The First Election Experience

I cast my maiden vote today. I won't exaggerate and say that it was a liberating experience or that it marked the initiation of my political relevance but somewhere inside it felt good to be exercising the franchise that makes us a part of a democracy. It felt that finally, after all these years I was an adult - now that I had a say in who represented us in the capital.

In most parts of Calcutta, especially the Southern stretch of it that I hail from, "election day" is more of a community exercise. It felt like walking into the para pandal on Oshtomi morning to offer pushpanjoli - seeing all the kaku-kakimas, dada-boudis and distant protibeshis standing in the queue outside the local primary school. Smiling, waving to one another, filling each other in with the latest gossip - it hardly looked the "pitched battlefield" of two sworn rivals of the political arena. It showed that the smart-showers and Kalboishakhi over the past couple of days had felicitated this get-together to a large extent. People looked generally relaxed and unhurried. Though largely a Communist stronghold there was little coercing or pleading on show, just a little raise of a hand here and there followed by a nod of assurance. Persuasion was being played out in all its politeness just outside the booth. And one would take this any day over booth ransacking or manhandling of voters which is so rampant in many parts. Though I was asked a few times about the choice of my candidate by paratoto kakus I have known since birth I evaded giving a direct answer lest I be made to explain my choice in detail, all standing in a queue of considerable stretch, in front of the prying eyes of zealous party-workers and earnest looking army men. Worse, they might make me read their respective party manifestos before I am allowed to vote, I thought. But for all the questioning that I was subjected to I got even by drilling into the head of this kaku's son the mechanics of our great parliamentary system on my way back. By the look of it, he will be pestering his father to satiate his curiosity on the procedure of appointment of the Lok Sabha speaker for the next few days.

I am no political activist. I sport no political affiliations. I exercised my right and to the best of my knowledge voted for "the lesser evil" on the EVM panel. I also weighed the political eventuality in case the candidate I voted for wins and his/her party does well elsewhere and how it would lend stability to a Govt. which can run its course in New Delhi.
I just hope I have made the right choice.
I hope others have made the same.
I hope the coming five years do not stifle out the excitement I felt today in belonging to a system, a great one at that.
I hope I get to vote again.


photo: http://www.bel-india.com

Witness to a Death

By now people must have read it in the newspapers. I doubt if it figured in the bold significance of the headlines or just occupied a nondescript corner of the 'news snippets' or did it just miss everyone's eye.

The death of a poor bus-driver.

I along with three of my friends were busy fending off the rain from under the shade of a tea-shop yesterday when I saw this huge Krishnachura tree fall over the roof of a passing bus. It fell with a great thud and to my horror I saw the bus ripped into two from the middle.
The impact was so great that the bus stopped within 10 yards of the spot of the accident. We ran towards it. It was a horrible sight to see an otherwise menacing bus in shambles. The front half of the bus had not much left of it. The few people that were inside the bus were making their way out through the back door. I asked one of them if more people were trapped inside. He seemed to be in a daze and replied he didn't notice. There could be many more inside the wreckage. The sight of the mangled remains told us if the ladies' seat at the left and behind the driver's seat were occupied there was slim chance of them having survived. I was surprised to notice a middle-aged woman come down from the wreck and board the next passing bus with unnerving nonchalance. As if nothing had happened.


The rain was pelting down with more ferocity and before long we were headed back to our shelter in the vague assurance that not much harm had been done. The bus was not carrying too many people. Then a person came running along and said the driver had died on the spot. His lifeless limbs were hanging from his seat. That news was jarring. We all were left in a state of shock at having witnessed a death. A death of a fellow human being who knew nothing about his grim fate till a few moments back. How much of a compensation will his family get? Will the Unions look after their needs? Will the bus-owner be generous? No one knows.

Life is just so fragile. And one was snuffed out just yesterday in front of my very own eyes.

The Case of a Curious Couple

While it was raining heavily and I was struggling to hold onto the plastic that covers the side of the auto rickshaw a newly wed couple came and boarded the same. Both of them looking every bit the ideal cast for the Bangoma-Bangomi couple that fairy tales have so vividly etched into our minds from our childhood days, they were panting with the exertion that the sudden downpour had inflicted upon them. The wife took the side seat at the rear and the husband the seat besides the driver in the front. What ensued was a fascinating conversation between them that I couldn't help laughing out to. Here is the transcript, albeit in Bengali, and intentionally kept untranslated to keep the essence unaltered :


Wife : (reasonably drenched) Acchha tomar pishi amake tar bou-er theke niye ekta notun saree porte debe to ?


Husband : (emphatically) Ekdom na!


Wife : tomar ki confidence!


Husband : boroncho boltey paare, ei durjoger diney naa aslei to hoto.


Wife : tomaari to pishi. bolbei to! (mischievous smile on her lips)


(after a deliberative pause) tomaake ei punjabitaay puro bangla cinema-r dushtu jomidaar-er moto laagchhey.


Husband: (to the auto-driver without paying heed to the aforesaid pseudo-compliment) achha amaderke nemey kotota haat-tey hobe ?


Autowallah: ei dhorun 4-5 minute.


Wife : ami kintu oto haat-tey paarbo na. ekta rickshaw koro. ( she was right considering the sheer workload that she would have to undertake on a walking expedition)


Autowallah: (with a sigh of understandable relief as the couple unboarded) koto dhoroner lok hoy sottyi.