Oh! Calcutta..

We had company for dinner the other day. The lighting was dim, appertiff flowed freely, the music was rich and soporific. The food was homecooked and, in keeping with the way of things that evening, delicious. As time passed, I noticed with some satisfaction that my husband had let his non-existent hair down. Had truly loosened up. And it wasn't a glance or a look or anything like that, that told me as much. It was because the anecdotes being told in his drowsy voice were based in Calcutta now. Having spent the first 18 or so years of his life in that city, most of "the good times" are for him in this Bengali city. I love them for the most part, as they are full of a languid ambience, an almost anachronistic sense of idealism, traits I am told are intrinsic to Calcutta. But as can be guessed, many of these stories are for me repetitions, and in these cases I try to absorb my husband's relaxed state rather than the content of his monologue !

However one tale stands above the others. Maybe it will do for you what it does for me, it touches a chord in me each time I hear it, makes me feel good about the universe.

One day, my husband a young lad then, reached his school half an hour late. The usual door to the school being closed, he had to pass through the principal's office and sign a late register to get into the school. On being asked by the principal as to why he was late, he proceeded to tell a true story which could only happen, and be believed by a school principal, in Calcutta.

The bus my husband took that morning, had as one of its passengers, a poor old lady from a village in the outskirts of Calcutta. She had taken the bus to see her son who worked in Beg Baagan, one of the localities in the city. Being new to the city, she told the conductor to let her know when her stop arrived. The conductor, who had fares to collect and bells to ring in a teeming bus, on a pittance of a salary, dismissively agreed.

The bus chugging along, she would check intermittently with him, only to be dealt with, with increasing impatience. As it so happened, the last time she would check with the fellow, would be two stops after Beg Bagaan, with her still on the bus. The lady became irate and inconsolable. A miserable altercation with the conductor ensued during which she was told, rather roughly, to get off the bus at the next stop, cross the road and take the bus going in the other direction for three stops. She wailed about not having the required 30 paise to do as much. He raised his voice telling her he would give her the money, forcibly deboarding her when the stop came.

All hell broke lose then, goes the story. Office going men, college students, all with times to keep to themselves, got up and rioted. Grabbed the conductor by his lapels and screamed him blue in the face. When the second conductor (there are two in every bus in Calcutta, we are educated) entered the fracas sympathetic to his colleague, he had some choice slaps rained in his direction as well. Some got off, went to the driver's side of the bus, dragged him down, and all three perceived villains of the piece that day, were rounded up on the pavement. They were made to fall at the feet of the old lady and beg her forgiveness, calling her of course "Ma" as they did so.

It doesn't end here. The bus was made to turn around, go back three stops!, drop the old lady at Beg Bagaan, and then proceed on its regular route to drop the rest of its denizens, all late, to their destinations.

As my husband likes to end his story: Only in Calcutta. Dugga Ma Raksha karo ma....