Walking – down a beautiful path

As the process of existing, trudging down a beaten old path day after day merely for the sake of the mediocrity of living, takes its daily toll, a (actually more than one) walk I can remember to its minutest detail relieves the pain of this mundane choreography of life. It is said, that smell happens to be the strongest of all memories that we humans hold in our gray matter. After a sudden reminder of a strange smell, led me to jot these few lines down. Somewhere between the years of 1980 and 1982, when I was between second and fourth grade, a few of my then friends and I undertook a walk once in a while, that I intend to chronicle in this episode.

Kalu, the rickshaw puller that took me and a few other kids to school everyday in his rickshaw decided to bunk the job once in a while. He usually cited some sickness, which may or may not have been concocted. On one such blazing summer day, Kalu started his rounds for pickup. The first to board the flight was always Bappa, the kid that lived in 4/12, a year older than us. Invariably, he was late by five minutes every day. That left my and other parents grumbling under their breath. Next in line, were I, Tukun, Sujit and finally Srinivas. We got deposited on time this particular day. School ended without much happening; except Kalu bunked the pickup back from school. There were no telephones; none of the parents were notified. So we, the five of us waited for a bit till we were quite sure there was no Kalu, and decided to walk back home from our school on Mirabai Road. Except for Srini, who lived on Tagore Avenue, we all lived within a stone’s throw of each other.

Our trudge started past the row of garages into one of the streets of Vibekananda Road. It sounds funny; but the garages of officers with cars were separate from their residences. Colonial habits die hard. Now the general area of Vibekananda Road and Mirabai Road was (and probably still is) arguably the finest in the steel township. There were rows of mature tall trees, mainly Krishnachura and Radhachura. They were flooded with red and yellow flowers; and the streets were strewn with dried leaves and flowers. The shade from these trees was a profound relief in the scorching Durgapur heat. And the shade seemed all pervasive, across all quarters, through all streets. The smell friends – the sweetest smell you can imagine. A mixture of faintly perfumed flowers, lined with that wonderful earth-like odor from last evening’s Kalboishakhi (Norwester storms), half-dried leaves…

As we trudged down which street I cant recall, the one quarter at its end before hitting Vibekananda Road, had a security guard posted at its gate. The guard had a small green wooden enclosure for himself. I have no clue who lived there and I can’t fathom who could be that rich or famous in steel city Durgapur to be guarded with an armed khaki clad guard. At that age, all that mattered was the Khaki dress and his intimidating rifle usually combined with an enormous pair of whiskers. The unmentioned code of conduct while walking past that house was to walk on the other side of street and to shut up till we crossed the house. We dutifully observed the law, while the bored guard used the latest Hindi magazine to wave off flies.

There was one particular tree that I don’t think I ever knew the name of. It produced a small green sphere of a fruit that had four petals jutting out like the blades of a fan. We would occasionally pick one of these up, hold the fruit between our thumb and index fingers and throw it up after giving it a spin. It usually flew off and stayed in the air for a while – our first lessons of helicopter propulsion that we did not understand at that time. Once in a while, a hot wind would pickup some leaves and swirl them around. One of us had had the privilege of knowing that this was a sure sign of a ghost. So we ran past as fast as our young legs could take us. We crossed the green playground of the crescent – a beautiful oval pasture, lined on all sides with all kinds of tall beautiful trees. And then another set of garages with outhouses. Finally on to the street where Mrs. Duggal, one of the teachers in our school, lived. We had no idea which quarter was her residence; yet the consensus was that she did live in this very street.

Once we reached Aurobinda Avenue, there was always a debate as to whether we should use the shortcut through the powerhouse slum that would give us a diagonal route, or to follow Aurobinda Avenue to Tagore Avenue and walk in proper right angles. The powerhouse route won, since our young legs were usually quite tired by then – of walking and all other kinds of antics on the way. We had all been advised of the kidnappers and thieves and all other evil people that lived in the powerhouse slum. But once we had found out the nice little run, down the slope by the side of Aurobinda Avanue, those considerations were given a back seat. But, we still were scared enough to make our way through the slums as fast as we could. Not too fast to make it obvious, not too slow to get pulled in by one of kidnappers.

Soon enough, we emerged by the side of the house of the Bagchis on Tagore Avenue. Srini ran across to his quarters across the road. We had another 5 minutes till be reached our anxious mothers waiting eagerly for the signs of a rickshaw with kids (Srini would be dropped off first, so four remained). The next morning when Kalu showed up, he could make up his sickest face of all; but that did not spare him a fantastic level of tongue-lashing from each of the worried sick mothers. Now we all knew what waited us as he toiled his way up the slope of Tagore Avenue. The slightest chance that we gave Kalu, he would dump the morning’s lashing on us.

So ended the walk; a walk I can recall thirty years hence, with the same fondness as if it happened yesterday.