I packed my bags and sat on my bed looking out through the dormitory window, the azure sky was speckled with grey and at times white woolly clouds. I sometimes wish that I could offer a window into my mind so that my friends too could join my flights of fanciful imagination, sharing the hues that I could see. Soon, there was the pitter-patter of raindrops. The rains brought such soothing sounds- a natural melody. Every bit as beautiful as my mother’s hum…Suddenly, my reverie was interrupted by the sound of someone calling out my name, “Arnav!” My housemaster informed me that my mother was downstairs.
My mother signed her name on the exit register “Chumki Bhattacharya”. The driver loaded my luggage and soon we hit the highway. We had a long journey ahead of us- from St. Michaels in Siliguri to Kumargram, tucked away in the corner with Bhutan on one side and Assam on the other. This Burra bungalow had been my sweet home for the past two years. The tyres of the white Gypsy made a monotonous hiss over the rain-washed highway. En-route we picked up my father from Aibheel, who had an important meeting to attend there. A little further, gazing out from the window, I could see lush green and fluorescent paddy fields and a queue of betel nut trees. Soon we turned into the Falakata road, which was narrower, grey and cracked. As we made our way towards the shore of Sil-Toorsa River, there emerged crammed up bastis. The land rolled meeting the horizon, over it was laid a path which led to the latticed handmade bamboo bridge- which we had to cross with our Gypsy- to the shore from where we could be ferried across to the other side. The “bridge” was narrow and frail. I didn’t think that it could carry the weight of even four people, let alone a full vehicle. The driver, Prakash daaju, however, managed to skillfully cross the precarious-looking bridge. I looked around to see my mother joining her hands to say a silent prayer, the creases on my father’s forehead eased. Prakash daaju maintained a straight face but I could see the twinkle in his eyes, celebrating this victory and in the rearview mirror, the rivulet moving further and further away.
On reaching the sandy shore, there were many boats- one huge rustic ferry too! Around the dock, there were small shops of peanuts roasted with their shells and fresh paan, with occasional visitors scattered in the vicinity. I squinted as the glint of the sun hit the frame of my spectacles. A few people were making their way onto the ferry and we soon followed. The driver in my eyes was no less than a stuntman. He drove the vehicle into the ferry, balancing it merely on two narrow wooden planks. Now, all of us were on the deck of the ferry which was our land amid water. It was an old veteran ferry. The old planks had retained the odour of fish. There was the noise of bleating goats and cooing poultry and the excited chatter of the travellers. As our ferry rocked and bobbed, I was excited as any pre-teen would have been. Sitting inside the vehicle seemed as though I was missing out on the action so I would frequently get out onto the deck. I watched the reflection of the setting sun on the rippling water as the ferry propelled us forward. The motor of the ferry made a strange gurgling noise which wasn’t rhythmic. One dappled goat had my attention and I went on to pat it. Its human companion told me that his name was Bhola and they were headed to a village across the river. I was enjoying the company of my new friend when my mother called me and handed me some snacks. It almost seemed like a picnic. I was looking forward to an enjoyable weekend.
Out of the blue, there was stillness all around. It was quiet now, unnaturally so. The gurgling of the motor engine was also not to be heard. My parents gathered around the Gypsy. My four-legged friends too seemed restless now. Perhaps they could sense something amiss. In the grip of silent panic, my mother hugged me. The local ferrymen announced in a matter-of-fact tone, “tel shesh hoye geche (there is no fuel)”. I looked at my mother. Her palm flung towards her forehead, “Oo maa!”, she exclaimed in the direction of my father. My father is a calm, rational man. I back this up by another incident that he had faced. “Wapas jao ya goli khao!” (Go back or face the bullet) What would you have done?
My father Ashim Bhattacharya, or Chhotta Shakeel, as he was lovingly called by his colleagues, remained calm and maintained his composure. He delved deep in his work and informed the head office about this threatening letter from the Kamtapuris, or KLO. Guards were sent for his security and two of them remained by his side at all times.
The ferry was now floating along the river currents. At that instant, I could see my father's face washed over with concern. Nevertheless, he tried to calm us down. The brutal swell of the river and the ferry floating on it seemed like we were being carried with the flow towards Bangladesh. We weren’t prepared for the course of the wide Sil-Toorsa river this way. My father trying to lighten up the mood joked, “We can visit my ancestral home in Bangladesh!”
The currents were deceptively swift and strong. Without any warning, the clouds thickened and soon began pouring. The winds arose to push the river water into choppy waves. The ferrymen looked fretful but determined. One of the maajhis, Gonesh, took out a thick rope and acted as an expert who could read the currents of the river. The ferry swayed on at times spiralling along the currents. The ferryman stood on the rain-soaked deck, twirled the rope over his head, aiming it towards one of the branches of a nearby tree but in vain. After many trials and errors, the rope was finally anchored. Two of them leapt into the river and pulled the ferry with all their might.
The Gypsy was somehow made to land on the shore but the adventure was far from over. There were no facilities leading to the main road. We could see the slopy hills and atop of it paddy fields. This slope had pathways and mud steps built by the villagers. But taking the Gypsy up from here would be literally and figuratively an uphill task. My father instructed us to follow on foot as he guided the driver, manoeuvring up the muddy slope. Our footwear soiled and drenched. The vehicle was now parked amidst the paddy fields. We were thankful to villagers for their help in pushing up the vehicle.
Some peasants were even a wee bit annoyed, as their crop had been spoilt. The paddy was tufting and waving with the breeze. We had read in our class five Geography lessons, just a few days back that low land rice fields are usually puddled to develop a hardpan to reduce water loss. The farmers wouldn’t allow us to dig away those earthen embankments which protected their crop, without which the vehicle wouldn’t move. The driver tried convincing them in many ways but to no avail. They weren’t ready to lose their crops. Finally, my father was ready to pay for their loss and an old village headman allowed making way for the vehicle. I could empathize with the farmers for the loss of their paddy but there was no choice. The faint twilight would turn into a dark night soon. Setting aside their despair for the loss of their toil and crop, they came together and in unison echoed “jorr laga ke…”
We were on a narrow basti road, now out of the slush, which led to the highway after driving for some time. Gradually, the route started looking familiar though the roads which would have been black in the daytime, was beginning to melt into the darkness of the night. Upon reaching the Kumargram bungalow, my parents heaved a sigh of relief. As I tucked into my bed that night satisfied, I thought to myself, “Aahh! What an adventurous day!” and excitedly wondered what adventures the next day would bring.