Those days were different. “Those days” meant my college days. Coming out of restrictive school life in Burdwan Municipal Boys, Vivekananda College opened up a reality where you could think of bunking a class or two and having a time gossiping with your friends under a tree that elaborated itself with leafy branches on the southern part of college ground close to the dampish boundary wall. And those gossips ranged from divide-ridden society of rich and poor to singing heart out the hits of Kishor and Manna and Hemonto to eye-catching beauties of college to preparation for job exams ( in that order).
Those were the days when nights were spent in half-sleeps. From ten at night to eleven, Nepal radio broadcast Hindi film songs of Lata-Kishor-Rafi, Shanu-Alka-Udit Narayan. The shy girl of Economics department who came to college with hair cascading down to waist and a green tip (I’m using a Bengali word in place of “bindi”) on the forehead flashed before your eyes as romantic duets called all the shots on radio.
‘Did she really look at me when I strolled past her class?’ You asked yourself when the clock struck twelve (literally) with some music. One part of mind told you that she did look at you. The other part of mind was equally forthcoming: No, she couldn’t. You were not good-looking enough to spend even a fraction of a second on you. You got up from bed, switched on tube light and stood before a mirror. You scrutinized minutely yourself before its probing gaze. And you found out why you were not worth a look at from that damsel for a thousand of valid reasons. You promptly decided at three on wall clock that to hide all these blots of your looks, hitting the gym was clearly one option that you should pay due attention to. For the time being, a sun glass could do. So from the next day you went to college wearing a stylish sun glass that you bought from the foot-path just a stone’s throw away from Curzon Gate on your way to college.
When you reached college with a new-found confidence in sun glass and carefully combed styled hair, you found that the lady in question that day looked more stunning in her green and off-white salwar-kamiz as she sailed past you with some friends (“Sokhees” in Bengali can be the best word). Some long strands of hair fell on her face partially in unruly wind. She flicked them back. Your heart skipped a beat. You realized that living a life without her was getting increasingly difficult for you.
That day Tomake Chai happened as you crossed the Ranigunj Bazaar crossing. From Roghu da’s music shop at the corner, a cassette was playing out Prothomoto ami tomake chai..dwitioto ami tomake chai…. tritiyoto ami tomake chai…shesh poryonto tomake chai… . You were lost in it. The Economics lass from nowhere popped out before you. You forgot to take a step forward. You jerked back to senses as the held-back traffic pressed horns collectively with evident impatience as you abjectly stood on before them. You hurried to Roghu da and wanted to see the cassette. (You had no means to buy it.) A middle-aged man with a pock-marked face and poignantly receding hair line, holding a guitar that was slung from his strong shoulder, smiled at you from the cassette cover that read: Tomake chai….
Thirty years later you again hear that song on your pricey android phone that boasts of multiple functions at a rattling speed. You have seen in the rain-lashed afternoon your Economics girl getting down from a glitzy four-wheeler that has a doctor’s sign stickered on the back near Gol Table cafe with two daughters, one married and the other perhaps not; your girl has become a middle-aged woman with thinning out hair and a slightly flabby frame. A heavy streak of vermillion powder in the parting makes her look odd more than just a bit. She is bespectacled.
Coming back home you go to the roof with your phone and make a search for the song on You Tube. You get so many “results” to choose your song from. You find his name changes; he ages to an old man. Still Suman Chatterjee sings out “Sokaaler koishore tomake chai, sondher abokashe tomake chai…”
From a potted rose plant in the roof a rose looks on shedding much of its petals as a spell of smart rain moments back strikes it hard. The red petals lie scattered underneath. In the dying lights of day the redness of flower takes on a blackish tinge. You look up at the sky. The rain-washed autumnal sky looks all set to embrace a coming festivity as Mohaloya is just a night away; stars blinking on a day-shortening evening.
“In the morning freshness of youth,” you hum out, “in the leisure of evening I want you…” You wonder at the passion the words exude.
Keep on singing, Suman.