Bukun's Walker

By Sukhendu Ghosh

“ There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

-Does it pain too much?

The voice is faint--too faint like an imperceptible midnight song drifting from a faraway distance and was not noticeable at first. Neelimesh is limping now toward the kitchen to watch the state of rice, boiling with some vegetables. For three consecutive days, Kabita the maid-cum-cook, has been absenting herself without intimation -- a very common phenomenon to which sixty-seven-year-old Neelimesh has got accustomed to. So there is no cause for feeling so put out. And he is limping toward the kitchen when the faint voice comes once again -- more prominent and quite distinguishable this time.

• Can't you hear me, Neel..my love? How's your leg now? Has the pain increased a lot?

Bukun's voice -- calm and quiet with a very soft healing touch. She used to call him 'Neel' adorably. Neelimesh turns back. Not far away from him, at the extreme end of the long drawing room, Bukun's been smiling there in a black wood frame hanging on the sea green wall for the last three years. Her eyes crinkle affectionately as she smiles. Neelimesh comes closer, sits on the sofa in front of her, face-to-face. A forty-three-inch waist-high smart TV, his all-time companion, almost except the sleeping hours, stands now in between them, maintaining a reasonable distance.

-Forgot to take today's morning medicines? Quite strange! Never ever did you forget to give me that in my lifetime.

Neelimesh is taken aback. He's totally forgotten. The medicine box is lying there on the tea table in front of the sofa. He takes three tablets-- Glador(2), Oxra(10), and Seloka(25) at a time and goes to swallow all that in a hurried way.    

-Why are you in such a hurry? It may get your windpipe blocked. Let me remind you, my dear, once again, that nobody's there to take care.

Neelimesh controls. Goes slow. Bukun lauds.

-That's like a good boy-- goody goody boy.

Neelimesh titters. He, an old man of sixty-seven whose ticket has almost been confirmed for the final journey toward that mighty beyond, is addressed as "a good boy"! Delightful — delightful indeed. In fact, Bukun is now on a blissful trip down memory lane.

-It's quite embarrassing and distressing for me, you know, that an infallible expert biker like you, Neel, who used to drop me at my school every day at 10:30 A.M. on the dot on your way to the office for 35 long years without making a single mistake, could skid off on a slightly slippery, moist slab in that way.

Neelimesh recalls. The motorcycle accident took place the evening on the day before yesterday due to a minor mistake through inadvertence. The injury could have been much more serious, if Niloyda and Kamalesh, both of whom were his evening walk partners, hadn't come to his rescue immediately. The pain started from the very next morning, and it’s been aggravating since then. So he is limping now. Bukun's walker, no longer used by her, could be of immense comfort to him at this point of time. But the top floor attic, crammed with useless rejected goods, is a banquet now for mice and cockroaches. And most indispensable, reliable, multi-tasker Parimal, bringing all the colours to the flowers, planting all the rare, uncommon cacti in the garden, cleaning every nook and corner of the house, one fine morning, bade goodbye to Neelimesh and this world as well. Bukun's walker, perhaps, stands still there along with other rejected goods, reminiscing about the olden golden past; from then on, Parimal had made it stand there. It was her most trusted friend after she had undergone dialysis. 

Bukun talks, tinkles rather:

-I know how tired and lonely you feel nowadays without Parimal. He was an angel

... an angel indeed, sent to us by God for a short while and called back to His heavenly abode after His mission was complete. I'm afraid, my walker hardly remains in the store room atop and has been lying underneath Babai's bed, most presumably... but don't try to get that out from there yourself. Mammai is coming tomorrow early morning. Know her very well, how crazy, emotional, and sentimental she is about her Baba, and you haven't told her anything about the accident. So get ready to weather the storm.

It's a fact, Neelimesh, quite deliberately, has kept Mammai in the dark. She was too overburdened to come to Chandannagar just after she had managed to get her transfer from Delhi to the Kolkata office of the multinational, where she works. Neelimesh remained silent about the minor accident lest her mind should divert. But he made everything clear to Babai, who is quite logical, calm, and quiet. A balanced blend of practicality and emotion, Babai is in continuous touch with Neelimesh, his beloved Baba, his friend, philosopher, and guide. He started monitoring the matter as ever from Bangalore, his place of working. But has he aired the secret to Bunu, Mammai, the crazy? Neelimesh is dubious. Bukun intervenes, however,

-Rightly guessed by you. Babai gave away few hints to his Bunu, despite your request to disclose nothing to her. Know him well. He'll always do the same as he deems fit. Apart from that, I had also...

Bukun's words are suppressed by more prominent and louder ones, with powerful knocking at the door,

• Baba, O baba, ba-baaaaa...sleeping like a Kumbhakarna! Open the door! Will you?

Mammai's voice. High-pitched, penetrating ears. Neelimesh jumps out of bed and screams in pain. He was deep asleep. Mammai yells.

- Will never change, Baba! Why are you in such a hurry? Going to catch a flight?

Neelimesh limps to the door, opens it carefully, and in his utter amazement notices Mammai, who storms in and bursts out.

- Don't talk to me. Never ever try to. Told Dada everything and kept me quite in the dark, as though I'm none to you. And Dada only gave me little to no clue, thinking I won’t get anything. But what all of you don't know is I had an elaborate talk with Ma last night. Don't you believe? Okay, no matter. Let me now have a look underneath Dada's bed. 

She crawls into the musty, dusty place at once and ejects herself with Bukun's walker. Neelimesh, dumbfounded, goggles at her. Standing up, Mammai dusts both her elbows and exclaims in complacency,

-The whereabouts of the walker was given to me last night by Ma. Believe me or not? Doesn't matter.. Use that henceforth till you recuperate. Okay. No more talk. Get prepared to go to the chamber of Dada's friend, Ortho Surgeon Dr. Dibyajyoti Barua, at around 6 pm this evening. The appointment was made by Dada from Bangalore yesterday, whereas I'm in Kolkata and I came to know that early this morning through WhatsApp. Okay. Let me see him next time!

Mammai keeps the walker in one corner of the room. With an insightful eye, Neelimesh looks at her face, illuminated in the first light of the day filtering through the window curtain.

Autumn, the fabulous season of festivity, has set in. The greatest Bengali festival, Durga Pujo, is in the offing. Sweet, refreshing smell of Seuli flower of the eponymous tree planted by Parimal, is drifting from the garden. Bukun is smiling over there in the black wood photo frame like usual and humming perhaps one of her most favourite Tagore songs.

"Tokhon ke bole go shei probhate nei ami.

Shakal khelay korbe khela ei ami

Jakhon porbe na mor payer chinha ei baate" --

[ Then who says that in that morn I am not? 

The same I will be present everywhere in all proceedings..

When my footprints shall no longer be printed on this path.]

*****

By Sukhendu Ghosh