many days, out of order

we rattle down landsdowne in the half-empty minibus, me n kaju kazue, evening time. i have just finished telling kaju about how i know i have been here too long cuz every ten seconds i turn my head and think i see something of home. she laughs and cannot believe it, seeing my world in this musty crusty rusty dusty place? when before us something magical appears, a street draped in christmas lights, lined in christmas trees (ok ok a couple of palm trees too), all lit up and shining in the midst of dreary nighttime. i gasp. ‘it is christmas in july!’ kaju laughs and says ‘uh huh’ doubtfully but amused. she says, ‘it is some puja’, peering down the street for a glimpse of the idol, the pandal, that somewhere beyond all the lights must be there. but i say, ‘christmas puja!’ kaju laughs at me and thinks i am crazy. christmas in kolkata, in the midst of summer. i don’t care. i like to think of it this way. and anyway, why worry about the judgment of a girl with a name like kaju, anyway?

one of those afternoons, everything has gone wrong. time wasted by a succession of people, nothing produced, all attempts at achieving anything whatsoever failed. walking down the street, and there is one of these men staring, walking ahead of me turning back every two steps to look at what was there behind him. he finally stops and takes a position to watch me walking by. i think, fuck this why am i putting up with this guy? it was a bad day, i couldn’t help myself. i burst out at him in angry bengali, ‘what? what you looking at? why are you looking at me?’ ... on his face is surprise followed by a look as if i had just given him the most wonderful of compliments. ‘oh!’ he said responding to the language and not the message or mood it had conveyed, a big smile on his face, ‘you know bengali!’ his hand is clasped to his chest. i am at a loss for words. i throw up my hands. I stomp off, his shining eyes trailing behind.

dance one sad sunday morning—unsuccessful. s-di shouts, goru goru! moo moo! holding her index fingers up to her forehead like horns, at one girl who hasn’t got a clue as to the difference between right and left. another girl tries to get through her spins by throwing her body counterclockwise and attempting to use her arms like paddles, flapping through the unhelpful air. even the costume of these poor girls is unfortunate, one in a semi-transparent sheer white poncho-thing with a red fringe over a skirt, another in something strappy and black and really in my eyes inappropriate for such a small girl. i am dodging bad dancing and poor fashion, right and left. even the tabla players seem to have forgotten their fingers from one another. but from outside there is a nice breeze and a burst of rainfall here and there, banishing the scorching sun. the rain has come again, everyone is happy and laughing as the girls keep on with their flapping.

he is a pig. he sits there behind the tabla, picking at his teeth for five minutes with a toothpick, showing off his blubbery mouth. he is useless. he demands tea, ‘cha! cha!’ of the dancers who ignore him or tell him to wait for the dance teacher, he will get his tea in some time. but he is determined. ‘cha! cha!’ eventually teacher arrives, and so does tea; he keeps the pot close by him and drinks it all down as fast as he can, offering none to anyone else present. he rubs his enormous hideous belly and stares at me lasciviously. he tries out his english on me and i look away, try to answer only the necessary. he belches. when he finally gets around to playing tabla he is miserable never gets nothing right, yells at the dancers for getting it wrong when he himself has no idea. he complains about the time, that he is being paid for, that we don’t start on time, but then when we start he refuses to play properly. as nostalgic as i am getting about this city that i am so soon to leave behind me (at least for a couple years), there are some things i will be glad glad glad to leave behind.