Mango Showers

To write about a time I was not even born in is difficult. I have only heard stories about Kolkata of the seventies. Surprisingly, the horror of naxalite movement had passed us by at a time when, as history books would tell you, Kolkata was in great turmoil.

Papa used to work for a railway track material manufacturing company. A young, non-descript engineer, fresh out of Allahabad University, trying to find his feet in the metropolis, he lived with his two brothers, their wives, their children, an elder sister, her children and his parents in a small one bedroom house in Kankurgachi.

My grandfather was an honest lawyer in Sikar and had not accumulated any wealth worth its name. After my uncles showed no signs of academic brilliance, they had been sent to Kolkata. It was now upon them find their way in life.

Like many other young Marwari men, my uncles started trading in steel. The Marwaris had built a fiefdom around the steel trading business – sourcing materials from rolling mills that dotted the Howrah region and selling them to BHEL and other such giants across the country. While some businessmen had fled the city due to naxalite violence, most had preferred to stay back.

Those were the days of struggle and a hand-to-mouth existence. Every effort had to be made towards cutting costs. But those were days of joys too, when the smallest victory was celebrated. So, new clothes were always bought for Diwali, even if they were mostly bought from the footpath, and then brought home and refurbished with some embroidery or patchwork to make them look presentable. The vegetables were bought from Machhua bazaar – quite some distance from Kankurgachi, but it was the cheap wholesale market. Ma (my grandma) and Bhuaji (Papa’s elder sister) would go in crowded buses and trams once a week to buy the weekly ration.

It was one of those days when Ma and Bhuaji went for their weekly vegetable shopping to Machhua; sometime early in an April of the seventies when I was only a few years away from seeing my first light of the day. I expect that they left sometime late in the afternoon, around three perhaps, after Bhuaji had her mandatory afternoon siesta and Ma her cup of tea.

They took a bus from Kankurgachi to Maniktala and then a tram to somewhere close to Machhua. After that, they would have to walk their way. Those days, the bus and tram fares were very low (they still are in Kolkata, where you would expect to get 25 paise back as change even at a time when 25 paise coins can no longer be found anywhere else in the country). The credit must go to no less a person than Kolkata’s very own Jyoti Basu. As a young student leader, he lead dharnas against the government on every 5 paise increase in fare. And, his dharnas used to be full of light and, I daresay, fire. So every time the government raised the bus fare, the only way to make them retract, would be to burn a few buses.

Anyway, fare had not been raised in the past few days, and there was no such possibility in the coming days either, so it was an ideal day to travel. The afternoon sun was shining at its brightest, so Ma and Bhuaji suspected no trouble with weather either.

Many things change with time; yet, somethings never do. Like the Mango Showers. When the scorching heat of summers begins to grip most of the country, West Bengal gets a brief respite in March and April when the north-westerly winds bring with them grey skies, dusty roads and thunderous showers. These showers, which normally arrive late in the evenings, are also called Kalboishakhi – black showers in the month of Boishakh. And, what is special about these showers is that even as they wreck havoc when they come, some water seeps into the parched lands where mango trees grow, and brings to life the juicy mango fruits that begin to arrive a month later.

For some reason, Ma and Bhuaji, did not factor in the Mango Showers that day. After hectic bargaining, with loaded baskets when they boarded a tram near Machhua, the skies became grey. It was the rush hour when offices got over with people jostling for space in the crowded little tram.

All this while, I have been telling you about Ma and Bhuaji together almost as if they were inseparable. But, alas, they were not.

At the very stop before which Ma and Bhuaji were to get off together, they got separated. Ma, along with her basket full of vegetables, got pushed out by the rushing passengers whose destination had arrived. Bhauji struggled, got off at the next stop and started walking back.

The winds had started to blow by now. Dust was swirling all around, and the trees waving hastily. For once, Bhuaji felt that she would get blown away in the madness of the elements. But that did not happen, and drenched in the now pouring rain, Bhuaji reached the tram stop where Ma was waiting for her. Together again, they sighed a sigh of relief, and boarded the next bus to Kankurgachi.

It was a minibus; unlike the other tin plated buses, this looked a lot more modern with its red and yellow coloured exteriors. Even for only a few paise more, travel in minibus was a luxury for our family. If it weren’t for the rains, Ma and Bhuaji wouldn’t have boarded one.

As luck would have it, they had to get off it soon too. The moment a conductor came to sell the ticket, Ma and Bhuaji together realized that the handkerchief in which all the money was tied and which was kept in the vegetable basket that Ma was carrying, was no longer there. And, so, all the money for the entire month was gone in one shot. All the money – with which all household expenses for the month were to be met – vegetables, fruits, milk, rations, school fees for the kids, travel expenses, house rent to be paid to Mrs. Basu, electricity bill – everything was gone.

For a while they stood stupefied by what had happened. Then, not knowing what else to do, they started walking towards home. The rain was getting only worse, and water ran past their cheeks, and rest of the body, mingling inseparably with tears. They wept and they walked and kept walking, even as Bhuaji’s only slippers came off and floated away with a current of water that was beginning to flow like a stream in rage. In the process, Ma fell down and hurt her head.

A guilty and upset Ma and Bhuaji reached home. Night had descended on the city by then, and the rains had subsided. Those were the days of severe power shortage in the city, and the situation only worsened when it rained. Everyone in the city knew this was to be a dark night. Quietly, Ma and Bhuaji, slipped into the kitchen where my aunts were already cooking meals.

Later that night, when Bade Tauji, my eldest uncle, came home, they let their little secret out to everyone and Bhuaji started crying again.

My uncle just smiled.

“Tum aam laayi ya nahin?” (Did you get the mangoes or not?), he asked.

“Aam abhi kahaan, unke aane mein to abhi kam se kam ek mahina hai” (Mangoes will take at least one more month to arrive), retorted Ma.

And then consoling Bhuaji, Bade Tauji said, “Jiji, yeah din bhi nikal jayenge. Kyun chinta karti ho.” (Sister, we shall see these days off as well, why do you worry so much).

That night no one slept well at home. But time passed by, and somehow the expenses were met that month.

A month later, my uncles got their largest contract till then. They earned a lakh from it. And, Ma and Bhuaji, given to their habit, got vegetables from Machhua bazaar. With them, they brought home some juicy ripe mangoes.