Chapter Two

The appointment letter came on the following week; the courier boy knocked our door in the midday. I was expecting it, but I didn’t tell my mother. The delivery man took my signature on a piece of paper, handed me over the thick envelop and took leave.

“Whose letter is this?” Ma asked with her eyes half closed.

“Cavenders.” I answered.

“Who is this?” she wanted to know. Her voice disinterested.

“My new employer.” I said.

She got up from her midday siesta.

“Your employer? You got a job? When did you apply? Where is it? How much they are going to pay you? What will happen to your auto?” She threw a volley of questions at me.

“Cool down Ma. One at a time.”

“Hey! You never told me that you have been applying for jobs!” Her face brightened up.

“What`s the point of telling you unless I got selected?”

“Where is this Cavenders Company?” I watched her curious eyes sparkling in joy.

“At the City Mall. The entire basement is theirs.”

“That’s wonderful! You naughty boy! Why did you hide it from me?” She cupped my chin, her trademark expression of happiness.

I smiled.

“I must go to Dhaka Kalibari today and thank Maa Kali for her kindness and generosity. Go to Bablu Sweets and get me some sondesh.” She took out a hundred rupee note.

“I have toiled for it Ma. I haven’t slept properly for months together before the exam. Do you know how many graduates applied for this job? The competition was tough.” I added my imaginations to look my achievement even bigger. She smiled, her eyes sparkled in pride as I described the details of the interview. “But I guess my tenth and twelfth’s result spoke well for me. Unless I had passed my twelve with good marks, I wouldn`t have got it. I have beaten hundreds of graduates and a couple of post graduates too. It`s not easy to get a job just like that without any recommendation.” I made my points clear that this job was no divine intervention but a human achievement. “It`s my effort, not Ma Kali’s kindness!” I said finally.

“Don’t talk like that son! Unless God wants, nothing will happen. We all are puppets in her hands, do you know?”

I found her devotion irritating. As always, she told me stories of people who, having achieved some fame and money became swollen with pride only to meet their downfall.
“Remember Chand Saudagar’s story?” She asked me.

“I have heard it hundred times.” I said and looked away as if I had swallowed a glassful of bitter gourd juice.

Ma got up and put water on boil. She was going to make tea for both of us. Lots of sugar, milk and TATA tea; all boiled together till the leaves left the last drop of their colour and aroma into the water. She sometimes threw in a bay leaf or a few pods of cardamom into the boiling liquid when she was in a good mood. I looked at the watch. Four pm. Time to hit the road again. But with only half a day remaining to my old slavery, I decided to give it a miss today. I knew my friends at the auto stand would start sending me obscene texts after half an hour.

In the meantime, the tea was ready. Ma brought the cups on the bed on a tray. She took out a small cardboard box and opened it.

“See, God is omnipresent! Otherwise how would Mashima know that you got a new job?”

“Who is this Mashima? Ma, why do you always start a sentence from the middle?” I sneered at her.

“Guha Mashima, you know her. Her son has come home from America. He has brought some American chocolates and cookies for her mother. The old lady loves me very much. She gave me some of them for you. Do you remember you wore his son`s sweater last year also?”

“Yes, I do.” I said.

Ma opened the box. Those were some Hawaiian chocolates and Pepperidge Milano cookies; as I read out the names written on wrappers, ma smiled proudly as if those American names have something magical about them. I unwrapped the cookies, dipped one into my tea and slurped the softened brown thing. It tasted buttery, divine. Nice gift for my achievement. I thanked Guha Mashima silently.

 “Good, no?” Mother asked; her mouth full of the same buttery cream.

I nodded in agreement.

“Why can’t our country make such cookies?” Ma asked.

“I think they do make it. It`s just that we don`t know where to buy them from.” I said.

We always bought our grocery from Sharmaji’s grocery shop at Gobindapur Bazaar. It wasn’t expected that he would stock anything fancy except the cheap utility brands. His customers were mainly slum dwellers, though a few families living at the threshold between the slum and gentry sometimes dropped in. But by and large it`s the slum crowd that he catered to. Next to Sharmaji’s grocery was Birju’s ration shop that had a square signboard hanging from a horizontal plank of wood. From one look one could tell that it had some government connection. I often wondered why everything related to government ought to be so unimaginative. The signboard written in black letters on a white background looked drab. It had lot of information though, including the name of the proprietor, the licence number and timings for opening and closure; it might be the universal format to be followed by all ration shops.

“When are you going to join your new job?” Ma asked.

“Tomorrow.” I said.

“Then you must come with me. We`ll go to Kalibari and say our prayers. Tomorrow is an auspicious day for you. You must begin with the blessing of Ma Kali.”

I am not an atheist, not a believer as well; you might call me an agnostic. Though at times, under puritanical influence of my mother, I give in to follow the rituals; but on my own, I`d rather avoid the places like temples. One thing that irritates me about the Hindu shrines is, they don’t allow devotees inside the temples with shoes on. You have to walk bare foot. Some of the temples of the city, especially the new Gujarati and South Indian temples are clean and I have no issues to walk barefoot on those sparkling clean, marbled floor. But most of the older temples are filthy, littered with pigeon droppings and cow dung; and if you walk barefoot on the floor, when you go back home you will need a good scrubbing to get rid of the grime. But my mother invariably selected those temples which were darker, older, crowded and grimy. Moreover, she always selected to visit those places on days when the whole city decided to congregate there. I didn`t understand why she liked to wait in long queues when she could easily avoid the rush and select another day. But she said some days were auspicious and therefore preferable, despite the long wait it entailed; as if it were the wait in stifling heat, behind hundreds of sweating and farting devotees, which promised salvation.

 “Which one you like to go?” I asked.

“Let’s go to Kalighat.” She proposed.

“What about Dhakuria, or Lake Kalibari?” I dropped ideas to her because those were nearer.

She frowned in disdain.

 “God is omnipresent, you said yourself! Then how does it matter where you worship her?” I said.

“You are such a little rascal!” Ma dismissed my suggestion.

Finally we agreed on Dhaka Kalibari, which was nearer. On the way we bought sandesh from New Annapurna Mistanna Bhandar. Walking along the Prince Anwar Shah Road, we crossed the crowded Golf Garden crossing and followed pedestrians on the busy sidewalk. There was hardly any room to walk comfortably. Hawkers had spread their wares taking up half of the walking space. Stands, carts-on-wheel and others which were meant to be temporary kiosks stood perched on a couple of bricks on four sides and had already acquired their semi permanent status. Police watched and collected their bribe with glee; no one dared to evict them.  Who cared about the city? I sometime wondered. Sidewalks were vanishing, roads were being encroached; the city seemed up for grabs!

“Biplab! Where are you going?” I heard somebody calling me from the road. I turned to see Chotu, one of my auto gang, was waving at me. He was steering a packed auto, three on back seat and two on his both sides, and he, sandwiched in between, driving with great temerity.

“Lake Kalibari.” I said. “Ma is with me.” I warned him lest he swore something.          

“Ganesh is coming behind. Almost empty. Make Mashima sit. You can sit also.”

I grinned and showed him thumbs up. A new gesture, I had picked up from the Jadavpur boys and girls, who frequently boarded my auto. Chotu told me something which I couldn`t catch in the din of rolling crowd. I watched for Ganesh, but missed him somewhere in the horde. After ten minutes we reached the Kalibari on foot.

Ma discussed with the priest and negotiated the fees. She generally negotiates with everybody, everywhere. For her, there is nothing which can’t be bargained off. I think it`s the fish market, from where she picked up the habit and honed her skill at Jadavpur market. I was sure that she would carve out something in the form of concession here also. I didn`t know if there was any standard rate applicable for assistance for praying to God and if it was negotiable; but  I knew, my mother, Kamala Naskar, would invariably get things in her way and come out a winner.

I watched her taking out money from her purse, hand over to the priest along with the box of sandesh. She sat on the floor facing the deity, a gleaming black idol of Goddess Kali, stepping on her zonked husband Shiva’s chest.

The idol had several rows of hibiscus garlands on her neck that had virtually hidden her torso down to knees. Kali is a formidable Goddess who wears nothing except severed parts of bodies of demons she annihilated through ages. Now if you come to think about the strange dress, it seems horrendous to know that the Goddess wears garlands made of severed heads and mini skirt made of severed hands. But her bare bust, unless her devotees had covered it with loads of hibiscus garlands, would make her look like a sensuous dark actress. Of course, this was my own little blasphemous idea that I never shared with anybody.

But this particular idol wasn’t frightening like other Kali idols; her face was soft, almost mother like, though she had her little red tongue stuck out. I waited on the sidewalk, watching the cars, buses and bikes jostling along, while ma sat with eyes closed and folded hands. In between, I received two texts. One was from Abdul who used obnoxious language like his shitty mouth: “Where are you mother****r? Still sleeping?” Rabi shot the second one, “What are you doing at home now? Son of a b***h!” I deleted those instantly. I am not coming again, bastards! Watch out for me!

Mother came out after an hour and looked out for me to bow down to the Goddess. I was standing in a mass of darkness in the sidewalk beside a neem tree. I walked up to her.

“Finished?” I asked.

“Come inside. Take a bow. Say your prayers.” She admonished.

I watched the priest sizing me up. Ma must have told him about my new job. I’d bet, he was expecting something from me as well, a hundred rupee note, for one special prayer! Damn you! I said without uttering. He frowned deeply at me with a sneering look. How come he heard me? I wondered. Some priests perhaps could read minds of people. But who cared! Ma was waiting for me to get out of my slippers and bow down to the goddess.

I knelt down on the floor and touched my head onto the floor. I didn’t know why I remembered Amitabh Bachchan’s tryst with God in old Hindi movies. He was also an atheist – I mean the character he played – was. In Deewar, he waits at the foot of the flight of stairs for his devout mother, never walking up to the temple himself because he didn’t believe in God.

But as I said, I was not a classified atheist. So, I ended up praying something, something for my mother actually. I always felt sad for her. At times when I look at her hardened face, the deep furrows on her forehead and gnarled fingers, I realise, how hard she struggled all her life to raise me. We lived from hand to mouth, often missing one of the two meals at times. But she never compromised on my studies. I had all my books, even went to a private tutor before my tenth. She worked overtime, more she could manage and in the night, when her little body ached, she brought out a little bottle of pain balm that she hid under her pillow. I grew up without my father, but she never allowed me to feel his absence. She braved everything, sacrificed her life, and didn’t marry again so that she wouldn’t have to compromise. I prayed to ma Kali for her good health, for her long life. And surprisingly when I got up, I found my eyes were moist.

We walked back home. At Lord’s crossing, Ma stopped at Beduin’s kebab shop.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Want some kebabs?” She asked grinning.

I understood the reason of her sudden generosity. Very rarely she indulges me on street food, and a new job was a perfect occasion for a sinful indulgence. I never say no to anything made of chicken. And Beduin makes nice soft chicken tikka and sumptuous kebabs. Their chicken-egg roll is also pretty good. I nodded in glee.

“One plate, pack them please.” Ma said to the sweating manager seated behind his tiny counter that had spilled into the sidewalk, busy scribing on tiny pieces of paper which were actually order slips.

“One plate of chicken reshmi kebab.” He yelled at the cook. The cook, a young Nepali boy, turned his dripping face. He wore a long cook’s hat made of Styrofoam. Why should they wear such a funny cap, I didn`t know. I thought I would ask them someday. Now I was in a hurry to dip my teeth into those succulent pieces of chicken. The delivery boy unhooked six pieces of kebabs from a red hot rod which was put inside the tandoor. He packed them into aluminium foil and garnished it with rings of raw onions and slit green chillies, squeezing a dash of lemon juice. We came home.

                                                                                                             ***

The next day I got ready in the morning. I shaved and took an early bath at the roadside fountain that comes alive twice a day, and lasts for an hour, when the corporation pumps water down the massive pipes. It was a strange bathroom, open air, under the sun, with water jet spurting out through a leaking joint. This was the purest water source to the slum dwellers, besides a couple of hand pumps which drew groundwater that was unfit for drinking. People collected their drinking water in jerry cans and empty Dalda cans. But because it was near our house, I always bathed here. 

Ma had left keeping my breakfast under cover. I ate my breakfast and I put on my cleanest pair of trousers and a well-ironed white shirt. By 11 am, when the mall opened, I reached the designated place of the Cavenders.

It looked like a small office; I never knew there were offices in the mall. The security guy smiled at me as if he knew me. Maybe he was instructed to greet the new recruits. He welcomed me with a smile. A compliment for landing into a secured job! I thought. Indeed this was one break I needed desperately. A reward for hard work and the stepping stone to my way up to a greater height about which I had only a vague idea at present. He asked me to wait and pointed at the empty chairs to sit down.

Two more boys came in and then a girl joined, which made us four; all new recruits, all around my age. We got introduced to each other. After ten minutes Pranab Sarkar arrived. He was a podgy man in mid thirties. Seating on his chair, a revolving brown one behind a mahogany desk, he took out a register and wrote down our names. All of us were given uniforms which were oversized. For the girls, they made them look like scarecrows, and all of us tittered until Pranab Sarkar cleared his throat gravely.

“You have to always wear uniforms when on duty. Till your own uniforms are ready, which might take about a week, you have to manage with these oversized ones. The tailor will take your measurements today at lunch hour. Make sure you come here, in this room.” Pranab Sarkar informed us.

“Four of you will now report to your work stations.” Pranab Sarkar took out a small chit and read out.

“Piu Mazumdar, you report at children`s wear section to Mr Gomes, your team leader. Samir and Aftab, both of you go to grocery section and report to Biswanath Aich, your team leader. And Biplab Naskar,” He smiled at me. “Biplab, you report to Chiranjeet at electronics section. Oh, I haven’t introduced myself. I am Pranab Sarkar, the HRD manager.” He said.

We know you are Pranab Sarkar, I guessed all of us muttered the same sentence under our breadth because our appointment letters mentioned us to meet him on the first day. We waited for another second until he waved his hand and yelled, “Go, now. Find out your work stations on your own.”

                                                                                                      ****

Chironjeet turned out to be a cool guy, a total computer freak; but when we first meet, he looked like a precocious adolescent with exuberant hair almost covering his beady eyes. He wore his jeans so low on his waist that to me it seemed like it might slip down anytime. When I spotted him he was talking to two guys, giving some instructions, but he recognized me and held his palm in the midair gesturing me to wait. Once he was done, he surveyed me from head to foot and then said, “Biplab Naskar! Aren’t you?”

“Yes. Thank you.” I said.

“You should say, ‘Glad to meet you’.” Chironjeet corrected me.

He spoke fluent English in a nice classy diction which didn’t have a smidgen of his Bengali accent. Instantly he became my hero. I wished if I could speak like him!

“So, do you have any computer training?” Chironjeet asked me to gather all information so that he knew from where to start.

“No.” I said.

“Have you ever handled a laptop? Do you know how to start it?” 

“No.” I said nervously.

“Okay, no issues! I`ll teach you how to go about it.”

“Thank you.” I said.

He showed me his thumb, impossibly bent, approving my appreciation.

Soon we were among the world of computers, laptops, I-pads, Mc books, tablets and all those newest gadgets raining everyday into the crazy world of finger-happy people. I didn’t realize how two hours passed until Chironjeet told me “This much for today”. I looked at my watch; and it was one already.

I ran to Pranab Sarkar’s room. None of the other new recruits came yet. I was feeling hungry now. The excitement for the unknown that had kept me on the edge, gave away to famished gurgle of my stomach.

A bearded man entered. He was a thin man who walked with a stoop. Keeping his satchel on a table, he swiped his gaze from my head to toe and asked me if I was the only person whose measurements were to be taken.

“We are four actually, but I don`t know where the rest are.” I said.

He mumbled something, his paan-stained lips quivering for a second. Then he brought out a tattered notebook and a measuring tape.

“Stand here, straight.” He ordered and took the measurements without asking me any questions as if my opinion was unnecessary though it was me who was going to wear them. Only when he dangled his tape across my crotch, and tightened it over my balls, he frowned at my objection. I screamed, “Not so tight, Masterji!” He let the tape hang loose a couple of centimetres and asked me if it was alright with a silent nod. I agreed. He marked it on his tape and noted down.

“Where are the others?” He asked me impatiently.

“I don’t know. We were told to come here at the lunch time, so I came. I guess they will be coming soon.” I said.

The tailor took his seat on an empty chair. He was a quiet man lost in his world of measurements for he opened his notebook, muttered something incomprehensible and jotted down something ignoring my presence altogether. I waited for some time, but no one came. I was getting restless from hunger. Finally I walked out and ran to the fourth floor canteen.

*****

The canteen was a big hall with steel chairs around rectangular tables. The food was available at subsidized rate to all the staff of the mall. Having wasted first thirty minutes, when I reached the hall, the queue looked annoying. I looked around for a familiar face, but there was none. Even the three new recruits, whom I knew by face, were not to be seen. I bought the coupon for twenty rupees. Though the options were many and monthly rates were cheaper, I opted for single meal. Who knew how was the food!

Three young men were busy doling out thalis to the hungry workers standing in queue. Rectangular trays with multiple sunken squares were rapidly being filled with rice, rotis, daal and sabji. A piece of cracking papad was finally placed on the top. The air smelt of steamed rice and fresh spices that whetted my hunger further.

Finally my turn came. I carried my plate and settled at a corner table. Two men, who were eating, finished their lunch and gave me a sweet smile before leaving as if to welcome me to this world of hungry workers.

After I had sent a few mouthfuls to my gurgling stomach and started feeling better, two girls came and sat at my table. I suddenly discovered that I was eating using my hand; the yellow curry and mashed potatoes that were sticking on my fingers made me look like a slum bumpkin. The girls were using the spoons and forks, and out of the angle of my eyes I watched them eating slowly, elegantly, forking and spooning the food as if what they were eating wasn’t the same food, but some gourmet stuff that should be savoured and not devoured.

They were also wearing Cavenders uniform, but those were different, robin blue in colour with black strips at elbow and neck. They looked at me and I felt they were chuckling at my gauche table manners. I understood, I had messed up; they already found out that I belonged to a deprived family. Go to hell, I told myself in frustration. Let them watch, I was here to eat, not to show people how to eat fashionably.

At one point my eyes met theirs. They smiled gently. I felt they were not as snobbish as I thought them to be. Both had done up their faces; their eyes were delicately kohl-lined and they were wearing bright red lipsticks. I presumed, the makeup was professional requirement, and not for any outing they had on their mind after work. They looked very stiff and formal otherwise, and seemed to be careful not to smirch their lipstick and spill food on their uniform. Perhaps that was the reason they were eating slowly and carefully so that their make-up didn’t get smudgy.

“I have joined today.” I told them because it seemed impudent not to talk to your co-workers when they were sharing table with you.

“Congratulations!” Both the girls greeted me.

“Thank you.” I replied.

“What`s your name?” One of them asked.

“Biplab. What’s yours?”

“Sanchita.” The girl answered. “She is Rehana.” Sanchita giggled.

“Glad to meet you.” I didn`t make mistake this time.

“Welcome.” Sanchita said.

“Where is your work station?” Rehana asked.

“Electronics section. Laptops, tablets mainly,”  I said.

“It`s nice to be at those counters where you can do something when you don`t have any work.” Rehana said.

“You can surf net, read something you like.” Sanchita chimed in.

“Where are yours?” I asked.

“I am at the spices section and she is in the billing counter,” Sanchita said.

I felt blessed to be allowed to work where I liked. It was not very exciting to stand behind the billing counter for eight hours what Rehana did. Neither was the job of helping people to find out one odd brand of turmeric power or a packet of Kashmiri elaichi, from a huge cabinet. But in any case, this was much better than roaming on the streets of the city, breathing in dust and fume and get a nagging cough. Moreover, Cavenders were known to pay reasonably well after the trainee period was over.

“Where do you live?” I asked Rehana.

“Dhopdhopi,” she said.

“Where is it?”

“Canning line. Where do you live?” Rehana asked.

“My house is ten minutes’ walk from here. It’s called Gobindapur.”

“Oh, we know it. Last year we went to see the idol of Durga there. The pujo of your locality is quite famous,” Sanchita said.

Most people of South Kolkata knew about 97 Palli, and the Rising Sun Club, the two shinning names our slum was associated with. There was another name, Councillor Jagdish Roy, who was behind these two.  

To be continued...