Pablo Picasso's Guitar

Those were the days my friend…

The reptile did not move. It was trying to hide behind those tall grasses. One could only see its head, somewhat propped up. Bapi, my cousin, slowly picked up a stone, a heavy one. Swiftly. In the blink of an eye, the missile traveled at a furious speed, towards the garden lizard.
Thwat !!! the head of the little dragon had split open. “Phatiye diyechish (bravo, you really did it),” we all jumped up, clapping our hands. Dilip, our friend dashed towards the bush and picked up the dead lizard by its tail. He then tossed it up high on the air. The lifeless body of the bloodied reptile hurtled down and lay motionless on the ground.
The hunter, Bapi with his hands on his waist, stood smilingly. He was our Orion for the day. Led by him, we moved on. On that bright shining hot morning, this was just the beginning of our royal hunt. Moral compass ? At that age, we did not have any.
I was in class VII and had come to spend my summer vacations in Durgapur, an industrial belt in West Bengal. Coming to Durgapur during my summer vacation was a must for me. Bapi, a year senior to me was my closest ally. My cousin, my friend.
Till lunch time, we chased lizards all over the red soil in the MAMC township. My uncle, used to work in the Mining and Allied Machinery Corporation, which later became a sick industry and still limping to survive. We took our aims, including our Orion, but the lizards managed to escape the charge of the light brigade.
Tired, we decided to play the war game. While me and Bapi were on one side, Dilip and another boy (I don’t recall his name), were our rivals. Bangaldesh war, still fresh on our minds, we decided to stage a war game between India and Pakistan. Since none of the team wanted to be on the loser’s side, the war ended before it could begun.
After lunch, it was time for cricket. All our friends had gathered and we split into seven- a-side team. This time, Bapi was my rival. His team had won the toss and decided to bat. I was to open the bowling attack and Bapi, the batting. Tossing the cork ball and taking that long run up, I charged. I was clobbered four a four. Seething I charged again. I pitched the ball on the leg stump. An in-cutter and before Bapi could remove himself away from the ball, the red cherry struck on his knee cap. “Shala” (bugger) he writhed in pain. “You did that on purpose,” he hissed. I did not even bother to look at him. I was avenged. To cut a long story short, at the end of the day, his team won the so called match. On our way back home, we did not speak to each other.
At night, Bapi and me went to bed. We used to share the same bed. After a while, he pulled at my shirt and said, “ekta joke shunbi” (Want to listen to a joke)”. I do not remember the joke. But I still remember, the way we laughed. We were friends again.
Barda (elder brother), another cousin of mine also used to live in Durgapur. Barda worked at BOGL, a glass factory, another PSU which eventually turned sick. Barda’s cycle, on which he used to go to work, was a major draw. Whenever we could, (me and Bapi) would take the cycle and ride on the long lonely stretches of Durgapur.
I remember, when I was in class IV (we used to live in Kolkata then), during summer vacations, Bapi used to come to our house. Those days, most of the Bengali houses had something called “chaubaccha (a cement tank for hoarding water to bathe).” Both Bapi and me would often sneak into the bathroom and get inside the tank. The game was to find out how long can one go on jumping inside the tank. One day, it was Bapi’s turn to take the plunge. After the first jump, he just could not move. We both panicked. “Is there a snake coiled around your feet,” I was scared. For Bapi and scared of getting caught. What if our parents found out ? I tried pulling him out, but, he just could not move. And before I could realise, Bapi was howling. “More jabo re, ami more jabo. Shap joriye dhoreche (I am dying. There’s a snake)”. Hearing the screams, our parents rushed. They just could not believe it. “What the hell are you doing ?” my mother screamed. “Well, Bapi, fell into the tank and is not being able to get out ,” a bad lie. The tank was merely upto our waist, so there was no question of anybody falling into it. It was found that Bapi had somewhat managed to get his feet into an weird angle and got himself trapped into that narrow “chaubachcha” . Finally a huge hammer was brought and the tank was smashed to get him out. Somehow, our parents had taken a pity on their children shivering with fright. One of those lucky days when we managed to escape a thrashing.
I remember the times, when both of us with that three rupee worth stringed musical wooden instrument, dotara tried to play all kind of tunes, like that man selling it along with other toys No, we never got the tunes right. And those black crocodiles made of paper, we dragged them all over, and those colourful whistles, we kept blowing till our parents blew their top.
Time marched on and so did we. Durgapur, the chaubachcha, the lizard, the dotara faded away.
Today, while going to work, the Anjan Dutta song—“shunte ki chao tumi…khuje pete chao ki shei anchan kora dupur, phire pete chao ki shei khelnawala take, tar khelna dotara she bajachhe kobe theke (do you want to listen to that old haunting music, do you want to get back that afternoon, the afternoon, when the man in your lane played that dotara, today somewhere in some memory lane he is still playing that same old tune…) playing on the car stereo, somehow brought back the memories.
These days, when I am in Kolkata, me and Bapi meet at Press Club, over drinks, we laugh about our graying hairline, we laugh about the girl, we spotted near a stream in Durgapur and fell in love instantly. Bapi would often go back to the stream, to get a glimpse of her, but like our childhood, she never ever returned….