Steps by the Ganges

Ask for regular maintenance and ...

Tentacles of smoke dissolved into the hot and humid air as he spoke gallantly, his sweaty face was glistening in the orange rays of the setting sun.

“Ask for regular maintenance and even the gods will run away. Otherwise why Vishnu needs to appear in an avatar to clean up when it becomes messy? Everybody else can only give advice from afar and you people know so many of such people, don’t you?”

Thunderous claps followed his pause.

“And even though these recent schemes were not launched during our party’s stint in your service, you all know that all of it was actually our brainchild. See, even if the food is served at someone else’s party, the credit of making and serving the dinner goes to our Anand caterer only no? The people who know it from the beginning are the ones that make it work and grit through the shitty battles without troubling you. So that you can eat the three meals of the day peacefully. So, now you decide you will eat or wash the plates while someone else eats of your plate.”

This time rolls of laughter accompanied the thunderous claps.

His knowledge of the locals and their expertise was better than his word play, an art he had embraced with all of himself. And by the time his body guard had finished rolling both his sleeves up, the man had finished gurgling his gregariously put together speech with the last round of thunderous claps approaching. It wasn’t by fluke that he had created a territory in the local political orbit, in just a few years. Sketching one’s space in a small town is a matter of perseverance, you can pass even an ordinary stone as diamond, provided you have polished it’s edges enough.

The rings smoke had subsided, the air now carried a very strong smell of fried meatballs. A young boy collected the finished plates from the wooden benches outside the eatery. He went inside, unloaded the plates into a bucket full of water with a splash. His colleague and friend, aged about the same, helped him carry a sound box outside the shop. Nowadays, food needed to be accompanied with music. Even the hotels in big cities did the same.

In a minute or two, the speaker blared out Kedarnath Bhattacharjee’s voice. ”Dheere dheere se meri zindagi me ana”. Many small towns have not grown up beyond the nostalgia of the eighties and nineties.  It was yet another usual evening and after the verbal junk, the loitering crowd was ready for a refill of roadside delicacies.

The fried meatballs, samosas and kachoris were the only respite on a hot evening. On other days when a cool breeze dawned after the dusk, most strollers went to the ghat instead, the steps by the Ganges. A group of young girls and boys were buzzing past in their bicycles when one of them strutted right in front of the shop.

“Wait wait, why don’t we take a break here for two minutes before the next class?” stopping by the shop, one of the boys pointed at the samosas.

The sudden suggestion was met with a mixed reaction from the bunch and only one girl stood silent, smiling shyly, trying hard not to turn red. By the time the indecision and arguments got the better of them, someone observant, raring to make it to the next level of lifestyle in a metro city screamed, “It’s already time for the next tuition, I am leaving.” Once again, love had to give into the hands of logic.

24 karat gold at the price of two sparrows

There are quite a few stages in the complex process of small town courtship that require (at least according to some knowledgeable souls) time and space and much more in alignment with each other than found in equations solved by famous physicists. The roadside eateries are a fantastic place to just loiter around with friends endlessly (at times, even without ordering food) and still not make it to the list of prodigals in the town.

Well, in this town, when you graduated to the next level, the popular destination, even a few years back, was Milan Studio. The proprietor who couldn’t have chosen a better name for the place , was however, known for his hair transplant more than his knack for photography. The army of tiny hair lings that stood their ground, holding the fort in undying faith garnered more attention that the carefully selected photos at display and intricate frames that spoke of his body of work. With smart phones around, sadly, there was none to peek at the studio, so, he would kill time palavering with the neighbour, Atmaraam Jewellery shop.

The gold jewellery shop placed very strategically beside the studio, had served for years as the alternate pawn shop for men and women who had enterprising partners and spouses, keen to make easy money before fleeing. Promising to serve the best fake 24 Karat gold at the price of two sparrows literally (or so they claimed), Atmaraam’s the obvious choice when somebody made it big in the town. The quality of the gold however is directly proportional to the amount of money hoarded by the purchaser and is usually the best quality if the money is from funds leaked from government sanctioned initiatives. On a good day, you can even catch some interesting conversation at the entrance of the shop.

“Oh! Mrs. Trivedi are you back in town? Why haven't I seen you in the club!” 

“No Mrs. Kumar, it’s just for a few days and anyways Pinku’s father is not keeping well.”

“Ordering something new?”

“Yes, but just a few only.”

The rigorous calculations of whether the expenditure towards Mr. Kumar’s ailment was or was not excruciatingly over and beyond the handsome amount that went towards Mrs. Kumar’s adornments, would be done by the intellectuals of the town. They choose to sit themselves at the chowk, near a tea stall in the middle of the market place, not so far from the over-crowded and only functional beauty parlour in town. If not observing the passing trail of humanity and banter, they would be found discussing the latest way you can double your investments in a month’s time or how the current government is faring in its reign. If you are a part of this lot, you are Something with a capital S. Groceries would let you take home stuff for free, your children could order an extra plate of pulao at the local restaurant without paying for it and you are treated like a celebrity at the temple.

The only other alternative (but not so reliable) mode of salvation is featuring in Chanda sir’s evening huddles. But then, sometimes the conversations there are so single-tracked that after a while you feel completely clueless and drowsy, overloaded with all the mind-shattering philosophy and scientific prowess mankind has made himself privy to.

Well, however entertaining or grim, the options are accessible only to men.

Anyways, even till quite recently, if you happened to escape the lure of Atmaraam’s jewellery, the leering of the ones at the chowk, the third stage of your courtship would be spent at the steps by the Ganges. And on a cool autumn evening, that’s where Benu had met Rupa; for the first time. 

His heart had raced at the possibility of a conversation with her. Coming from a rather distant village, he didn’t know the specifics of a small-town life, of how rules are as sacred as the rising of the sun from the east. Getting her to agree to come and meet him was such a life changing affair that he didn’t care to educate himself on the small town mandates.

Even though she ate her lunch alone at school or at times accompanied by her bench mate (who deserted her often) it was impossible to approach her at school. Her silence was almost like a fort around her that let only a few in. It was the very reason why he felt drawn towards her, almost against his will. 

The head bowed down, the side parted braided hair, the soft voice and the pinched chin when she smiled rarely, was met with neither a lot of enthusiasm nor a handful of disdain. But that silent gaze loaded with unspoken words was a rarity, maybe distinct enough to be conspicuous in a dusty small town.

Somehow, his memories of her were too deeply etched to be replaced even by the sight of her bloodied body, lying on the stretcher. 

The Steps by the Ganges

A lonely crow was hopping back and forth and nibbling on leftovers from the offerings to the river, scattered on the rubbish accumulated on one side of the ghat. It was hot and humid by the riverside so Benu rooted himself on the other corner, where the water could touch his feet.

“Wake up, Benu, wake up!!!” the knock on his door was loud and urgent. “It’s Rupa!!” the wailing voice continued. 

By the time Benu had opened the door, leaped out bare feet in his boxers and vest, cycled like a freak and reached Rupa’s house, the Police were investigating the area. He still could catch a glimpse of her hanging feet. It’s been fifteen years since that morning when they had found her body violated and hanging from the ceiling of the bedroom. No one in her family was in town the night before. And no one had exercised a muscle of curiosity later, to find out what had happened. Life moved on; just like someone else's business.

A lone fisherman in a dinghy hurried his sail home. It was a quiet evening. Sitting on the steps, Benu strained his sinews and tried to recollect how he had felt that day but all he remembered was the day when they had sat on these steps by the Ganges.

On that day when Benu had met Rupa, the sky was a lustrous azure with mounds of clouds sailing. They had sat on the steps for a while, him talking to her as she sat silently but eagerly facing the river as if she could hear his words better after they were reflected on the water. And when the afternoon had rolled onto the dusk and the dusk met the evening, she had stretched her legs to touch the water. At once, he had leaped down further a few steps. 

He pressed his memory again to remember bits of their conversation. But the cool breeze, the gentle water and her feet closer to his, was all he could remember from that evening.

“P—eee-aa—nuts, take or leave, take or leave take or leave,” a confident seller shouted at the top of the steps. Benu Prasad got up slowly, brushed the dust off his trousers and unfolded them from the bottom, wore his shoes meticulously, climbed the stairs and followed the hand pulled cart on the road. Pulling a thick wallet out from his back pocket he looked at the seller, “How much for ten rupees?”