Returning Home

Misty, winter twilights have an unconventional way of overwhelming me. It’s sadistic. On 9th December, I knew that the last homewards journey from school would be more memorable than the last day itself. It’s not that anything special happened. In fact, a premature darkness had set in due to an overcast sky. By the time I got off the bus, the world was lit, mostly, via blazing streetlights and shops.

There is a 15min walk from the main road to Mangalam Park, through a twisted network of alleys. Unfamiliar people are bound to get lost, but once you get used to it, the locality is worthy of appreciation. It’s through these lanes that I’ve been returning home for the past 7 years, and attachments do develop.

I wonder how the very idea of returning home changes over the years. Initially, it’s bliss; walking away from the horrible educational building, hand-in-hand with mom. A little later, it’s about rushing back in a desperate attempt to catch the last bits of your favorite cartoon, the timing of which is always just a bit too early. Then, slowly, as these compulsions begin to disappear, it’s just about returning home.

On a warm, summer dusk, you can walk back slowly, arms supporting the back of a thrown-back head, whistling softly to a tune of the season, with the red sky radiating a soothing heat and a warm breeze fanning the untidy hair, messed up with the activities of the day. A beautiful picture. Just that: neither can I whistle, nor does the heavy backpack allow much luxury. And I actually mind weird glances from fellow pedestrians. So, it’s not as perfect as one would want it to be, but nevertheless, enjoyable.

There’s the monsoon, when it absolutely HAS to rain every day, during this short period of ‘returning home’. Being a lazy person, I find it easier to enjoy the shower, than to open the backpack and take out the neatly tied-up umbrella. According to the norms in Kolkata, it’s seldom more than a slight drizzle, and there’s nothing like the pleasure of bathing in a fine spray. Heavy rains are best avoided, as they tend to spoil the books inside the ‘waterproof’ bag.

However, the best attraction of the monsoon remains the sight of people on the glossy streets. There’s nothing more fascinating than a figure concealed from head to toe, with a firmly held umbrella hiding the face from the halogen lights. Reminds me of detectives in some distant way.

During winter, the retreating light is bothersome, and you can’t help feeling a sharp remorse for spending another useless day at school. There are so many things to be done. More than what can be done in a lifetime. And here we are, wasting perfect days learning shit in school; most of which would be forgotten within days. Or hours, perhaps.

It is this lonely remorse, which is unbearably addictive, and what made 9th December memorable.

I remember, back in lower classes, I had to tread these walks for all my tuitions too. The lessons would conclude by 9:30pm and we would be free to fool around till 11. Of course mom would get terribly mad initially, but then she yielded, giving up all hopes of the bright future she had planned for me. I miss those carefree, happy days.

Yes, I probably won’t miss school that much, but I will definitely miss returning home.

That second every week

19D, Golf Club Road, SBI Quarters... The place holds all my childhood memories, and beloved people with whom I’ve lost all contact. Dad’s job compelled us to leave the place while I was in 6th grade. Mobile and email were still off-limits to me, so going away physically meant cutting off all means of communication. I never heard from any of those old pals again. We didn’t get any chance to revisit the place for the next couple of years due to Mom’s serious health issues. By the time she recovered, I had settled myself in the new environment, made a new set of friends and didn’t bother much about 19D.

But as fate would have it, I got admitted in a Physics tuition at Ballygunj recently, meaning that every Friday I would have to pass 19D on my way. This apparently was a nice opportunity to visit the old place again. But week after week went by, I never found myself ready to ask driver uncle to stop the car in front of that rusty gate.

I’m well aware that most SBI employees have transferable jobs. What if, once inside that place, I find all the old familiar faces missing? What if my favorite guava tree isn’t there anymore? What if the guards stop me at the gate as a stranger (they obviously will)?

I love passing by the Quarters, but I will never break journey there. It will spoil my game. I would keep the place and all the people (and of course the guava tree) intact in my memory as one single entity, rather than venture into the place and find an unknown world.

Nostalgia is a strange feeling, almost like a drug. You may hate it, but you can never have enough of it. It gives a kind of painful satisfaction.

People, who have read “The Night Train at Deoli” by Ruskin Bond, would call me a copycat for using some of his words in the above note. Quite justified, but I just couldn’t find a better way of expressing this on my own.

Right turn from the main road…, a narrow alley…, a series of gates…, last one with a SBI symbol…, a glimpse of the inner-world…dark pitched path…flooded with the evening sunrays…unknown children playing…, left turn…, main road again.

Though no record has been kept, the Physics tuition have been blessed with 100% attendance from me till date. ^_^