The Diary Of A Footloose Free Bird Chapter 1 (The Exposition)

By Sarbani Chakravarti

I search for life, something which I believe is missing in my existence. Being confined to a ladies’ hostel, having no friend to confide in, I search for solace in the company of strangers. Weekdays are never a challenge, the drudgery of the day, the fatigue of the routine job and uninteresting trivia present themselves as blessings when I am lulled to sleep as soon as I hit the sack. It’s the holidays and weekends which I worry about, they are a welcome change for people who have a sense of purpose in their lives and know exactly where they want to go. I, however, am free from such responsibilities. This brings me tremendous happiness as I revel to see people struggling to live up to other people’s expectations. I feel a sense of wicked joy when I see women chasing their kids or screaming at them like mad, for I have the enviable freedom to stand at the corner of the street and eat a roll for dinner without suffering from a sense of guilt which homemakers feel when they are confronted with their inadequacy in catering to the needs of their family. I have no such obligations. However, it being a Sunday I decide to examine the greater lives of the multitudinous crowd which throng the city of my existence.

Free and footloose, I decide to take an evening walk in the main thoroughfare of my city. I board a bus as it is the cheapest way to travel to my destination and disembark at the Park Street crossing. The bus stops to allow me and the other passengers to alight and merge with the pedestrians. I find myself walking on the pavement, looking at the glass windows of restaurants which await the arrival of the customers as 6 p.m. is not their prime time. I see the roadside eateries gearing up for the evening snacks of the passers- by. I see a mother in her tattered saree, a plate in her hand feeding her baby who sits on the pavement on his naked bum. I don’t feel distant with her, I feel a strange connection, something which I cannot explain. Is it because both of us are dislocated, existing on the periphery?

I walk down further to savour slices of other people’s lives. On the opposite side of the pavement, a family walk excitedly and aimlessly. The husband, a puny man with unoiled dry disheveled hair wearing a stripped blue shirt which I think is stained at the pocket and faded black trousers. He must have worn both infinite times and will continue to do so till they become unusable. His wife, a tiny speck against the enormous glass window displaying Swarovski jewellery which are beyond her means stands awestruck in her garish sparkling green saree which she has tucked excessively into her petticoat exposing her dark brown ankles and cracked heels. Her sandals are flat and worn out, a striking contrast to her painted red toe nails. Her braid is black and thick, excessively oiled, almost reflecting the embedded lights shining above the displays. The two children with balloons in their hands trying to tug at the mother’s hand are met with mild admonishment. The little girl in her new cream frock and shining golden ballerina from which the paint is peeling off, decides to hit her older brother playfully. The brother in his red checkered red shirt and blue jeans responds angrily. The father intervenes, guides them patiently to the chana seller who stands with his wicker basket garlanding his neck like the albatross. Food is purchased to pacify the children, the father does not want his wife to be disturbed, she continues to gaze at the jewellery collection displayed at the window. I cross over to their side of the pavement and walk past the family, the children distracted by the food, the father fishing out money from his pocket and the mother lost and forlorn in front of the magic window. “Did they decide to keep the shop open on a Sunday to tease her?” I wondered.

A group of college students come hurtling down the pavement, a bunch of young boys and girls making merry, the noise breaking the silence of the quiet evening. They laugh heartily at lame jokes, nudge one another, they are still beyond the complexities of the adult world and partly out of some of the restrictions imposed by their parents. Two girls step out of the group, positions themselves in front of a restaurant, pout their lips and click pics with their phone. Having accomplished the task to their satisfaction, they hurriedly catch up with their friends who have moved ahead leaving them behind. “Will they be able to match steps with life when they will be left behind in bigger things?” I wondered.

I walk down further almost to the point from where I have to board the bus for my return journey. I see an old couple sitting on the cement platform circling a banyan tree. They sit in silence. “Are they exhausted due to travelling or by life or maybe because of the insensitivity of relatives and family who are eager to write them off?” I wondered. Right in front of them I see a newly married couple posing for a selfie. He is smartly dressed, she has her bridal churas decorating her fair wrists, they are happy, genuinely happy, completely oblivious of their surroundings. I look at the elderly lady looking at the young couple with a smile on her lips. I know the wisdom of experience, there must be something on her mind. I start guessing what it could be. “Is she smiling because she knows how inevitably relationships falter at times and love dwindles?” I ask myself. But she is wise enough to be a mere spectator because life lessons are learnt best through life experiences and one has to be allowed to live his own and savour every bit of it.

My bus arrives and I vanish from the scene.

By Sarbani Chakravarti