“Home”

Image Courtesy: Rendy Novantino, Unsplash

The day started like any other. Pihu could hear her cats stretch noiselessly, their warm tails brushing gently against her face, their urgent purring, requiring immediate attention. She would often wonder how cats were the most comforting creatures she had ever come across. Why do people call them selfish?

Alright, you two, get off the bed. I have a 6:15am class today.

Pihu had chosen a morning college to teach English, the one subject that made her happy, feel right at home. She liked the idea of having an early start to the day. Kolkata streets had a strange beauty to them in the wee hours, the buses filled with sleeping passengers, on their way to an early morning local; the hesitant school children who’d give a lion’s share of their favourite sweets for another hour of sleep. Yes, the morning bus rides were full of odd familiarities. The streets would be cooler, after a negotiation with the night, the trees open up their arms to the balmy sun, just like she would lift her face to the window, soaking the sunlight, in summers and winters alike. Pihu adored the sights and sounds of early morning, lumbering past her.

She would be greeted by Bishu Da’s pan-stained toothy grin and the same question every day.

Madam, aj ek cup na dui? Do you want a cup or two?

The first batch of fuming tea would hit the earthen cup, bringing her the taste of wet earth, the whiff of first rains. Her mornings had a quiet grandeur to them, few would comprehend.

The one thing she couldn’t stand was noise. The horns of cars, of motorbikes racing past her would startle her, befuddle her mind. She would struggle to remember, she would look at her hands in fearful frustration: which was right, again? Often, she would take rickshaw rides when she would feel restless. There should be separate ways for the rickshaw pullers, she would always think, exploring the nooks and crannies of her beloved city, the evening breeze calming her nerves. But she would invariably fail when it came to directing her rickshaw puller, flailing her hands mid-air, calling out,

Dada, edike! This side! But which side would it be?

She had decided against better judgement to stay and teach at her college. It paid her barely enough. She would spend the rest of her day doing freelance gigs that would drive her to a fitful sleep at night. It was not easy to come by. Sleep. It is best not to ask whose judgement. She would possibly say peers, teachers, colleagues, parents, oh, the entire lot! Sometimes, she would ascribe it to inertia, sometimes to a larger fear. She hated moving on.   

Pihu has an appointment today. She is meeting a friend from school after seventeen years. They hadn’t parted well. She had reached out to her in extreme loneliness when they were both at school, had hoped to dazzle her with poems and songs and letters she would pour her soul into. But it was all too much. The intensity of it all was too much to bear, suffocating and obfuscating the clean lines she had strived to draw and yet again it was there, this spectre of fear, running the show, like some distant, amused God.

Pihu doesn’t like the place that has been chosen for the rendezvous. Her old school gates. What made her agree to it? Sentimentality? It’s not as if she didn’t like the school. She was immensely proud of it. But she didn’t like being labeled, didn’t understand alumni associations, felt excruciatingly uncomfortable in reunions. She hadn’t been to one in sixteen years. She would befriend everyone on facebook and leave it at that.

Her friend was late. Pihu stood by the parking lot. She spotted a pickle seller. Of course, it wasn’t the one from her childhood. But she thought she would give it a try anyway.

Give me a small pack of amra pickle, please. Koto? How much?

Ten Rupees. She smiled. She would have a bigger pack at two rupees, back in the day. They would even eat the paper bag it came in. Now it was given in a cheap plastic container. No, don’t go there, she reminded herself. She started eating the amra concoction absent-mindedly. Something was odd, it didn’t taste the same. She looked at the granules of black salt on the green fruit glinting mischievously at her. Ah! It missed the caprice of the red chilli powder. She took a bite and looked at the tram tracks in front of her school. They were laid out flat against the road, glowering in the sun at the injustice of not being seen enough, of its shine, merging with the dirty shimmer of the road that stretched ahead.

Earlier, there used to be a grassy plot of elevated land, and the tram tracks would claim their place majestically. Pihu and her friends would pass many a day racing against those tracks, to cross the road to the other side, board a bus to get home. They would always have ice-lollies as a treat, called pepsi locally, priced at rupee one, they would be thin strips of dark brown ice, dripping unsavoury liquid. But what a joy it used to be, to get down three stoppages away from home, walk the rest of the way, just to have those lollies.

Pihu suddenly heard a forlorn tram wail and clang. Trams were a sparse sight these days and actually seeing one was quite surprising. She looked up, there it was, that flash of electricity. It had filled her chest with a strange lightness for as long as she could remember. She heard her mind negate all the other ambient sounds and focus on the continuous wail with a hurtful sharpness. She felt as if it was only yesterday that she had fallen prey to a tram, its iron rod plunging in her forehead with a deafening crack, all other sounds, the cry of people submerged in a dull roar. She watched her shirt slowly blushing red, saw her beloved packet of pepsi lying unclaimed in the dirt and all she could think was,

Can’t I grab it before someone else does?

She heard her favourite teacher scream.

That’s my student, there. Move all of you. Kalpana, come help me. We must get her stitches. Pihu, Pihu, look at me. Can you talk?

They raced past the streets in a taxi. Ma’am cradled Pihu as if she was a delicate flower. When was the last time someone had held her that way? No, better not go there either. The stiches were not too painful. She was used to them by now. She had five stitches across her face to attest that.

You’re a lucky girl, Pihu. You could have lost your eyes. Imagine what would have happened then!

Pihu stared at her teacher’s face full of loving kindness. It stirred in her an unnamed emotion, confusing her.

Where is your home dear? Ma’am asked.

It was the first time Pihu dreaded the answer. She was too young to understand the full implicature of the term, but she knew the place where she stayed wasn’t home either. It was…

What is your address Pihu? Where do I take you?

Garia. I stay at Garia.

Oh, thank God, the girl speaks. Ma’am smiled kindly. I am going to miss seeing you in class. Payel stays close to you, doesn’t she? I will make sure she gives you all the notes. Would you like that? Pihu nodded.

You can lie down and rest your head on my lap. I will wake you up when we reach home.

Pihu rested her tired head on her teacher’s lap. Her crisp saree smelled of gentle limes. It had a curious warmth in its folds. She fell into a deep slumber.

Open your eyes, child. We are home.

Pihu looked with dread at the red brick house with the wild garden.

She stepped out of the taxi and trailed her teacher into the living room, of a house, where she would live in the corner of a bed for the next sixteen years for a rent, cash or kind.

Hey, said her friend. You are smiling pensively. I am sorry I got caught in traffic. The uber services here are a little disappointing.

Pihu noted that her friend still had the lopsided smile she adored.

Come, let’s go to the Ganges.

Alright. Sure. What were you thinking about?

Home.

Dedicated to Mrs. Snigdha Banerjee.

Monograph Magazine, Vol 8, May 2022