Mrs. Basu!

Mrs. Basu!

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It was one of those customary Sunday evenings when I had gone for grocery shopping with my mother. There is an outlet nearby my house where we get our day-to-day things. It is usually taken care by a young man but that evening of summer, his father decided to take the job. He must have been in his late sixties and is an active man in managing the work. Slight beard and a timid body type, he wears spectacles which are heavy. Newspapers surrounding him elaborate the fact that he is quite fond of reading.

While waiting at the counter, we were conversing in our native language Bengali.

This was when the old man asked,”You are speaking Bangla, if I am not wrong.”

I nodded to his query.

He answered, “I have a couple of more Bengali customers here. They have grown mammoth over the period of time.”

I answered, “Yes uncle, they have indeed. Now, we have Durga Puja even in the vicinity.”

Dramatically removing his spectacles, he said, “I have a beautiful chronicle associated with Bengalies. You remind me of my neighbor, the enigmatic and motherly Mrs. Basu. I was a little one, probably 6 years old and used to read in a nearby school. The lady and her husband lived right next to our house and had become good friends. They seemed to be married at a very young age and didn’t have any issue.

Mrs. Basu had a radiant skin and incredibly beautiful eyes. With that small Bindi and saree, she exemplified compassion and love. I and my older brother loved her. From school, as we came back, we used to throw our bags home and rush to meet her. From sharing short stories to playing with us, she was there for us. She and her husband used to own a shop where you could get basic utilities, tea, coffee, biscuits and similar things. People used to come in the evening mostly and had light break and a lot of debate on the then political landscape. They were known for their humility and had a good rapport with their customers. With the passing time, they had become known in the locality. We as kids always had fun at her shop and home. It was like our home.

She often sang Rabindra Sangeet which we never understood but yes, whenever she played the harmonium, we moved our heads left to right and all that we did was 'mmmmmm!'. People in the neighborhood knew a mix of good and bad orchestra was awaiting.”

The old man chuckled, gulped a glass of water and continued to speak, “My family was too orthodox to understand the culture of eating fish. I fondly remember eating the splendid fish pakora at her home without telling my Amma. I got beaten once too.”

After a quick break from dealing with a customer, he pointed towards a broken vase. He said, “Look at that. It is a flower vase, it was given by her. It is now broken but I still keep it in her memory.”

In utter curiosity, I asked, “What happened then?”

He said, “One fine day, a few local goons turned up for tea. They were anyway harmless at that point. But, one requires being alert.”

He paused and spoke again, “Next morning, we woke up to a surprise. There was a lot of hustle bustle in the vicinity but we were not able to comprehend. We were asked to stay back home. Much later, like other days, we went to meet Basu aunty but couldn't find her. We came back inquired her whereabouts from Amma. She said that the Basu couple had left and no one knows where to.”

We overheard some neighbors talking -

“Police found a pistol at the table in the shop. Oh goodness, such a good family, no one knows what happened. They left overnight.”

I asked,”What had happened?”

He answered, “We exactly didn’t understand. Though, the repertoire of their humility, it was beyond words. They were too naive to have arms at home. They went without informing and I guess in deep embarrassment. Today, I doubt if they are alive and don’t know where they are. As I look at you, I vaguely reminiscence the beautiful lady, very earthy, motherly and deary.”


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