The late afternoon was setting into the evening as the sky turned into a darker shade of blue. The cottony clouds floated by, as the sun shone, playing a
game of hide and seek with the meadows below. The Flight was on time. The
window seat saw an eager face smiling down at the roads heading straight for
the city ahead, patches of greenery, huts and perhaps cattle. She adjusted her glasses and sighed. In her late Twenties, Baitanbonhi Mukherjee was coming back to her
roots after a really long time. It felt like forever since she was in Kolkata the last time. She wouldn’t have this time
also, but Bengali mothers have their way with emotional blackmail, and that forced
her to finally pack her bags and come back this time.
Ma and Baba waited eagerly at the Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose Airport’s
Domestic Terminal's gateway for the familiar face.
“Why isn’t she still here?” He checked his watch for the umpteenth
time while his wife gave a warning glance at his impatience.
“It’s too late; the flight landed such a long time back.” He
reasoned.
Her face lit up seeing Bonhi waving at her. In a pair of
baggy jeans and a loose t-shirt, with her geek glasses and messy bun, Bonhi smiled
at her mother gleefully. The mere sight of her felt like home, as she ran for a
hug, and the smell of her saree completed the feeling.
“Come, we need to get a taxi.” Her father took the trolley from
her hand as her mother kept looking at her face and hands, “Have you not been
eating anything?”
“Oh, Ma!” She sulked, “Don’t start!”
“So, how is … umm…” Her father had half turned in his front seat,
inside the cab, as it zoomed through the smooth roads towards their home in
South Kolkata. Staring out and sinking into the feeling of home, she murmured, “Work. Good.”
“Sure.” She heard him murmur under his breath, “If you call
it that.”
“Uff, she is just here, don’t start now.” Her mother had forced
him to look ahead at the running meter of the yellow cab.
She smiled to herself, feeling her mother’s cold stare at her
father. He always gave in. Yes, according to the middle-class Bengali household
or rather its relatives and friends, hers was rather a money-less madness than
a job. Who becomes a travel journalist anyways? That too after so much education. Then writing books? That too is not a literary wonder. Such a shame.
“ Oije.” Lolita Mashi had dipped her crisp biscuit in the teacup and said, “Banerjee’s son is a filmmaker. A real one. He also doesn’t live away
from home. And she needs to go for…” She had made Baba nod.
“All are excuses. To get out of the house and away from responsibilities.
I am telling you, marry her off before she grows wings! Are we dumb, Jamaibabu?
We have seen more of the world than her.”
She had heard everything from her room while she packed the
packets of Nimki her mother had made for her. It was a week before Durga Pujo, just like this one. A few years have changed a lot.
She blinked at the hoardings, the half-done pandals and the
decorations. For a second, it felt like nothing had actually changed. Maybe she has. Maybe like a baby bird just learning to fly, her sense of freedom had taken her away from the nest, so far that she felt alien to it now.
“Bonhi, I have done some marketing for you.” Her mother made her
turn as she smiled gleefully, “From Myntra.” That amused her. “Maa! You have
learnt about online shopping!” She saw her mother blush.
The signal had turned red as the cab stopped. She looked at the
crossing ahead, a crowd of people.
“Last-minute Marketing," Her mother quipped at the packets.
“Maa. Marketing? Shopping!” She nodded in amusement. Some things, though, felt like home.
“So… where have you been?” Baba’s tone was softer “I heard the
flat at Udaipur is empty most of the time…”
“Have you been spying on me?” She raised her eyebrows
suspiciously.
“No. I… Amit Da’s son was in Udaipur, I gave him your address...”
“He could just call!” She shrugged, “And please, Baba, next time
ask me before…” She stopped at his stare.
“But Bonhi, where were you?” Ma’s voice showed concern. “Don’t
you stay home at all?”
“I was making a short trip, Ma.” She shrugged, “Have been to
places. I called once a week, right?”
“But you should tell us where you are.”
“Oho! This is why I don’t come home.” Her words had silenced
the cab the rest of the way.
Baba was struggling with the keys. For the first time, standing
under the sun and sweating, Bonhi noticed he was getting old. She stepped in,
taking the keys from him and turning them. “There,” she opened the heavy wooden
door.
The first thing she spotted among the newly coloured interiors was the frame on the wall. An annoyed three-year-old was braving the sun rays for a
snap, sitting on her mother’s lap and her father beside her, on the beach at
Puri. Her eyes travelled across the room to her favourite corner swing on the
balcony and the bookshelf. Her eyes froze there. Two volumes of her ongoing
series were there, sitting pretty beside the Rabindra Rachanabali. She walked up
to it as Ma beamed, “You never sent us a copy, Baba got them pre-booked on Amazon.” A sense of guilt hit her as she stared at the man making his way
slowly towards his room. He had been stubborn, and so was she. In all these years, not a word was exchanged with him except “How are you? I am fine.”
“Have you read them, Baba?” Her voice shook. He had stopped and
not turned.
“You have proven me wrong, Bonhi.” He walked away, leaving Ma
smiling at her. She blinked away the coming tears. Opening her bag, she took
out a certificate.
“Ma, I got this one at the Jaipur Literary Fest as recognition.
I thought you should keep it here.”
“Give it to him.” Her mother urged.
“Baba.” She knocked softly.
“Esho.” She had stepped in silently, spotting a photograph of
hers beside his bed.
“Baba, I got this.” He had put on his specs slowly and frowned at
the writings, “Bah”, which made her smile.
“How many days are you thinking of staying?” He asked.
“ Aree, she is just here, a month at least. She is here after so
long. Taina?”
“I am currently working on the third part of my series. I am
here till Kalipujo or so…” She smiled at her pleased mother.
“Besh Besh” Her father had nodded “Rest in your room now, we
have cleaned it for you.”
Putting the backpack down, she looked around the corners of nostalgia.
Her book racks, her posters, the old wooden cupboard, the trunk full of broken
toys.
Her phone rang for a brief time, and she picked it up with a
frown.
“Yes?”
“Baitanbanhi Mukherjee?”
“Yes?”
“Ma’am am calling from a small online Magazine called Bari Fera. Nomoskar.”
“ Who gave you my…”
“Ma’am, can you please give us one interview? The readers will be
delighted to know how “Wanderlust” is feeling back to her roots. Everyone
loves your travel fiction a lot, ma’am, especially your wide research on…”
“I am tired.” She murmured. “I will get back to this number
after Durga Pujo.”
“Okay, Ma’am. Thank You, Ma’am”
She disconnected as she sat down on the old four-poster bed.
Five years ago, she had been on a dream run, literally. After
numerous unsuccessful attempts, a publisher of a local paper and magazine in
Udaipur offered her a dream job. Travel Journalism. One thing had led to
another, and she now had two books on it. She was never someone to sit in one
place. She loved exploring; she loved trying new experiences, feeling new places, and tasting new cuisines. She called herself “Wander Lust”. More than a pseudonym, it became her identity.
Soon, these fictional tales of a girl travelling through the
country looking for a purpose had been up on the bestseller racks. She had covered
Rajasthan and Punjab with parts of Himachal in her books. She planned to do it down south with the third one. She had settled in Udaipur and called it her “go-to place”. Luck seemed to start there. More importantly, it was away from the
friends and family waiting back in Kolkata for a grand wedding to some doctor
or engineer.
Now here she was, watching the familiar ceiling fan make a
strange noise as it whirled. She sat up on her bed, hearing Ma say most familiarly, “Dinner is ready, hurry up.”
She had missed home. She realised that the moment she tasted the
mustard fish curry Ma served. Or was it just her cooking? She saw the smiling
face serve her one more piece of fish.
“Set the alarm at 3.55 AM”, she had heard me tell Baba as she
stopped typing away on her laptop. Her eyes stopped at the calendar. It is
Mahalaya tomorrow.
At 4AM, she had turned on Dida’s old radio. The miracle is how it
worked so well after decades. The sound of conch shells ushered in
“Mahishahurmardini”, and she felt goosebumps. Standing on the ledge of the balcony, as the
first light of dawn set in, all the houses down the lane echoed with “Ya Devi
Sarvabhuteshu Vidya Rupena Sangstitha Namastashay Namastashay Namastashay Namo
Namaha!” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
Sipping in the morning tea, the breeze had that Pujor Gondho; the familiar smell of Durga Pujo was in the air.
She was tapping on the grill, humming while the phone rang.
“Publisher,” it said.
“Hey, Janki.” She smiled as the other person spoke
“Yes, yes, I promised you a topic for the third one. Yes… I am
working on it… I…” She searched frantically across the stacks of new clothes
and gifts in her room for the laptop. Her hand had stopped at Dida’s radio.
“You know what, Janki…”
“What?”
“I found a topic.” She smiled.
“You are covering down south, right?” The publisher asked
hopefully.
“The Wander Lust is Home!”
“Pardon?” The publisher was clearly taken aback because she had insisted on the South.
“Yes, I will cover east. Home. To be precise. As I see it. As
everyone else sees it here. I just need some time. I need to shift back home.”
“Okay, okay, it should be the best, that’s it.” The publisher had
dealt with mad writers before. She just meant business.
“It will be my best ever, Janki, I promise.” She beamed.
“Okay. Good Morning, by the way.”
“Subho Mahalaya Janki.” Bonhi disconnected the call with a smile.
