Silent Thoughts

By Prantik Mandal

spend hours not by looking at pictures or videos of Kasol but actually planning a trip. Shouted the owner cum manager of Maa Tara Food Corner, ordering the kitchen guys to make them ready.

Nitin is a boy of seventeen who works in Maa Tara Food corner. He is a small guy with teenage moustache, dusky skin with unkempt hair. He looked so untidy a kid that he was often reprimanded even by his peers of the restaurant, who were themselves not much to look at from a hygienic eye, for not taking shower or not cutting those disheveled, almost rusty hair. As a result he was asked to stay out of sight of the customers and instead was placed in the kitchen for setting up the prepared food which was then served by some somewhat clean looking guy.

Nitin joined this restraunt about 8 months back when he first visited Kolkata. He had to move from Malda, a small district; here some good life was promised to him when he was suggested by his uncle to leave the house and seek for some work. His disability, being dumb, had him rejected from every place he tried to get into. People with disabilities do get sympathy, or evoke pity but they have to fight alone for money. No body steps up to help them, and in the case of Nitin it was as if even God was not generous towards him. His parents had been swept away by the second Covid wave and owing to nothing left behind by their poor parents he had to leave his home, past, childhood, behind and was pushed to toil in an alien land. He was from a village in the name of Chaspara in Sujapur, Malda, and so was not at all aware of the life of big cities. That is the problems with people coming in from rural areas to metropolis is that a rural village is like a loving and caring mother, who tries to surround its pups with all sorts of pleasing sensations— the smell of the dew laden early morning mosses beside the pond, the sweet snugness and cracking sounds of burning woods, the pleasant calls of unknown birds and the all mighty fresh air!— but a metropolis, though “mother city”, is like a strict father who pushes its pups out in the grinder to grind themselves and, more often than not, they end up getting stressed out and hopeless.

Intimidation was the first feeling pervading in his heart when he first landed in Kolkata. The wide roads, hustle bustle, tall buildings, big cars, tackling throngs, all seemed to scoff at him. If someone touches someone else inadvertently with their legs, both apologizes by their customary touching their fingers on the forehead and then to the heart, but none even looks at each other, no one knows who they are apologizing to. All just scurries on. All has to reach somewhere. No one takes leisure strolls in cities. For the first time Nitin felt like his being mute was not at all to disadvantage. After all there was nobody to talk to in this place. Might as well remain silent. When he first visited Sealdah, he tried staying on footpaths as his uncle had suggested.

“Many people, working people, lives on footpaths and it is quite common there. You won’t face much problem settling and also they’ll help you find some work” had said his uncle back home. But not only the footpaths were dirty and foul smelling, it was swarming with emaciated addicts who all day long drooled and wriggled. He saw people smoking some kind of boiling brown fluid from spoon and even some injected that fluid in their arms. He had seen people using drugs in movies. Some snorting, some smoking, some eating, some drinking, some injecting, even some biting. But never had he seen such colored substance. He knew he could not survive there. So he had to spend eight days in Sealdah station, when he couldn’t find any work, evading from the sights of the guards and police. Fortunately at the ninth day, he got work in the restraunt.

It was about 10 o’ clock at night and within an hour the restaurant would close. At about 10.15 the old drunken guy, “Bura” came in, who was a regular customer there. He was exhorted specifically to come late after almost most of the customers are out and the shop was about to be closed. The old guy got the food there at discounted price. He did not have a home but slept in his rickshaw which was the only legacy for him to leave behind and which he parked in the silent railway quarters’ street. One day he came in really drunk and while having his dinner he dozed off and drooped into his food thereby slipped to the ground from the chair and ended up making a mess on the floor. From then he was asked to carry his food to his rickshaw and eat it there.

His order was usual one veg thali which consisted of rice, dal, one sabji, one bhaji, and onions and green chillis. Occasionally on festival nights, with the generosity of the owner, he was given some non veg to eat, which he used to eat savourly.

One night Bura came in late than usual. The serving was closed, only the iron- shutter of the shop was open. All employees and employers, together were watching movie on T.V. set which was fixed in the eating area of the restaurant. It was Sunday night so the blockbuster movie Ra-one was playing and everybody was relishing in it’s the then superhuman stunts and cool tactics its beautiful heroine its villainous villain and its superfluous hero, typical movie for the age.

Bura walked in at about 10.45 in the night and sat at one of the chairs. He joined the others in solidarity and hooked his gaze too to the T.V. screen. Every now and then Bura grumbled and mumbled with every scene where he felt betrayed or over exaggerated.

When the inarticulate sounds with every disagreement was distracting the other audience, the owner quietly gestured at one of the older employees to pack Bura’s dinner and send him off. The senior employee was not ready to sacrifice his moment of watching a movie. So he ordered the junior Nitin to pack the dinner. With knitted brows Nitin heaved up his puny little frame, which was now heavy with reluctance, and with heavy steps went into the kitchen. He speedily put all the food in one plastic bag in a really gross manner and bustled quickly into the eating area, handed the food to Bura and without returning to his seat stood there beside him and fixed his eyes again at the LCD. Bura on his part, held the packet with his two hands and placed it in his lap as softly as his, numb from drinking, hands could contrive. He sat there for a considerable time when finally in the movie the famous scene of the Hero tried to stop the speeding train and adrenaline invoking music, with illogical contrivance came up, he lost his quota of tolerance and stood up and marched out in contempt. As he was walking out cursing the film and failed to notice one step of stair in the threshold of the shop he tipped on it and staggering he fell down. All the men in the shop ran in concern towards him, while Nitin was still lost in the suspenseful scene. They checked on Bura to see if he had hurt himself. But Bura was in no condition to either feel or express his pain. The 40 rupees Desi drink from fermented rice was enough for the government to placate the overworked, underpaid, exploited masses of working class peoples. It clogs the heart and mind and closes off the pores to the senses. When a man is devoid like that from all feelings be it physical, mental, emotional, is when he truly can become spiritual. It is the same as reaching god, though only for a transient moment.

Nitin was absolutely fixated in the movie, the brilliance of it. How much effort was put in by how many people. It was such intriguing to him. Everything around him was in haze. From within the obscure setting of his being came the shouts of his name calling out.

“Oi Nitin!!”

No sooner did his dazed state broke off than he ran outside.

“What are you doing in there? Can’t you see Bura has hurt himself. Take him by on your shoulder and safely take him to his rickshaw. Take his arm around you slowly… Yes. And now hold this packet. You make him seat and then open this packet in front of him. Jerk him to eat his food. Don’t let him sleep without having his dinner.” So came the order and Nitin followed.

Nitin held him up and ushered him carefully to his rickshaw and made him seat leaning back. Then he opened the packet and placed it softly in his palms. As he was turning to go away, Bura started:

“Mo—” he gasped in coarsely and continued “That movie poisoned my head. Why they make movies like that? Its all lies. All lies. Just lies are they feeding us. How can so soft a man beat up so muscled man? How can characters come out of computer?. There is no point in movies. No reality in them. No weak hero. No ugly heroine. Its all just for money. They don’t care to put real looking people in there.”

Nitin felt very offended at this rebuke. He wanted to say many things. It was eating him up from inside on how wrong Bura was. If only he could speak, he would prov him wrong. But all he could do was curl up his grievances and toss it again in that part of the brain where he had many a times put his unexpressed thoughts, emotions, words, feelings and memories.

After dropping him safely, making sure he would not hurt himself anymore, Nitin was walking back home, which was Maa Tara Food Corner itself.

While on the way, his eyes fell on a small Paan shop on the side of the footpath. He had not had any paan for ages. Indeed, after his parent’s death he couldn’t have much occasion for having anything but the food of the place where he worked. A notion of having some Meetha paan sedimented in his mind. He rummaged through his pocket to segregate all the notes and coins from the other things but unable to do that in his tight jeans, he scooped up with his small palm all the contents of his pocket. Then with the help of his other hand, now he counted the notes. It was 65 rupees and some change. Paan would cost around 20 rupees, he thought. He wanted to save enough for his dream-trip to Kasol. But the image of fresh luxurious dark-green wrapped around the amalgamation of miscellaneous flavors appealed to his taste buds like anything. He vigorously vacillated for a moment and then decisively walked towards the shop.

About 45 seconds on hand gestures, facial expressions, finger pointing took to place his order. Then he sighed a silent sigh. He watched closelg the Paan- wala take out one full leaf and one half, placed the half one on the full and started applying Chuna.

There was a traffic jam on the road adjoining the footpath. All the vehicles were honking blankly at the still throng. All two-wheelers, taking advantage of their slender and mobile frame, contrived to get up on the footpath and was creating superfluous impediments for the pedestrians.

Nitin, now sweating in the pre-monsoon heat experiencing the prickly heat on his back. On moving his body to scratch his back, he turned his face around and his gaze caught an exhausted face of a middle-aged woman sitting in one of the buses stuck in a traffic jam. No sooner he saw her face than, even in that dry heat, a cold chill ran up his spine and hit him behind his ears. His hands became cold, his feet too. He felt such a beautiful sight he had hardly seen. Such simple face with imperfectly placed glasses, greying hair and sweaty face. She looked completely worn out and that made her more alluring to Nitin. His mind then went blank of any thoughts or feelings. All he could do was conscientiously watched her every blink, her every sigh, her every wiping the sweat off her face.

It reminded him of his mother. His dead mother. He felt as if once again he could feel the warmth of that time when her mother took him to the river and after bathing, she held him on her lap, lying down on the banks, baking themselves in the wide solitary plains.

As he was relishing on these nostalgia the woman sitting in the bus, from the corner of her eyes, perceived that she is being peered at by this young ragged boy. Then she turned her face towards him and glared into Nitin’s eyes and let herself wage a gazing war on him. They looked at each other in the eyes, persistent, tenacious, decisive.

The silent conflict was broken off by the call of the paan wala, who had made the paan.

“How much?” Nitin gestured.

“25” showed the shopkeeper with impressive dexterity.

It fretted Nitin. His budget had been shook. But it was too late. So he had to acquiesce. He put the paan in his mouth. It was not as tasty as he would have liked it to be. He was disappointed. Utterly distressed. With that, not blissful, paan in his mouth he turn around to find the woman still looking at him but now with a much relaxed visage. As if the young unattractive but queerly winsome young face of Nitin was able to as much cool the heavy and still airless atmosphere surrounding her.

Then Nitin looking at her communicated without any visible eye movements or gesticulation, his proposal of again starting the gazing game. The woman agreed with all alacrity, without making any movements on her part. One. Two. Three. The game began and their eyes locked. She placing her chin in her cupped hands initiated while he putting his both hands inside the pockets of his grimy pants, chewing his paan, followed. The game went on for a few minutes. He oppressive heat seemed to assault everyone in the jam-packed road but them. They were almost lost in their own contrived reverie. After 4 minutes, Nitin started shaking his legs to reduce the pressure of standing still but all the while fixing his gaze. About at 15 minutes the bus started moving slowly forward and with it moved Nitin, still both relentless. By then the woman’s dried lips were slightly teared to a faint smile. But Nitin was stern. About 20 minutes into the match, perceiving that the traffic started to clear and at any moment now, their moment would be lost forever, Nitin took his right hand out from his pocket and raised a wave to the woman. No sooner in response the woman waved him back with a conspicuous smile then the bus took off and lost forever into the bustle all city.

Now Nitin was finally free. Now he felt rejuvenated. He knew not what feeling it was under his heavy chest. He breathed heavily, his hands and feet warm, his eyes drooping in unknown ecstasy. He felt as if electricity was moving up and down the length of his frame. He felt weak. Not from exhaustion but like he felt when he played football in the muddy fields under the rain. Or like he felt when he used to wake up from a nap and find himself lying on his mother’s lap. Quivering and excited, he headed back.

All the way home he recalled his events that night. In that few moments, without saying anything, he felt he blurted all out from his over flooding brain. Now he felt much light even in the dense air.

Now he decided to take out the discarded piece of curled up thoughts engendered in his mind while his conversation with Bura; and make a dramatic response of his protest against movies:

“No no no no!” he started “no you are wrong. It is done like that knowingly. It is done for us. They know what they are doing. They know what is real and what is not. It is for entertainment that movies are made. It should entertain the people. Not teach them lessons. Not give them advices. It is good they put such unreal characters. It is meant to help people by showing them something unreal. Illogical. I mean logic is boring. Logic is rude. It is logic which tells us not to do something. But these illogical actions in films time and again proves us maybe to live a little illogically. I mean logic tells us that there is no good, holy, all-knowing, powerful beings presiding over us. That we are all alone is something logic tells us. But cutting the logics, we get God. We get faith and love and passion and hope. We get festivals. We get homecomings. We get reunions. If we always strictly follow logic we won’t be able to look beyond what we can see. We would be blinded by these brick walls and black air and harsh sounds. We would be killed by civilization itself. Logically humans should not be allowed to live on earth. So many years of unending abuse on everybody, every soul, every place, everything that could be meddled with. We only live because we have that illogical fire of hope still burning within us. Still have belief and faith in fellow humans. Though every morning we wake up to some new benchmark reached in inhumanity, still every night when we go to sleep, we hope of getting up the next day with new energy within us. Only one click away is this unstable world from complete destruction of not only humans but the entire earth. Still we go around making future plans and to-do lists and ignoring the bad breath of logic always hovering around us. Logically if I think, I can never save enough money to make a trip to Kasol. But still every night I spend hours looking up the internet those beautiful snow and rivers and so far desolate lands. I still have this illogical hope of someday visiting The Land and I… mean of all things…about let’s say umm…You. Why you think you drink every night? Do you want to get energy to face your life or do want to feel numb to every aspect of this real world? You see there is nothing left in reality. Its boring and bland. But the dreamlands. Those mountains, those movies, those music is what gives hope to people. Those uninterrupted—”

Nitin realized he has reached the end of the line when he found himself standing outside the restaurant. He knew not how long has he been standing there making his internal monologue.

That night he made up his mind to do everything he can to save for his Kasol trip. He did not know how he is going to manage that. But he promised himself that one day all alone he would like to see the snow. Nothing but him, a small dot, on a wide white canvas. He started looking on his phone about the tickets, hotels, timings and all the other information. Started watching videos and taking notes in his mind the instruction given. He

By Prantik Mandal