STREET FLOWER OF CHOWRINGHEE

‘STREET FLOWER OF CHOWRINGHEE’ - a short story by  Dr. C. V. Ananda Bose Hon’ble Governor of West Bengal,  published in CHEKOV AND HIS BOYS

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STREET FLOWER OF CHOWRINGHEE

No day passes in Chowringhee, without seeing him.

Vehicles that come screaming and smoke-spitting  would stop abruptly at the crossroad.

Awaiting the signal to go ahead… like the uncertainty of urban life, caught way-struck unexpectedly.

In the midst, he too would be there.

With the bouquet of six roses stringed together in colour thread and the smile of a full bloom flower.

He would reach upto Bulbul’s car through the chaotic mess of screaming vehicles, with the pliancy of a gymnast.

One flower one rupee. For Bulbul alone, for six flowers five rupee.

“Munna” Bulbul would call. And he responds. Is that his name? No one knows. Including him. What’s in a name?

Even if a rose is called by another name its fragrance stays, inimitable. Does the nomenclature for the flower vendor follow suit?

She calls. He hears. The meaning of the name gets its life.

In Gariahat, he is Chottu to all.

Little lad, mere lad.

He is a regular at Praphullada’s slum. Praphullada who makes bamboo-beds. Catching  tram from Kalighat you can reach Gariahat by 8 in the morning. He would come daily but for two days in the year. Two days’ leave of absence for celebrating Saraswati pooja and Durga pooja. Other than that if he happens to come late, Praphullada would ask, “Chottu, why late? Slept like a buffalo?’’

Like the recorded message at the airport his reply, “tram outlie acche’’

“So, that’s why you have a swollen neck. Got aplenty?’’

Chottu would smile. The smile with the whole teeth out. Everyone would have made out the fact.

Tram goes outline means tram derailing, for the average Kolkatan. If Chottu says, ‘outline’ it means there was ticket checking that day.

Ticketless travel is nothing strange for him. No one needs to teach him the trick to bunk as well. In case caught red handed, he knows how to save the day by crying out to invite a mob. Some  old Banerjee among the crowd would be oozing out sympathy along with five bucks.

But he would be late for the slum that day. He would play a trick to avoid Praphullada’s pinch on the ear. Half of Banerjee’s five rupees would be spent on rasagula and sandesh at K.C.Das Confectionery.

That was enough to ward off the displeasure at the slum.

There is an invisible thread that links generations of Bengali families born, brought up and dead in Gariahat, Baliganj and Jadavpur with Praphullada’s slum. With Praphullada’s bamboo cot, to be exact.

Their last journey to the Kalighat graveyard would be on that bamboo cot.

For  the one who dies in slum, bamboo cot.

For the Bhadralok—Bengali middle class— varnished cot.

For the filthy rich, the decorated bed intricately worn on the frame of tender yellow bamboos either brought from Jaipalguri or smuggled out of the city zoo by bribing the watchman.

Chottu too would join to weave the third kind. Not for wage. Praphullada never give him wages. Neither has he asked for. Roti and dal once in a day. Occasional scolding. And a pinch or two in the ear. That’s all he received. That’s all he wanted. And he wanted them as well.

When Praphullada scolds, pinches… he feels, I’m not an orphan.

He would also depart with the last cot sold in the afternoon.

Chottu’s noon pooja—Praphullada would mock.

As the cot reaches its destination he would take up the responsibility to load it inside the room. Before the corpse is laid upon it, he would gild the lily with the shawl of his. When the corpse is taken to the burial ground, he would be in the frontline of the funeral procession. As the daily visitor, he would become the middleman between the grieving party and the undertakers. The go-between who never accepts wages for small favours.

He would take off reverently the wreaths from the body. And would wait till the fire dies out on the pyre.

The bodyguard of the final journey.

As the relatives depart he would be given something. Otherwise too he has no complaints.

In the evening Chottu’s scene of action is the junction. No dead bodies there, only the near-dead vehicles.

Tram cars that drag along breathing as if their last breath. Ghodagadies drawn by weary horses. To those beauties and the female bodies that spray themselves with colours to be beauties, sitting in cars waiting turn at crossroads, he would extend half-bloom roses. One rose one rupee.

In the bunch, there would be the special bouquet of six roses stringed on colour thread.

For the mother who come driving the white Maruti, alone at 5.30. Six flowers quite different from the other flowers. Plucked out from the roses planted in the slum and nurtured by the slum dwellers themselves. The gift of love to Bulbul Sen from Chottu…na, Munna.

Sometimes Bulbul  would say, “Munna, I need two more flowers today.’’ 

“No ma. Not possible today. Shall give you tomorrow.’’

“Why not today? You have lots of flowers with you now.’’

He would evade without giving clear reply.

“This is not for ma. They are different.’’

‘Ma’… that call will spread the fragrance of rose in Bulbul’s heart. She would fly up into dream world. And look at Munna’s face. He would smile. Like the gems left ashore by the tidal waves.

Could I be able to invoke and install him within my uterus which is un-fated to bear labour pain…Returning from office every day, Bholu  would see the deftness of my hand. In the flower vase in the drawing room. It would be adorning the flowers Munna had given me.

It is Bholu who is the happiest when I win prizes for floral decoration at the Calcutta Swimming Club. And he never forgets to deftly bring in my victory in the lunch room gossiping at the police head quarters.

Bholonath Sen IPS.

Taking out the rose in my hair and placing in his shirt cleave, he would ask, ‘’how’s it honey, have I become a little Nehru?” I would reply, even if the worn flower wears out, don’t wear the worn out one.

Bholu rang up from office.

‘’It’s child welfare committee’s anniversary today. You know, I’m the committee’s patron. Mother Teresa is coming down to bless the children. Get a bouquet ready for her.’’

“Will you take me too along?” Bulbul asked.

“Why mention it, especially when the Mother comes.

Go to the flower shop at the Newmarket. Or else, tell your Munna boy to arrange for a good one.” Bholu entrusted her with a mission.

Bulbul’s mind throbbed. My Munna is not just mine, now. He is of utility for Bholu too. More relevant is the fact that Bholu is not diffident to approve of that.

That day as she was buying the usual bouquet from Munna, Bulbul told him,

“Munna, today I want a big bouquet.’’

“Today? Ma, I shall give you tomorrow.’’

“No. today itself. Come with it at 7.30, in front of Birla planetarium. I’ll come that way.’’

“Ma, but…’’

Before completing it, the traffic signal was on and Bulbul drove away. To her flat overlooking Rabindra Sarovar.

Bholu who came back hurriedly from office became off-mood. No bouquet.

“The function is at 7.30, right? He’ll come with it before that.” Bulbul guaranteed.

“How come?  Where would that beggar boy find flowers this night? I could have sent some constables to fetch one from the New Market.’’

As she found the scene going out of hand, Bulbul took out the stealth of Bengali women.  She unbuttoned his uniform. Her fingers fine tuned his broad chest like the strings of a tanpura.

While driving alone I often get jammed in the traffic. But with the power symbol on the car Bholu felt like the main road was opened up solely for him. On the way he asked twice, “Are you sure your Munna won’t ditch us? After 7 o’ clock all shops would be closed. After that, forget flower, not even its dust you get in this city.’’

Bulbul consoled.

“Munna will come.  He’ll be there in front of Birla planetarium with the bouquet.’’

“okay, okay.” Bholu seems to have belief in my words.

Reaching to the front of Kalighat’s graveyard, Bholu became the cop.

Bholonath Sen, the Commissioner of Police, Kolkata South.

Stopping the car he ran to the graveyard’s gate. A figure withdraws into the gate. Bholu rushed inwards like a race horse.

I was seeing it for the first time, the real figure of Bholu that makes the underworld of the big metro tremble.

Bulbul saw the figure coming out of the gate in a flash and trying to jump into the passing tram.

The police commissioner rushed in that direction.

The constable on duty in that area, joined his boss.

The flow of vehicles suddenly stopped.

People mobbed to the double-decker bus that abruptly halted.

As one who is accustomed to theft and accidents on Kolkata streets almost as routine, Bulbul decided not to look that side. It won’t in any case be something good that has happened on the road.

She wished only Bholu to return.

When Bholu comes, Munna should be shown to him.

Moments crawled along.

Why Bholu doesn’t come?

An undue fear spread up her nerves like electric discharge.

Suddenly an intuition...

She pushed open the door.

And rushed out to the spot, warding off the mob.

Like a hysteric.

She made just a glance.

The blood soaked figure under the double-decker that came with the death message.

Splashed out roses near.

And six roses  stringed together in colour thread, clung within the little fingers, close to the chest.

The constable said ‘’Some lad who lives by picking up flowers from the graveyard and selling it in Chowringhee, madam.’’

Bulbul  staggered, tottered and then, bent over Bholu’s shoulders.

Effusing the love for her yet to be born darling in golden drops she sobbed.

My Munna!!!

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