Jagriti

It was June 1995 late in the afternoon, at about 3 pm; I boarded in a public bus of route 39 from Esplanade the heart of Calcutta and managed to get a seat. My destination was Academy of Fine Arts, near Rabindra Sadan1. We “Paint Tune” the Art group of five Prabirda, Prabir, Susanta, Sajal and myself, had a plan for an agenda-less meeting to justify our serious concern; ‘ to organize our first ever group exhibition in any gallery of the Academy’. Though we completed four years in this institution as a student, almost with a whimsical proliferation, in course we consider ourselves as bona fide art lovers (performer too), yet we ought to establish our very presence in the elite society of Calcuttian2 art-coir. By virtue of typical skeptical psychology of average Bengali, we were hesitant with our move to choice the venue and time. However, this story is not about us or about our phase of struggle to become a full-fledged artist.

Absent-mindedly I was synthesizing what would be our next move, if an exhibition hall denied us, as per our choice by the stubborn authority… The bus took left turn from Mayo Road to Auckland Road and gradually slowed down in front of Territorial Army Club. Before entering to Jawaharlal Nehru Road in Park Street Junction, it is a common scenario of spontaneous jam irrespective of time, day and season. Calcutta “The City of Procession”, there may be one or other meeting! I looked through the window in Maidaan3 a Cricket match was on progress; between two lower divisions teams, both were struggling hard to perform, as we five were.

Suddenly a hasty but unusual voice had interrupted my thought; ”Do you want a toffee?” Black chaff of about twenty-five, standing in front of my seat with unshaven beard, thick far vision spectacles, “Would you like to take? I got disturbed and replied unhesitatingly, “No.” He moved forward, with a continuous rhythm-less monotonous announcement, “It is juicy, essential for your dry mouth and thirsty throat, you will feel the difference with one piece, first taste it then you would feel like buying it for your children & beloved one. It contains milk, butter, chocolate…” A usual scene of mobile hawker in Calcutta buses, where buses stops or struck. They come with toffees, peanuts, fruits, lottery tickets etc.

A distant unscrupulous event had suddenly jolted my thought to recollect from my fainted memory. Chilled dawn of December, Old Delhi Railway Station platform No. 13; I was waiting for 2311 UP Kalka Mail to board in, train was late by half an hour. Thick fog had veiled the normal vision, the lights in the platforms were appearing hazy, passengers scheduled to catch late morning trains are trying to shield themselves from cold in waiting rooms. Some unlucky passengers under compulsion were winking in search of pleasure. Off-season and pinching cold has quavered the rush in the platform to unmatched ecstasy; I was an exception who always feels like to be an odd. I was sitting on bench in the platform with a bit of nostalgic mood, almost after six month I was going home. Shallot of two porters on either end of platform with fractional glowing of Bidi appeared like horror countenance. Beside my seat, a rugged dressed man was dozing. His wrapper was not offering him desired warmth to resist the awesome north Indian cold. I was feeling pity and disturbed with his dangling sleepy gesture. My pullover and jacket had not betrayed on that bone-shaky crack of dawn to pull down impassion to a melancholy.

After a while, the man woke up with a long yawn. By putting his heavy spectacles on, he glanced at me and enquired in a Bengali-accent-Hindi, “What is the Time?” “It is half past four.” I replied. I was not quite interested to prolong the conversation, by his novice appearance. By adjusting his spects again, the man enquired in hesitation, “Are going to Calcutta?” Reluctantly I replied,” Yes” Again another question followed “Are you from Calcutta?” “No” I felt disturbed and lied. I looked at him with mere curiosity; the person seemed to be innocent, and not much accustomed with Hindi belt culture, thus was keen for friendship. Immediately another thought occupied within my mind, there were occasions of fraudulence in train, by offering tea or biscuits, passengers made unconscious and looted. I became cautious to continue further talk.

However, he was unavoidable, “Are you staying in Delhi?” “No.” I replied. ” Must have come for a tour?” Tour, in the blood freezing cold; has he gone mad? “No.” I replied. Conversation cannot continue longer with single word reply. He remained silent for few moments, “Would you please take care of my luggage, just for a while, I would be back with a cup of tea, if you feel like you may have one.” Surprisingly I glanced at him, we were not yet established co-passengers, even we are not knowing each others name, how come one man believe a stranger? Is he a nincompoop or a wayward? That generated my interest on him, “Alright, I am here, but I don’t want tea.” I said. He replied generously, “One should not say no to a hot cup of tea in this freezing-cold.” I did not respond.

He moved quietly towards a Tea Stall, about twenty-five meters away. Within a few minutes, he came with a cheap quality biscuit packet, offering the packet he guessed, “Tea will take another ten minutes.” “I cannot be without tea in the early morning.” He murmured. It struck in my mind why not to have a time-pass, with this fool! I enquired,” Are you a Bengali? Where are you from?” He answered with zeal, “Of course I am, I hail from Badkulla, District Nadia, West Bengal.” At instance he enquired, “Are you also..?” That is the question; I wanted to avoid, it is somewhat like a fly sitting over your face. I wanted to be honest, “Yes.” Spontaneously he asked “Your native place?” Now I am in the vivid recognition of community identity. I could not ignore the novice acceptability anymore. He tried to become more intimate by extending his hand,

“I am Jagannath Mondal, nicknamed as Daradi4; what is your name?” I replied mine. Cautiously I enquired, “Why are you in Delhi?” Perhaps he was waiting for this question. I suppose he were an impractical messiah. He responded with zeal and delight, “I came to meet few political leaders.” I was surprised “Political leaders?” “Yes political leaders, Leader like Mrs. Banerjee MP, Mr. Choudhury MP and others.” I became more curious. “But they are all from West Bengal, what has made you travel such a long distance, to meet them in Delhi; they are less accessible here in Delhi?” “ You are mistaken; it is just reverse, they are much relaxed over here, as they do not have any extra business barring attending the Parliamentary session, they are quite generous to attend the people, who are from his native place or same community.” He replied in a single breath. I asked, “Could you succeed in your Mission?” He replied generously,” No, but I am confident my next visit would be successful, as Madam Banerjee’s PA has noted down my name, Mr. Choudhury’s office has attended me well and so on…” “But what is very purpose; rather your mission or goal to meet them?” “Start a Revolution!” He replied with confidence. I was astonished; he must be lunatic, escaped from an asylum or a damn fool in a canny world. However, his gestures, never poses either of any suspicion. There is some thing somewhere wrong. I sense a mistune in the rhythm. He continues with full enthuse, “I run a fortnightly Magazine, “Jagriti5” (The Awakener ), the very step of changing a society, the mentality of realization and rationalism of its people, although it is not a joke to reshape the visage of common mass towards generosity of reality.” After a pause he started, “Yet I am confident through my magazine, I would succeed to do so, ‘Charity begins at home. ‘Thus, I initiated the movements form my village Badkulla. I charge a meager amount from people, i.e. one rupee. But most of the copies I distribute free of cost.” “Free of cost?” I exclaimed. “Yes, free of cost, to escalate its popularity and spread the message of…” He paused. “How do you manage all these monetary expenses, rather resources? Or yours is a NGO, getting sponsored from some authority or is it an exclusive Social Service?” I enquired. In reply, he furnished such astonishing information; that stunned me. “I have some income source of mine, rest I take from my mother, actually I am a posthumous child, my mother loves me very much she never stopped me to full fill my wish, and she works hard in a Women’s Welfare Centre as a tailor. With her little earning we both fetch our bread and I….” I interrupted him, “What is your qualification?” “I have completed my High School, could not continue further because of poverty, but I vowed to complete my Graduation sooner or later.” I could not fit the person with my conception of struggle and survival. Suddenly he stood up from the bench, looking towards the tea vendor, modestly told, “Excuse me I would go for a cup of tea, would you...?” “No thanks, actually I am in habit of taking decoction, these vendors have no expertise to make a good composition of that!” I ensured.

He walked away with determination and confidence. I looked at my watch it was ten to five, I have to bear the man for another ten minutes or so, if train does not linger due to mist. Always such excuses persist with Railway authorities. Despite heavy clothing, the severity of cold was not sparing me, my toes and fingers were almost senseless. I ought to go for good sleep after boarding train by wrapping my Korean blanket, to compensate the loss calories. My en-route journey from Mount Abu to Calcutta via Delhi has really become costly in this daybreak. Mr. Jagannath came back with a splendid smile of triumph. I inferred: Jagannath, the Master of Universe may only be modest to that extend. I enquired, “Your reservation is in which compartment?” He replied with another pious smile, “I don’t have any!” I became cautious, further continuation of conversation might cost my comfort in journey, if he request I might not deny sharing my berth. Better, I must divert the discussion. I pretended with a glance to my watch, train might arrive any time. “Let’s talk some thing about your magazine, i.e. topics you cover, contribution towards current and burning issues etc.” I proposed. It was really a cheer in his face, “Why not? Look most of the articles/columns are written by me barring a few, one primary school teacher of mine some times contributes his poems.” He murmured, and started searching something in his unusual luggage, a bag (perhaps stitched by his mother). “Yes here it is; you can keep a copy of latest issue.” I took it in my hand, printed in cheap newsprint a single fold paper magazine. First page depicts ‘Editorial’, followed by an Open Letter: ‘to President of India’. Next, page ‘How we are Surviving’ and so on. Columnist for all the topics is Jagannath Mondal. He is the Editor, writer, publisher, and seller as well as spoke person for Jagriti “My address is given at last page; you are most welcome, if you are interested to contribute for this movement.”

Suddenly a sleepy groaning sound of mike had attracted our attention towards platform announcement, “Your attention please 2311 UP Kalka Mail from Kalka via Delhi Jn. to Howrah is arriving shortly at platform No, 13.” I stood up holding my suitcase and haversack and proposed, “I suppose we should move now.” Complete platform starting from passenger, porter to vendor had put into reality for their next course of action, as if by the sprinkle of a magical potion all have become alive from statue. Jagannath is no exception; with a vigor smile he lifted his bag, and spontaneously told,” At the very instance I saw you I could come to know you are a Bengali!” I could not be a hypocrite anymore, generously I replied,” One cannot disguise the self in front of truth.” I do not know what was his take… he shook his head. I stepped forward with my mission, by leaving him with his milieu.

In the afternoon, I took out the magazine from haversack; all the topics and columns depicted with explicit information without any journalistic version or literary value. It reflects more sentiments and obsession than any analysis, more criticism than less opinion, far from political essence. Through out the journey many a times I occupied with mixed thought, ‘I should have offered him to come along with me’! ‘My decision was correct; otherwise, it would have been an awesome journey with his garrulity’. Nevertheless, it was repentance. One cannot deny his vital genuineness and fabulous innocence.

Back into the bus Route No. 39 in Calcutta, slowly the bus started moving towards Park Street crossing the junction of five roads; the Toffee-hawker was about to get down from the front door . I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..." With an astounding jerk I stood up, almost with a flip, caught his hand, virtually by running from the opposite end of the bus,” Get me some Toffees...” All the co-passengers observed me with a careless boo! I repeated,” Get me Toffees for rupees two.” He enquired without exclamation, “Sweet, sour or hot?” “Combination of all…” I stammered with hesitation. Undoubtedly, it was Jagannath Mondal, with same accents, same spectacles, same uncanny look; deferring with torn shirt, stitched slipper, somewhat rhythm-less but eyes were shining. I took out a two-rupee coin, with a snatch he accepted it and got down from the running bus to catch the next. In exchange, I got few Toffees of hot, sweet and sour, but all appeared to be bitter. I could not ask him, why he is in Calcutta? How is his mother? Could he meet those leaders? What is the plight of ‘Jagriti’? Perhaps we should not disclose our identities at times, better live in disguise with self and with the world; that is the true phase of ‘Jagriti’ as Jagannath deciphered it.

Footnote:

1 Rabindra Sadan—A Public hall in Kolkata

2 Calcuttian --People from Kolkata

3 Maidaan —Big Play Ground

4 Daradi -- Poetic version of sympathetic-person

5 Jagriti -- The Awaken