The Diary Of A Footloose Free Bird Chapter 2 (The Preparation)

By Sarbani Chakravarti

I need to do something with my life, something substantial, something worthwhile. For quite sometime, I have been speculating on the various possibilities, finally zeroing in on the idea of enhancing my qualifications to improve my job prospects. I have a job but it was time I got a career for myself, some sort of assurance that I could get by all by myself without having to rely on my fragmented family which in some parts exists, and in some parts thrives in Durgapur. I will never ask for a penny from my father- I had sworn when teary-eyed I had left the house where my mother had lived for ten years before childbirth claimed her. Sometimes I walk down the memory lane fondly remembering our happy days together, however, this journey is short- lived as the shadow of my stillborn brother devours the spectre-like appearances featuring in my reverie. It engulfs with vengeance like the ravenous Venus Flytrap ruthlessly trapping its prey and devouring it, thriving at the expense of a hapless life. The only difference is that the ominous shadow feasts on three lives, one of which is intangible, lost forever yet present deep down in the realm of my consciousness.

I hurry down the staircase to outrun the other inmates who queue up every morning in front of the two bathrooms to answer nature’s call and wash themselves before dispersing into their workplaces. Each one in a tearing hurry, short-tempered and quarrelsome. I am particularly sympathetic to the two young girls who are college students. They have defied the diktats of their families in the village to pursue education in the city. They are like me, trying to better themselves and their lives- away from the chaos and mundaneness prevailing in their families, desperately struggling to claim their space in life. Sometimes if I am not in a hurry, I allow them to use the bathroom before me, annoying others who fail to understand the reason for my partiality. I do not justify myself; I don’t feel the need to do so.

I stand at the back of the queue with three women in front of me. Meenadi is the first one in the queue. We share the same room and allow each other to peep into our lives but are careful enough to expose only the better part of it. She had lived abroad with her husband for years, returned due to some unexplained reason and strangely found herself in the ramshackle building from where Sarada Ladies Hostel operates providing a roof above the heads of an eclectic crowd of women who are commonplace enough not to stand out in the city crowd. I have not been apprised of the turn of events of her life.

I wait for my turn impatiently as I cannot afford to be late to office today. I have to do something braver than belling the cat, I have to ask my boss to give me leave for five days to write my examinations. It is a daunting task which needs to be accomplished. The frown on my face is greeted with resistance exhibited by the other women standing in the queue. No one is willing to relent or give anyone a leeway- each day of our life is a battle where we cannot afford to be defeated. We are aggressive and unforgiving; we often do not care to forge ties of affection- battlefields are not conducive to sublime emotions. I see the queue shortening as the inmates move in and out of the bathroom, I impatiently wait for my turn which arrives after almost an eternity, as it seems to me. I rush in with the half-filled bucket in my hand, the stained blue mug with the broken handle floating on the water, my red checkered cloth towel stationed on my left shoulder and my kameez hanging from my right shoulder. I close the tin door with a bang and lock it by pushing the latch. The impact of the force makes the wobbly door which fills up just about a little more than half of the empty space on the wall shiver like a malaria patient. Placing my towel and kameez at the top of the half door of the bathroom, I pour cold water down my sweating body with the mug held in one hand and scrub myself with the soap using the other. The lather gathers like foam collected atop waves washing up at the sea shore. The stream of water descending from my body, loaded with tiredness, thick with pungent odour, takes a serpentine shape and slithers out through the netted outlet of the bathroom, descending and merging with the dirty water of the drain which in turn empties itself into the underground drainage of the city. My hurried bath leaves me with no room for enjoying one of the very few luxuries available to me in my otherwise austere life. My austerity is a forced one, I would rather he a hedonist given a chance. Still into the ritual of my bath, I hear someone screaming from the other side of the door, demanding to be allowed to use the bathroom immediately. I hear profanities being hurled at me, I don’t react, rather I carry on with more resolve to keep the bathroom occupied for as long as my heart desires. I have learnt to ignore such tricks, it’s an essential part of my survival strategy. Having bathed to my heart’s content, I stand up, wipe myself dry and put on the kameez. I open the door, ignore the murderous looks of the women waiting in the queue and muttering under their breath; and triumphantly walk up the staircase to reach my room, my bare legs exhibited to one and all present at the scene of action. They call me shameless; I know that and I want to reinforce the idea lest someone changes her opinion. Defiance gives me a sense of power.

I stand in front of the mirror, comb my hair, scoop out some cream from the tub and rub it vigorously on my face. I look at my reflection, my glee evident in the twinkle of my eyes. Suddenly my eyes fall on my watch kept on the shelf of my small mirror box which I had picked up from the footpath paying a paltry sum as it was a damaged piece. I had hammered a nail and hung it from the wall, Mrs. Dam, my landlady had been mad with rage. She feared that the wall would crumble. The building is about hundred years old and badly maintained. My heart leaps up to my mouth, it’s 9 o’clock already! Office starts at 9:30 and whoever reaches late, is given an earful. I grab my leggings, pull it down from the rope which criss -crosses above my head displaying the clothes of my roommates. I hurriedly put it on, grab my bag, run down the staircase and storm out of the main door. I run in full speed to reach the bus stop. The bus arrives, I am on my way to my office.

By Sarbani Chakravarti