Sweet Home
- Part 1 -

By Nameirakpam Bobo Meitei *

"Wedded to an invincible belief in the advent of loving concord springing like a heavenly flower from the man's earth, soaked in blood, torn by struggles, watered with tears." -----Joseph Conrad

Sitting in a locomotive chugging through the scorching heat of Indian summer he is absorbed in his deep recollections, the recollections of the past, the past which has inevitably captivated him, and a captive who is on the run from the ubiquitous past, a past which has deeply penetrated and infested anything that he could look forward to.

Yes, he is the young somnambulist who has given up on everything, which brought him to his harsh world, for it humiliated his dignity, virtually confiscated his freedom, the freedom to dream, the dream of being just an ordinary man.

His is a skin-bag which once sheltered a soul, an entertaining soul, a soul of hope, but that multi-faceted soul took leave of that skin-bag as if it had to flee an uninhabitable place.

Viewing those memories through the un-winking eyes he sits by the barred window oblivious to the cacophony generated by the hawkers soliciting weary passengers, young students travelling in groups singing Hindi film numbers and the families travelling with mangled trunks and spread out beddings.

Inside the hot repugnant air brought in from outside is wedded to the intolerable cacophony and joined by the aroma of hot milk tea and foods and the long-travelled scent from the overflowing toilets. He has been sitting at the same spot immobile for since the journey began staring out the barred windows and tonight the virtually derailed locomotive has transported him to the largest, chaotic and overpopulated city in the North-East India, Guwahati.

Abundantly strewn clangy men, outnumbering the streaming out weary passengers, who are constantly harassed by the badgering red-clad porters, maintain their suspicious watch to ensure the survival of the largest endangered democracy in the world, but their watchful eyes couldn't be bothered with dishevelled figure shuffling at the same time lugging the virtually burst suitcase.

Shuffling along the footbridge his left hand running over the parapet he now finds himself at the soggy foot of the footbridge, realising that he has to lift the heavy suitcase his frail hands strive and lift it up to his chest amid the struggle his shuffling feet sink into a glistening pothole, cursing himself and, as if not happy with it, sending out "buggers!" between his clenched teeth.

Groping his way upon the pebble strewn soggy road he heads off towards the insignificant bus terminal where the rusted buses are parked, rumbling in the darkness of the night as if the machines have something to grumble for.

From the edge of uneven soggy road one can see a round-faced man sitting under the glare of the dim light bulb, his bloodshot eyes poring over something, betel juice-stained mouth smacking every now and then, his massive neck and his torso wrapped in a thick striped shawl , sitting behind the colourless ticket counter.

He sits there like an ignored antique statue, seeing the shabby young man craning his neck the man at the counter raises his bloodshot eyes his betel juice-stained mouth slightly open he sounds out in a low tone "Going to Patriotic land?"

Nodding his head he comes down from the elevated road and inquires "What time is the bus leaving? How much?" as though what he has for the world is just queries yet not expecting the world to reply. But the man at the counter, this time in his indifferent voice, "Rs. 500 and it leaves at 9p.m. It's the last one. If you want to reserve I still have a seat next to the driver."

Even if it were to leave tomorrow it wouldn't make any difference as long as there was a machine that could transport him farther from his inescapable memories. Perhaps to a place where he wouldn't have to deal with the past he left behind.

Groups of young people dragging heavy bags are now standing with him to enter into the dimly lighted bus, the ascending passengers maintain frivolous conversation punctuated by unwitting banters generating disturbing giggles only when a diminutive character presents himself as the driver and assuming an indifferent expression, as if he is accustomed to it, declares an immaterialised rumour that all vehicles might not be allowed through Bodoland.

Wearing kamikaze look his eyes below the woollen cap, hands in mittens, torso in a greasy jacket as if he foresees the freezing perilous journey, but his bare feet seem to defy what his body feels.

After the prolonged rumbling followed by drum-shattering honking the bus departs the dim place of the overpopulated city only to penetrate the thick darkness wrapped in mist. Picking its twisting and winding way it drives through while shattering the serenity of jungles.

Cuddling the suitcase he slips into slumber land as though his dwelling memories have, for the time being, given in to the looming fatigue. Half awake he ponders over the questioning looks from his relatives, the suspicion from his neighbours and the constant inquisition from his parents.

To a man who has lost his self in his simple pursuit of answers, inexplicable answers, how his mental faculty would have time for constant external inquisitions?

The futile pursuit of a young soul in a festered land its soul escaped long ago leaving behind the stranded diseased lives, diseased by the triumph of few as if a simple wish of forcibly diseased lives is insignificant for it does not reflect the paramount interest of all.

Several heavy objects fall over the bus with loud thudding only when the windshield is pierced through and cracked it comes clear to the two people sitting in the front that the something perilous has been imposed.

The kamikaze-like driver ducks down behind the steering wheel while his foot works harder on the accelerator. Some from the back are heard squeaking when more thuds arrive on their windows, but the driver relentlessly zooms his way through the dark-shrouded place running over a few howling dogs.

The awakened and refuge seeking passengers are met by a shrill warning from the driver to duck down" We are hit! It's the Bodo people! Be careful! It could be worse than this!"

Five kilometres from the spot the driver pulls up the vehicle and his hands hits on the cracked windshield, blocking his view and also blocking the shivering wind, sending down the shreds on the narrow road, busying himself with extra clothes he casts his eyes at the man hugging a suitcase, realising the man's indifference to the terror trembling the others in the bus he removes his glance and starts the engine with a more determined look.

The determination to confront the constant uncertainty. A determination to be mired in the sea of uncertainty.

Strong shivering wind gushing in, biting into the weary passengers, those in the back huddle among themselves, but the driver fights and resumes his duty while the oblivious character tightens his embrace over his suitcase as a shipwrecked victim would cling on a wooden plank tasting the life on the border between death and life.

It gets colder as the bus picks its way upon the winding crunchy road, face becomes so numb that when he, the driver, places the lighter flame against his face to light up a cigarette it takes almost a minute to feel the heat.

Like a frozen corpse which died hugging his suitcase he sits there motionless while his eyes fixed on some amorphous thing in the distance. For some reason the shattering rumble seems to shatter the placidity of the mountains yet failing in imposing a similar effect on the biting shiver.

When it gets to the Capital town of Freedomland the driver pulls up around a cluster of shops sitting on the edge of the winding narrow road, inducing the amazed schoolchildren in padded clothes to halt their innocent footsteps to point their unsinned fingers at the vehicle with the broken face and with a innocent giggle they leave, early breakfasters come out from the shack-like tea stalls holding their teacups, steaming, to examine but they go back wearing a satisfied look of having found something to utilise their leisure time.

Several heads also stick out through from the windows in from the corrugated iron-roofed houses almost cloitered by plum trees to take a glimpse of the people who have now come down to get something to gobble.

to be continued.....