Redundant

I

Kanak hasn’t felt this relaxed in a long while. Usually, the race begins as soon as he steps out of the showroom. The 9:40 PM metro to Dumdum, followed immediately by the 10:27 local from Dumdum. As if these are the last trains of his life, and if he misses them, all will be lost! So, the efforts to silently and skilfully wedge himself near the left exit door of the metro begin from Belgachhia itself. The ‘Bolt’ dash starts as soon as the doors open sufficiently to let even one commuter out. And if at the next platform, one can find but a single foothold on the steps of the overflowing train, life is indeed fulfilled. The mind spills over with joy while the fellow travellers’ beads of sweat feel like gentle rain! The pungent stench of soaked underarms mingles with the passing breeze, and if by some great fortune one can get a door-side spot, the breeze ruffling the hair transports one to a convertible on a long drive, à la Hrithik Roshan in Spain. Even the flying hair of the co-passenger, albeit not Katrina Kaif’s, doesn’t annoy.

But Kanak will not do any of this today. He buys a cigarette and walks towards the Chatterjee Building, looking to have some tea. Most hawkers have closed shop by now; a few are sweeping the area before packing up. But Yadav Da, in front of the Indian Museum, is still open. Boiling the evening milk, he is in no hurry to go anywhere. Yadav Da sleeps on the benches right here on the footpath and goes back to his village a couple of times a year. There’s no catching a train or bus for him.

‘Where’s your village, Yadav Da? Munger?’ Kanak had asked him.

‘Nehi, UP.’

Kanak was startled; were these people from UP going to take over Kolkata? Returning to his room that night he said, ‘You know Shubho, ten years from now, Kolkata will not be a city of Bengalis anymore. It will become a part of UP & Bihar!’ Arranging the just-filled drinking-water bottles, Shubho asks, ‘Why? Which state has taken over the showroom today? UP? Or Bihar?’

‘No, not the showroom; I’m speaking of the street businesses of Kolkata.’ Kanak tells Shubho about Yadav Da. Shubho laughs sagely: ‘You rascal, you’re becoming more communal every day. Can we do it like them? Such hard work, so many struggles, just to earn a little money? Bengalis want their money as well as their leisure, but you cannot have both–so why revile those guys?’

Wrapping his towel around as he prepares to go in to shower, Kanak snarls, ‘Asshole, can you do it? Then why don’t you go, leave your own home and city, and lie on some footpath selling tea and samosas? And at the end of each month save up a few thousand rupees to give your father?

Shubho laughs again, but this time it’s an appeasing laugh, not a mocking one. ‘That also requires investment, boss. Who will give me the money? I have no problem selling on the road; I will not lose my caste. Money has no caste anyway.’

Kanak glowers at him and enters the bathroom, knowing that is the only way to escape Shubho’s sermons.

They have been living in a lodge in the Mahajati area for the last eighteen months. Kanak is senior, having lived there for five years already. At Rs.1500 per bed, it is a cheap and clean place. You can cook for yourself or eat out. The owner visits once a year, complains about inflation and increases the rent by Rs. 300. However, his son Appa appears on the 18^th of every month to collect the rent and hand out receipts.

Shubho has hit it off with Appa from his second month itself. Lighting up a bidi, they discuss rearing pigeons. Appa wants to invest in bird keeping on his father’s money. His father hasn’t obliged. Instead, every time the newspapers print a job advertisement for middle-school dropouts, he insists on Appa’s applying for it. Shubho exploits his few weeks of pigeon-rearing knowledge to stoke Appa’s desire. Keeps him yearning–because Shubho knows that he may frequently fail to pay up the 1500 rupees on the 18^th of the month.

Iman, an acquaintance from his village, has introduced Shubho to the lodge as his replacement. Shubho is not doing too badly. He works on commission sales for a network marketing company through the day and manages Nadu Da’s lottery kiosk in the evenings for a daily wage of fifty rupees.

‘Have you forgotten the sugar, Yadav Da?’

‘Why? Is the sugar short?’ In a few years, Yadav Da has picked up Bengali quite well. He pours himself a little cup and tastes it. ‘You are right. This needs a little more sugar.’ He adds a few spoons of sugar to the kettle and puts it back on the fire for a boil.

‘Why so late today? Is it a holiday tomorrow?’

Kanak laughs as he throws the tiny clay teacup into the waste bucket. ‘Not tomorrow; today’s the holiday!’ It does feel like a holiday after many days. A true holiday. Actually, being happy is in itself a holiday–something he has forgotten after his schooldays.

Easel is a well-known chain of garment shops across the country. They recruited Kanak during his 2-year Fashion Design course in the city. His family in Behrampur was dead against this move. ‘Do you really have to go to Calcutta to learn to be a tailor?’ his father had asked. Kanak couldn’t explain to him that fashion design was the latest craze in the metropolis. Everyone dreamt of becoming another Manish Malhotra. However, within six months of joining the course Kanak gave up those dreams and realised he would have to look for a job–any job. In the final semester, while looking for something suitable, he’d heard that Easel was hiring salespersons. ‘Take it,’ his friend had advised. ‘Learn sales for now; if you are fortunate, you may also get to design someday.’

And so he joined up this strange world–with daily targets but no commission. Even if Park Street is washed up in the rains, he will still have to produce the ten thousand rupees worth of sales every day. If he fails he will be subjected to a verbal deluge at night. How many customers came to his counter? What does the CCTV footage show? And so on.

But today, at rupees eighteen thousand, Kanak has become the top salesperson of the day. He has broken Madhumita’s three-year record. She left the shop looking really upset this evening. Their counters are side by side, yet there always seems to be a clear Line of Control dividing them. No helping hand across the line from either side of the border.