Nor'wester head on. Ahh, the first drops of rain flying in the wind to come and touch my face, hands. . . . "where's the party tonight?'' - right here, inside Jadavpur-Airport mini. Hey, wait, what are those idiots doing!!! Oh, no, they're going to close the windows. . . . ha-ha, that's right, I bet those bolts are more than a match for your bicep-tricepless hands! Come on, Mr. Window, show them who is the real "palwan" here. . . . shit, shit, the bolts are moving! Khriiishht! Hmmm, well I think that has stopped the rains from coming in - so no more of these sinful acts, right? F***, they are going for all of them!!! No, no, please, isn't there at least one person in those seats on my right who can understand my pain and sorrow? Hey you, yes you, the JU guy - face buried in that electrical or electronics engineering book or whatever with those cryptic diagrams, speakers buried in both ears blurting out who-cares-what-song - do yourself a favor, look up and look outside! Wah, all you could see looking up was that the water was ruining your Rs.200/- worth of a colourless, flavourness book, huh? Yeah. So please, go ahead, and close the window.
I think you get the picture that I was getting sort of desperate. Come on now - with Khalbali stirring up your neurotransmitters, the co-passengers driving up your rage, the traffic jam pinning down your hopes and the wind and rain pumping up your adrenaline - how could you not be? So as the bus limped up&over&down Beleghata Khalpol, I chalked out an escape route. All my roads lead into the rain, and there I must go.
It wasn't an absolutely illogical proposition. By then I realized the traffic condition was really hellish tonight. If I took the road left from Alochaaya cinema hall straight towards Phoolbagan Kalimandir and walked fast enough, I could reach home in the same amount of time it would take sitting like a jackass inside this prison-like bus, with all its inmates. Yes, there was a time when shouting "here comes the rain" beside of my ear would shoot up my body temperature to 101-102 degrees - but that was in the distant past. And after gulping down a litre or two of the magical waters offered by the sea at Puri and coming back unscathed, what could this sweet, old rainwater possibly do?
Thus, I kept one eye on the sizes of the raindrops outside and one eye on my possible routes of action. No, no, the drops are too big and heavy. . . . umm, well they are small now but if I get down here I'll have to walk way too long. . . . can I listen to Dhan Te Nan as I make my way through the storm, you know, to spice it up a bit more. . . . no, not a good idea, specially after my antics at Puri with my previous mobile. So better switch it off and keep it inside the bag, and also wrap up my copies and documents in a plastic sheet, just in case. I'll sing my own Dhan Te Nan in the rain. . . .
So as Alochaaya approached, I was done with the packing. The man sitting to my left probably guessed that I was getting off when he saw me put my mobile inside my bag. I didn't tell him that my home was still about a kilometer away. May be that could have squeezed out some expression from his face. . . .
"Alochaaya", the conductor was shouting! "Shit, do I really have get off so fast?" "Wait, think about it". . . . you have an Annyaprashon ceremony to attend to just after getting back home, think about the fish fry, the polao, the chicken curry - and what about your new phone, what if the bag and plastic sheets can't keep the rains out - and don't you know what will all the people do when they see you walking in the street in this storm - they'll think you've lost your mind and laugh at you. . . . "so, what do you say?" "Hmmm, may be you're right and YOU CAN GO TO HELL!"
The bus came to a halt at the crossing, again the scene of a traffic jam. "Excuse me", "coming through". . . ."wow! The rain is coming down thick and fast! Umm, ok, guess I'll just have to walk a bit faster than I thought. No problemo." Here I go then. . . .
. . . . and the next ten minutes were magic.
But tonight was really boring. I was already late. I was supposed to reach home by 7 o'clock but now it seemed that wasn't going to happen before 7.50. The traffic jams from Ballygunge Phari to Park Circus had really pissed me off (may be they were like this every weekday around 7.00/7.30 pm; it's just that I usually return home not before 9). The inside of the bus was crowded with tired people with grim faces that could depress you enough to consider jumping out the window. Really, I mean sometimes the people around you inside buses all seem to be contemplating suicide - and the mood can be very infectious. But I guess with the hot and humid weather outside, I should have empathized with them.
Then suddenly, it happened! A fresh cool breeze wafted in through the windows and woke me up from my slumber. "What's this?" I thought, as I fumbled to put my specs back on which I had taken off to give my eyes some rest. I looked left and right. No, no, I wasn't imagining things - there it was, again, that chilly wind. . . .And wow, guess what, now I was beginning to sense that peculiar earthy smell that always signals "Aha! The rains are here!"
But my fellow passengers were still busy looking pathetically moronic! What are they, stupid?! Can't they smell that "soda maatir gandho", when the cold waters from the clouds hit the dry, parched earth after a deep-frying summer? I guess not. Because the lady and the gentleman sitting in the next seat to my left were also peering outside for a clue. Just then the bus swerved right and came up onto the over-bridge above the rail tracks coming from (or going to?) Sealdah. Blasts after blasts of dusty, earthy and cold air blew in from our left and right. Finally, was this it? Were we going to have a Kaalboisakhi after waiting for so long?
As we were entering Palmerbazar I caught my first glimpse, not of rain, but of a wet road at a distance to my left. Damn! Now we are in business! Then the first droplets of water hit the windowpanes, shone bright yellow in the sodium vapour lamps from the street, and a light drizzle greeted us. Well it was all wonderful. . . .but "dil hai ki maanta nahi"! How about more, a little bit more. . . .no, on second thought, a lot more?
Shit man! What was wrong with this traffic signal? In front the storm was picking up pace on the open Beleghata Main Road; my head was being Clubbed To Death (soundtrack from The Matrix - its got an hypnotic rhythm); it was looking like I wouldn't make it home before eight; and all this mini could do was to stand in line before a tortoise-paced red light with a bunch of sweaty, smelly (including me), lifeless men and women. Aarghhhhhh. . . .
. . . .ghhroovroooom. . . . the bus came to life! The signal has turned green. Come on man, step on the accelerator! Yes, finally we're on the main road, taking the Nor'wester head on. Ahh, the first drops of rain flying in the wind to come and touch my face, hands. . . . "where's the party tonight?'' - right here, inside Jadavpur-Airport mini. Hey, wait, what are those idiots doing!!! Oh, no, they're going to close the windows. . . . ha-ha, that's right, I bet those bolts are more than a match for your bicep-tricepless hands! Come on, Mr. Window, show them who is the real "palwan" here. . . . shit, shit, the bolts are moving! Khriiishht! Hmmm, well I think that has stopped the rains from coming in - so no more of these sinful acts, right? F***, they are going for all of them!!! No, no, please, isn't there at least one person in those seats on my right who can understand my pain and sorrow? Hey you, yes you, the JU guy - face buried in that electrical or electronics engineering book or whatever with those cryptic diagrams, speakers buried in both ears blurting out who-cares-what-song - do yourself a favor, look up and look outside! Wah, all you could see looking up was that the water was ruining your Rs.200/- worth of a colourless, flavourness book, huh? Yeah. So please, go ahead, and close the window.
I think you get the picture that I was getting sort of desperate. Come on now - with Khalbali stirring up your neurotransmitters, the co-passengers driving up your rage, the traffic jam pinning down your hopes and the wind and rain pumping up your adrenaline - how could you not be? So as the bus limped up&over&down Beleghata Khalpol, I chalked out an escape route. All my roads lead into the rain, and there I must go.
It wasn't an absolutely illogical proposition. By then I realized the traffic condition was really hellish tonight. If I took the road left from Alochaaya cinema hall straight towards Phoolbagan Kalimandir and walked fast enough, I could reach home in the same amount of time it would take sitting like a jackass inside this prison-like bus, with all its inmates. Yes, there was a time when shouting "here comes the rain" beside of my ear would shoot up my body temperature to 101-102 degrees - but that was in the distant past. And after gulping down a litre or two of the magical waters offered by the sea at Puri and coming back unscathed, what could this sweet, old rainwater possibly do?
Thus, I kept one eye on the sizes of the raindrops outside and one eye on my possible routes of action. No, no, the drops are too big and heavy. . . . umm, well they are small now but if I get down here I'll have to walk way too long. . . . can I listen to Dhan Te Nan as I make my way through the storm, you know, to spice it up a bit more. . . . no, not a good idea, specially after my antics at Puri with my previous mobile. So better switch it off and keep it inside the bag, and also wrap up my copies and documents in a plastic sheet, just in case. I'll sing my own Dhan Te Nan in the rain. . . .
So as Alochaaya approached, I was done with the packing. The man sitting to my left probably guessed that I was getting off when he saw me put my mobile inside my bag. I didn't tell him that my home was still about a kilometer away. May be that could have squeezed out some expression from his face. . . .
"Alochaaya", the conductor was shouting! "Shit, do I really have get off so fast?" "Wait, think about it". . . . you have an Annyaprashon ceremony to attend to just after getting back home, think about the fish fry, the polao, the chicken curry - and what about your new phone, what if the bag and plastic sheets can't keep the rains out - and don't you know what will all the people do when they see you walking in the street in this storm - they'll think you've lost your mind and laugh at you. . . . "so, what do you say?" "Hmmm, may be you're right and YOU CAN GO TO HELL!"
The bus came to a halt at the crossing, again the scene of a traffic jam. "Excuse me", "coming through". . . ."wow! The rain is coming down thick and fast! Umm, ok, guess I'll just have to walk a bit faster than I thought. No problemo." Here I go then. . . .
. . . . and the next ten minutes were magic.
