The Visit

Many of my friends ask me why I did not visit the place in all these years..I smile and feign of being busy with work, family, procrastination.. I know I'm not that busy that I can't take a day off..My wife is not that inconsiderate..though she herself might not find the visit interesting enough to let go of her shopping or visit to her relatives on a lazy Sunday afternoon to accompany me to a location which do not even show in our google maps.. What if I take the train one day out of impulse for a location I've left long ago for good, yet am not able to free myself from its beckoning?

As I'd set feet into the place where I used to live twenty years ago..mixed emotions of happiness and sorrow would try to overtake me and if I'm not careful I could easily get my pocket picked.. The long walk across the platforms would lead me to a never-ending flight of stairs, so characteristic of the railway station which I once knew like the back of my hand..which earlier was an easy sport would now give me cramps.. As I'd get down on the other side of the over bridge..the rickshawpullers would watch me intently.. I know it would be impossible to recognize anybody after twenty years..but strangely I'll hope someone will bump into me with a 'Arre kemon acho.. Babbah..koto din por dekha' The betel shop would greet me at the base of the bridge but there would be noone to mock me with a betel-stained smile..call me names.. Surely the man could not be alive by now I 'd deduce..

Would the taxi stand to my left still be in its place ? And the sprawling market..bus stand..where I shared a table with a friend and gave adda sessions for hours over cups of tea ??? The buses which took me to college every other day I missed my morning train..The road that winded to that market which earned a name for being circular in shape..The long ascent carrying my bicycle along the ramp beside the steps..the flyover led to the market on one end, while the other passed by the backside of my school..

Driven by pangs of nostalgia I'd remember the days when I'd return home.. I'd embark on a lackadaisical journey on a rickshaw along the lonely road, frequented by motor bikes and cycles..occasionally by buses billowing foul-smelling black diesel, with the conductors opening and closing the doors heavily to invite invisible passengers..Often my patience would be put to test by innumerable bumpers on the road giving me the feeling of horse ride..taxing heavily on my poor bums..

My heart would start beating in my mouth the moment I 'd pass the football grounds..I used to dip myself from head to toe with mud along with my friends during the monsoons on the pretext of a game of football here..Here comes the big water tank, where my rickshaw would take left..the Durga Puja platform would now be inhabited by children playing.. During the festival time this small area would be turned into a fair with the beating of 'dhaak' and blowing of conch shells filling the air, to be broken intermittently by the recitation of verses by the 'purohit' using his inimitable voice modulation.. It was in this fair that I first fell in love in my teens.. My rickshaw would now leave the bituminous road and negotiate a red moorum one..how many times I'd fallen off from my tricycle and bicycle and wounded myself here..at last here comes the small iron gate, the third house in the row, a small garden peeping from behind..a small two-roomed house..lacking the elegance in which I live now..but certainly a place which had been my home..my father's office quarters which saw my childhood and my youth..

I know if I visit that place now..I'd search in vain for the place I left behind twenty years ago..like the times which would never come back !

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