MRD Road

They had discovered a street, in their search for small, isolated townscapes within this town. An invigorating warmth was there. Broken street, full of bumps, scattered pebbles, open manhole, the faces passing by, everyone seemed so welcoming. A fresh sense of joviality, like the one they had left long back, in a distant village. They read the signs, of the hotels, shops, kiosks on both sides of the street. No false sense of loftiness. Like an art film, the street was alive with graceful and enigmatic movements. Sometimes the street lights make their presence felt, sometimes they go back to their oblivion again. In the dark, people on the footpath look like a moving picture. They keep on walking, hand in hand, sometimes she stumbles, and he grabs her from falling. Sometimes he stops by the cigarette shop on the footpath, buys a filter, her face becomes solemn, he pleads- “Just one, no more”.

MRD Road, yes that is the name, of this street.

They became infatuated with the street. A stroll in those evenings became habitual, the room they rented being near the street only. A small bed, a cloth stand, curtains made out of her old sarees. During those icy nights, an old blanket, wrapped with an eri chador and a shawl was not enough, they come closer, persuades each other, “To be happy, you don’t need too many things other than love”. That is their ambrosia, their life.

Those strolls were rarely missed. He always found her dressed up after coming from work in the evening. ‘Let’s go. It is late today”, as if someone is on their wait.

Some faces have become familiar although. Those faces, having tea, samosa on the roadside. Savouring Puchka. Fried Chana or Pakoras. They bargain a Chappal at a shop. “My shop is small, I will give it for less, and those showrooms will charge twice the amount. You should not hesitate. Nice one”, the shopkeeper goes on and on.

He succeeds in persuading them. They buy cheap shoes, measuring their feet.

One day, suddenly the town is embraced by winter. A new year is awaited. They go inside an old shop, with greetings cards on display. They browse through the cards, containing warmth of unknown, unmet souls. He wants to buy one for a friend, far away from here. She whispers, “Quite an expensive one. Better to send a sms. They are launching new offers. Ten paise per message. Let’s go.”

They come out of the shop. Near the book shop, cellphone Sims are being sold, each costs a rupee. The shop was crowded by enthusiastic customers. They join in too. He buys a ten-rupee recharge card, asks the boy in the shop about the sim. “Handset and sim both will cost only five hundred”.

He tells her, “You need a cellphone too”.

She shakes her head, “No need to waste your money”.

He asks the boy again, “Till when the offer is there?”

‘Till 10th”.

“It’s okay. My salary will be sanctioned by then”. She adds in a muted tone, “But we have to buy other things as well, cups, glasses, a pan…”

“We will get everything, everything…” he assures her.

Coming out on the street she takes the cellphone from him, remembering some quotes from the greeting cards, types a text message and sends to her sister. Her sister has got a new phone. The message tone beeps after sometime. She excitedly grabs the phone from him, “Probably she has replied”.

Their footsteps go slower, on the footpath, they come closer to each other, reads the message together, it was not her sister, an impish friend of him, often he sends messages as reminder of his newly wed life. Today he sends-

Personality of women according to bra size:

30 = innocent

32 = calm

34 = defensive

36 = sexy

38 = hot

40 = aggressive

42 = out of control

44 = neighbour’s pride, owner cries

The street echoes his laughter. He whispers in her ear, “But you are sexy.”

“Go away”, she pushes him softly in the dark. They continue walking, down the street, amidst the ongoing laughter.  “This Pralay remained as mischievous as ever”.

She sighs. In one shop chicken kept in glass boxes catches their eyes. A new arrival in town. He tells her, “This is Tandoori Chicken”.

“Will be like our Chicken roasted in Khorika only”.

“Let’s find out.”

“If it’s too costly?” she hesitates. Two sets of cups and saucers, new glasses are hovering before her eyes. A new blanket too, if anything remains of their money after buying all these stuff.

“Let’s ask.”

It was an open-air dhaba. Not like those ones on the side of the highway, on the way to their village. Has a somewhat rustic feeling. Suddenly she remembers her village. Now probably everyone is gathering near the water tap. Her parents must be sitting near the fireplace. The cold is biting. It is colder there. How they had left that place chasing an uncertain dream!

He is also from the same village. Was good in his academics, graduate. Came to town in search of some job, ended up being a proofreader at a weekly newspaper. Meager salary. Last time when he returned from village, brought her also with him. Her graduation remained incomplete. Actually it was hard for him to live here away from her, he persuaded her family. To have a grand wedding was beyond their dreams; her mother gave her a hand-woven dress.

“What will you have, dada?” the waiter passes the menu.

With eyes on prices first, they browse through the dishes. Tandoori Chicken full plate one-eighty rupees.

“Shall we take a half-plate?”

“Not today. Some other day may be.” she makes a rough calculation in her mind, for today they will have to purchase rice, daal and mustard oil. A packet of candles too. Power cuts are numerous. Yesterday it happened. They were sitting in the dark for long, and then at last came out on the street.

“Coffee then?” he asks again.

“Ok, fine”. They order two cups of coffee. The evening was becoming mellower with a sip in hot coffee. With eyes set on the distant hills, he tells her,

“Someday I will take you to those hills. There is an old temple there. You will like the charm there.”

“And to the river bank? When?” she asks.

“Of course we will go. Will go the sand dunes on the other bank. Will keep on going, hand in hand.”

“And what will we reach?”

“No idea. But will keep on going.”

“Sounds delightful”, she says, with no effort to hide the excitement in her voice. The coffee was over by then.

Suddenly the street lights come alive with vigour. The street lights up. The bumps on the road, garbage, broken scraps, old shops, come alive with a mysterious freshness. The newly opened branch of State Bank of India is now closed. Some boys have gathered on the stairs there, they talk, laugh, and make fun within themselves. Relishing that moment he tells her,

“Even we used to be like them only, we gathered near Ramen’s shop, near college. During evening only”.

“And used to tease each and every girl who happened to cross you”, she pretends to be angry.

Bit by bit, they are falling in love with this street. They keep on walking, sometimes crossing the same place twice. Sometimes they stop by the Shani temple on the roadside. Ask the price of a double bed in a furniture shop. She closely surveys her hair in the mirror at the shop. The beauty parlor stands proud on the other side of the road. She at last asks her, “I heard curly hair can be straightened in these parlors. Can they straighten mine? I like straight hairs so much”.

Sensing her displeasure he assures her, “You look better with you curls only”.

However her disapproval was lingering on, despite his assurances. A multi-storied building was under construction near the beauty parlor. Construction happens at night also, a cacophony of the noises made by the machines and the workers.

“What a massive structure! What are they constructing?”

“Probably a shopping mall”, he replies absent-mindedly.

“Shopping mall?”

He tells her what a shopping mall is. There are lots of them near another road. Magnificent, full of affluence, grand. Abound with lustrous things from all over, ready to be purchased by someone. Fully air conditioned. A cup of coffee costs hundred rupees.

Probably that road lead to paradise, she thinks. She renounces the dream of paradise. They keep on waling, under the street lights.

“Only one inconvenience here”.

“What?” he asks.

“The sky is not visible from here. And the stars too”, he finds it amusing, grabs her hand. Takes her through a narrow lane. Dark, too dark. After some time they reach another road, a bit aslant, with Radhachura, Krishnachura trees on both side. “Aah, the moon, so bright!”

A sky above her, not to be found on the other street, she is content now. He kisses her. She wants to lose herself within his embrace, forever, for some time at least. After some time they come back to the main street, the faces are now gathering near the wine shop. The Chanawallanear the shop is busier now.

“Someday I will make you taste wine.”

“Don’t tell me you drink too”.

“Not always. Once I tasted in a party, in office. Feels good, I will bring for you some day.”

“I won’t. And you too.” She approaches the Chanawalla. “Don’t make it too spicy and add some more peanuts, dried peas too.”

She enjoys munching dried peas, a raw crunchy sound. They never imagined they would come across such a street in this town. Where a Chanawalla will be waiting for them. An old lady selling roasted maize or a young man selling pakoras. Whose smiles reflect theirs. Who shares and nurtures the same aspirations. Who try to find contentment out of smallest of trivialities. The street has given them everything. They have hills, rivers within their reaches, and their own sky.

“And know what more we have? she says. “A railway track, but no station. Passenger trains keep on coming and going. Someone comes, someone leaves. Someone waves a hand from an intercity express.”

“I feel sad when the trains leave.”

“Why?” he asks.

“I don’t know. But feels like after the train leaves a melancholic emptiness lies on the track. Someone’s heaving a sigh. You know I can never say goodbye to anyone. I prefer escaping before that only.”

He smiles. He is used to her eccentricities. The flyover is visible from the corner near the vegetable grocers. Cars are running fast. Below that fly over they buy cabbages, eggplants, potatoes. Buy rice, daal, mustard oil. They never aspired to be in that flyover. This footpath, the bumps, the manholes, the street lights know them well. They never get weary with the street. They are in love with this MRD Road. No grievances. There are hills, a river is there, and a railway track too. However sometimes she tells him, “Would have been better with some snowfall!” wrapping herself with her shawl.

“You will freeze.”

“How far is Shillong? There it must be cold.”

“In summer we will go.”

They know there is another road running parallel to this street. That road carries fragrance of affluence with itself. There, it is daytime even during nights. Big hoardings are there, and shopping malls too, pizza, burger. And coffee worth hundred and fifty bucks.  Frenzy rules there. And pretty girls too. Probably that is the route to paradise.

They have no curiosity in all those. They are happy here, like this only. They walk cautiously on the footpath, leap to cross the manholes. Prefer to stand in the crowd, car parkings without rules. Savours the aroma of pakoras and jalebis.

Probably MRD Road is in love with them too. It is alive because of them only. Because of them only MRD Road still doesn’t envy the affluence and lustre of GS Road. 

Translated by Bikram Bora