Now that I ponder over my very memorable memories of the past, sitting under this secluded shady oak, away from my motherland, I feel like I clearly have two incidents to remember. Two incidents to remember, specific ones. I really do not understand why I recall them in the first place, but I will document them here to be remembered for posterity. They might be reading this someday; they might be able to deduce and infer something. Who knows!
I
That night there was deafening thunder and blinding lightning, marking the beginning of incessant rains. In my small, cozy, third floor apartment, I was thanking myself for my decision in negating the ground floor one on that day of purchase. Through the mouse hole sized window in the living room, shut tightly, in fear of all my Shakespeare and Dickens getting wet, I could clearly trace the pattern of each rain droplet. Load shedding was well expected in my city even when the lightest of breezes blew. So, a candle always came in handy, and I lit a lot of them, being an optimist who never stopped searching for light in the chaos. Not that I was afraid of the darkness! Such a night demanded an outburst of my poetic fervor and a cup of tea. Coffee induces in me detachment from my roots, so I prefer the other one. As I came out of the kitchen with a cup of tea, a giant shadow on the wall startled me for a moment. The loneliness does scare me sometimes, but I prefer being a solitary soul and therefore there’s not even a helping hand that I keep. Since I am always on my toes, I feel a helper would chain me down. Nevertheless, in all these years of being reclusive, I have definitely taught myself how to make a good cup of tea.
With the cup, I walked up to the window facing the garden and struck a dramatic pose that would put even the stalwarts of the movie world to shame. One sip and I was being transported directly to heaven as another bolt of lightning struck, and I was once again taken aback by a silhouette, thankfully not mine this time. In that maddening weather, why would the gardener be at his work? Or is it just someone lost in the dark? I tried to zoom in and not blink. Well, another strike, I saw he had a hatchet and was digging a compartment in the garden near the roots of the old banyan tree. It wasn’t a hole. It was bigger than what the term describes. As the God of thunder showed his skills once more, I realized that it was the known structure of a man, perhaps recognizable. Why would someone take such great pains to come out of their shelter when it was so terrifying out there? Oh right, might be because the garden bed was wet and thus softer to dig up. What was he trying to do, perhaps trying to bury a dead body? Did I have a murder mystery on my hands? With the rush of thoughts came the fourth bolt and I could haphazardly figure out what he was trying to do. He had something in a handloom towel, tied up securely, waiting at his feet, surely to get buried inside that handiwork of its master.
He was swift with his hands, for he needed very less time to create that distressing burial site. Must be courageous as well to have chosen such an awkwardly perfect date, place and time. I feel obligated to express my sincere gratitude to the fifth lightning bolt that night there, as it finally led to a sort of enlightenment. I could see what the mystery was and no, it wasn’t human body parts, chopped and minced, no. Not that I would be disgusted by the sight of that, but this exposure gave me a strange sense of relief and I was happy. No real burial! The matter glittered in that natural light, as if to shout out loud that it was precious, and indeed, they were. I could not believe my eyes that this man wasn't wearing a raincoat and there were gemstones getting buried in the earth, just like in my school’s second grade moral education textbook stories.
I believe you can take the hint about which stories, right? But why would he do that? He must have a better place to keep them. Won’t renting a locker at some financial institution be better than this act? If he had these, shouldn’t he be capable enough to pay the fee? Enter bolt number six, and by the time the light disappeared the whole process had been completed with utmost precision. He hugged the towel like a baby, his body language shrieked out sadness from that parting. Seventh, I saw him put the mud back into its place and with the eighth one the shadow finally stood up and started walking back towards the building staircase.
Was he from this complex? I was dumbfounded to have a story-like character living near me. I pounced and trod to the common passage and tried to ascertain his name. No luck! Nobody came. I agree that I don’t know anyone here by their faces, but that look of desperation was a first. That one fraction of a second when I could take a look at his face, I knew how compelled he felt to bury his treasure. I wanted to know his name, the reason behind his hopelessness and the risky technique undertaken, and his feelings post burial. I wondered if he would remember his treasure, if he would come back for it, or if it was to be an inheritance. Would he mention this in his will? Nobody came. Nobody came to that spot for years. I never saw the place dug up again, at least not till I changed places. Are the stones still down there, in the dark abyss, waiting to shine with a new day?
II
I also remember that dog – a sweet, fluffy friend of ours. He had rented the garage of our new house in the city. Not that he demanded much, but he did wish for us to provide him with a better life. He had taken a liking to my wife, and vice versa. She left no stone unturned to give old Bhulu a better life. This included a small cot, a cushion, mosquito repellants, a water bowl, a melamine dish and a blanket for winters. Nobody came to claim the dog and he became ours. I remember him, and I remember how one day we had cooked mutton while keeping pieces in count for him. It had by then become a norm. Pieces of chicken, fish, even soya chunks were counted for the four of us – my family of three and Bhulu. That was a Sunday afternoon. Bhulu liked to relish the mutton bones sitting in our garden’s fresh grass in the sunlight. That afternoon it was raining. A strange sadness clouded Bhulu's face. I wondered if it was due to the fact that he had finally realized what a stupid name my wife had given him. But the reason then became perspicuous. It was because of a whole day inside the house, watching raindrops go pitter patter on the window panes was boring already, and now the mutton bone couldn’t be relished either. I was sure he would not want to have the bone that day, but how wrong I was. He wagged his tail seeing the bone, as usual. I was surprised and watched him closely, since I have this keen interest in knowing about things that go against my speculation. Soon, the meal was over and Bhulu, not needing to wash hands and mouth, dashed out into the yard. He went straight to the huge mango tree, holding the bone horizontally in his mouth and started digging hurriedly. The rain had ceased to pour by then. Our Bhulu took full advantage of this quickly. Inside the small hole, very gently, like a mother does her child, he placed the bone after licking it quite a few times. Now was the time to cover it with mud, for which he proudly used his nose. The whole business was conducted briefly and he sniffed about to ensure he does not forget the location of his hidden treasure. Happily panting, he ran over to his small room and had a peaceful sleep. I do not remember seeing him ever going back to that bone again, for he must have totally forgotten about it, as was feared. He kept getting new bones each week and that kept him satisfied. Our furry friend is not in our mortal world anymore. The treasure is thus kept locked secretly away forever and forces me to wonder why Bhulu did that useless task that day…
Well, I only remember these two incidents lucidly each time I sit down to reminisce about my past! Is there a connection? Perhaps my only hope is that I put the black on white and somebody deciphers it to make me understand.
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Authors: Souvik Datta and Ankita Dutta
Souvik Datta is a State Aided College Teacher (S.A.C.T) who has completed his Masters Degree and B.Ed. in English. He has qualified NET. While he is a student of English literature, he also has a knack for Bengali literature as well. With interest in comics, particularly those from DC Comics, Inc., he aims to pursue his doctoral research in graphic novels. He has a personal intrigue for cultural studies and aims for a simple approach towards life and Literature. He loves music and is a connoisseur of global cuisine.
Ankita Dutta has completed her Masters degree in English and is currently pursuing B.Ed. She is also doing an International PG Diploma course to become an English Language Trainer. Besides English, Bengali and Hindi, she is also adept in Sanskrit. George Orwell’s 1984 is her scholarly inspiration. Ankita’s research interests lie in the English Postcolonial Dystopian literature and she looks forward to pursuing this for her doctoral studies. Besides academics, she is interested in culinary art and is also a trained Bharatanatyam dancer.