Rains and reminiscence

"Damn! The lights are out," Arup shrieked as the roar of the thunder boomed across our room. Niruda lighted a candle and fitted it into the candlestick.

"We definitely cannot go outside into this weather," I whined. It had started to rain.

The window, right across the street from our room, lit up in languished yellow as the evening intonation of household prayers began.

"Niruda, why don't you tell us one of your stories? Didn't you publish the one regarding your African tour recently?" Arup asked.

Niruda smiled, "No, I'm still writing it."

"Tell us any of your stories," I exhorted him.

"Alright then," Niruda smiled and seated himself on the chair by the window. Arup and I sat down on the mattress spread over the floor.

The raindrops snaked down the windowpane and, in inebriated steps of their merry waltz, mingled with one another. Niruda stared out of the window and got lost in his world of thoughts. The quintessential writer that he was, the world could hardly comprehend his expressions. We could. The music of the rain was intermittently interrupted by the cacophony of honking horns. A train-whistle blew faintly in the distance; just then a melancholic shadow fell over his face.

Brief silence.

He smiled and said, "Well, I'm not going to cook up any fiction tonight. The rains, the train-whistle remind me of a certain chapter from my childhood. With your permission, I'd like to begin."

We laughed. The panache of the thespian never seemed to grow old.

Niruda cleared his throat and thoughtfully began, "Do you sometimes wish you could talk to your younger self? Do you try to recall those faces that faded from your life, and yet left a deep imprint upon you? Well, I do, and while I retrospect, I wish I could relive the time when everything was much simpler. I wish I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of time to a stop.

"Back in my childhood, the hustle and bustle of today were unknown but even the quotidian affairs of daily life had their own modest beauty. Life dawdled through our little green town in the forms of the schoolmaster walking down the lane, the postmaster whistling away on his bicycle, or the government servant wishing someone a nice morning on his way to his nine-to-five job.

"As for me, my outdoor life almost always began with a sprint to the school. During the summers I would often stop by a mango tree on the way and aim pebbles at the fresh ripe fruits hanging from its branches. I was never really a good student but I was a curious child. So, as you can well surmise, although I was physically present in the classroom, my mind flitted from the field, where a dog chased a crow, to the corridor where Mastermoshai would occasionally slip on a banana peel and come tumbling down to the floor. Oh, the ruckus that ensued! 'Kon bandorer kirti eta?' Mastermoshai's furious addressing of the pupils as monkeys would meet with smothered giggles from the class.

"Bhojada would peacefully snore unaware of the problems of the world. His felicitous dreams would be interrupted either by the entry of an unfortunate mosquito into his wide open mouth or by vehement abuses from the head peon. Bhojada would wake with a start and, as if by a response to the stimulus, start ringing the bell to the delight of the pupils. Like birds freed from a cage, the children would scamper out of the school gates.

"Dusk was welcomed by the sounds of conch shells from all the households. My mother would light the oil lamp in the little arch, housing a tiny statue of the Goddess Durga, in the middle of the courtyard. With joined hands, in a genuflection, she would softly chant her prayers. Now, I wasn't a severely God-fearing person as my grandfather would often say in his deep husky voice, 'The universe cannot be understood through magic and miracles'- which would often meet with protests from my grandmother. So the prayers defeated my understanding but the mere sight of my mother in the glow of the lamp was itself magical.