Thread by @Shayonnita15

OK, so since there hasn't been a thread and some of you kind people have asked for one, here it is.

As I haven't been out, I haven't met new people. So I offer, a throwback to an afternoon in Calcutta when I got rather clobbered on Old Monk and joined a random morcha!

THREAD.

Calcutta comes usually with November. I have an excellent (if slightly eccentric) aunt, who, with her sterling cook Amol, boundless love and shared enthusiasm for rum, lives in one of those old film-style havelis in Calcutta.

1.

So every year, with about a week in hand, packed full of sweaters I will not use, and too many books to possibly read, I head to my birth city. And Calcutta is always lush—a tobacco scented letter from a well-read old lover in careless cursive—ever welcoming, ready for a meal.

2

Pishi lives in old Kolkata. Labyrinthine lanes that can only be traversed on foot, wind down to her doddering old haveli.

Come morning, the main road outside fills with vegetable-&-fish sellers. Come 9am, it becomes breakfast haven—gorum cha, lengcha ar kochuri!

3.

Setting out of the way, let's get to my story.

It all happened on a lazy afternoon. The house was sonorous with an orchestra of snores & as I leafed through a book & sipped on a peg of rum, I realised I had problem

That evening, I was scheduled to go to a relative's house.

4.

Gifts had been purchased for said relative and family from Bombay, but I had neglected to wrap or package them in any way. I wondered if I should just use newspaper, or do nothing, but then, telling myself that gifting was an art, and I was artist; I made a firm decision.

5.

Amol dada, rubbing his eyes, told me that wrapping paper would be available at a stationery shop "right around the corner" on the main road. "Ei glee, ei ashle", he vowed [You'll go and be right back!].

And so, I chugged my peg, left my phone to charge and was on my way.

6.

Not less than fourteen streets later, I finally came to the main road.

On the way, I marked a temple, several sweetshops (all named either Gupto & Sons or Mukherjee & Bros), hole-in-the-wall stores and colourful bungalows that would be absolutely no help in getting back home.

7

Nevertheless, my destination with its 'XEROX' and 'ICSE TEXTBOOKS AVAILABLE' boards, chart paper rolls and buffet of pens was across the road, and happily, I crossed.

Right next to it, I noticed, was a liquor shop.

And right in front of the liquor shop, was a morcha.

8.

A man in a crumpled kurta with a longish beard and circular glasses—right out of a 60s movie—was standing on a small platform speaking passionately into a mic, shaking around a newspaper. A flex behind him announced the name of his collective.

9.

Before him, a clutch of people stood listening in groups of 2s or 4s. They clapped, nodded, whispered.

Around them, a scattered crowd of curious passersby stood gawking. Simply watching because what better to do?

Now I, paper being bought, glanced back at the liquor shop.

10.

The rum at home had run dry, pishi liked a drink, and so, I thought, why the hell not buy another half?

Then, wrapping paper & nondescript paper bag in hand, I too joined the footpath-watchers.

By now, our leading man had picked up a frenzy; the clapping had gained fervour.

11

The speech hoped to implore listeners to protest against the chief minister's acquisition of rice-land for the development of commercial projects in Rajarhat.

I was fascinated by the scene, and so, I waited. A light breeze was in my hair. Bengali words were in the air.

12.

And opening my half and taking a covert sip seemed like a great idea.

One sip became three, three became six.

Time forgotten, I continued to listen. (and sip)

This is what a holiday experience should be like, I told myself as I swayed dreamily (aka tipsily).

13.

At this time, a cute-ish young man approached me. His serious face began at a wide forehead and square glasses. He was wearing a striped kurta and holding pamphlets. He gave me one.

Now, on a good day, I can read Bengali, very slowly, one letter at a time.

14.

That day was not a good day (for Bengali, at least)

Several large gulps of Old Monk in, the letters of my beloved mother tongue were swimming across the sheet. I swear an aakar chased another, while a mantra danced with a brother.

Embarrassed, I smiled and nodded wisely.

15.

Cute guy leaned in.

Did I want to join the morcha that was going ahead, he asked me.

I stared. Join? Morcha?

And so, I did the only thing that seemed sensible. I held out my paper bag & asked, solemnly. Did he want any rum?

He stared at me. Then shrugged, took a big sip.

16.

I smiled as he ahh-ed in pleasure as the liquor burned down his throat. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and gestured for me to follow him.

By now caution (and time) thrown to wind and rum, I joined in. After all, I did resonate with the cause and frankly—

17.

—the opportunity to march down a lane, fiercely yelling 'Inquelab zindabad' seemed too good to pass.

*

About a kilometre and a half of walking and yelling later, I realised I had no phone and absolutely no idea how to get back (not to mention the rum).

18.

When I finally got home, 2hrs since I'd left, I was met by a very upset pishi (not to mention a harried Amol dada who had been quizzed to the limit about where the hell I had gone to buy stationery)

Nevertheless, no harm was done. I'd lost time & direction but, I was back!

19.

AND the gifts were packed.

The only issue was that I fell asleep in the middle of my relatives showing me pictures of their trip to USA.

Soon after, a rumour that I got drunk and joined a morcha began doing the rounds in the family.

But you know how it is. People speak.

END