Non-Fiction
<i>A room with a view</i>
Ever the intrepid adventurer, I never pass up a chance to go exploring whenever the opportunity arrives. So when my wife Eva's friend the inimitable Poly invited us to accompany her to her village home on the weekend I grabbed the opportunity with both hands. Alas! My niece and her mother were flying in from Washington DC that very morning at 0450 and my sister and I were to receive them. Due to these logistical constraints, Eva opted out of the trip and I was in a bit of a quandary myself, what with the World Cup matches going into the wee hours of the night. Ultimately, I decided I would make it. So I packed my overnighter and went off to bed by midnight. My driver's call on the cell phone woke me up just as the alarm went off at 0400. By 0515 my driver, my sister with her son Zeeshan and daughter Karishma and I were at the airport in two cars. Shaira and her mother were out of the airport at 0645. Dropping them off at my mother's, I phoned Poly only to learn that they were already on the way to Minagazi Bhuiyan Bari at Dagan Bhuiyan in Feni district in two separate cars. I had planned for this exigency and Poly guided me to the Titipara bus stop where I boarded the not too uncomfortable bus bound for Maijdee Court, with instructions to get off at the KG school at Khonarpukur after Tulatali Bazar. The 8 o'clock bus left at 8:30; and settling in, having consumed a teeny weeny cup of tea and a pack of glucose biscuits, I promptly dozed off into an intermittent sleep/dream sequence. At 1330 the helpful bus conductor woke me up and deposited me on the roadside right opposite the KG school. I phoned Poly and she sent her brother and cousin to meet me and escort me to their ancestral home. The home was actually a cluster of pucca houses with a large courtyard in the middle, a big pond with a cemented ghat and lush green rain trees their greenness accentuated by the recent drenching shower. I could visualize the heyday of this "bari" maybe half a century back, a distant memory now. We promptly departed for Poly's khalabari a few kilometers away for a sumptuous luncheon to me, the word always brings to mind Somerset Maugham's eponymous short story. The cooking was done on a firewood chula that always enhances the taste of the food as charcoal gives a low heat and takes longer to cook, that brings out the true Bangali flavours. Post lunch, back at Poly's we had an animated discussion on the World Cup with the discussants polarizing around Brazil and Argentina. By then it was time for tea and biscuits. I partook of the tea, only skipping the cookies in anticipation of the dinner to come, the aroma of which was already swirling in the courtyard. The much hyped/anticipated match between Brazil and Portugal turned into an insipid affair with both teams playing cautiously for a draw, although there were anxious moments for both sides. By the time the match ended I was quite hungry. What with skipping the biscuits, my stomach was growling. Mercifully, dinner was served right away. I guess the others were as hungry as me! And what a dinner! Pulao, plain rice, maach bhaja, chicken roast, beef bhoona and shutki maach no, "do maacha" that is chhurir shutki with regular fish taki maach in this case. Well, for me that took the cake. I had a difficult time restraining myself from overeating. My good friend Amin Bhai, a cricket fanatic, calls it stopping "short of length". I guess I went "overpitched" rather than "full length". As the time to retire approached, I noticed that I had been allotted a room with a big bed all to myself. Next to the room was a small veranda protected by an iron grill. I was in a deep sleep within minutes of hitting the bed. Mercifully there weren't any mosquitoes, the night temperature was cool and I slept till first light and then some more. A light drizzle attracted me to the verandah, where the view that was not evident at night in the darkness unfolded in the faint glow of early morning and took my breath away. The shallow land adjacent to the veranda had turned into a vast lake that extended for hundreds of feet to my left and right as well as straight ahead where it met the highway. The rain was falling in a slow, steady drizzle and droplets were blowing in through the grill to land on my face, giving a tingling sensation like a feather tickling your face. I pulled up a chair to sit closer to the grill to observe the view in better detail. The sky darkened and the rain upped its tempo, falling in torrents, then in slanted sheets as if italicized - as the northwesterly wind picked up. The raindrops grew fatter, creating larger craters as they hit the water's surface. I was thrilled by the play of the wind and the rain. The sound picking up to a crescendo and holding there for long minutes and then suddenly toning down to a stage whisper and then building up and falling down again and again ah, what a symphony ! Nature playing an orchestra! Then the rain almost stopped and then held to a light drizzle. It was then, as if on cue, that the fauna took over the stage. A long, graceful undulating queue of ducks swam into the middle of the pool merrily quacking and rustling their feathers in joyous revelry. Oh yes! And you could notice amorous advances by the iridescent plumed male duck to his entourage of drab coloured females. In the distance a heron, till now invisible, took to languorous flight, swooping low over the water in delicate slow motion, trailing his long knotted legs. Then I noticed the egrets wading in the pool - cautiously, purposefully stirring up the small fish to be gobbled up for breakfast. In the distance the school building, a long low row of rooms with a tin roof, started to come to life too. Tiny students started trooping in and then their teachers, mostly ladies, came too. The school-bell went off the gong resonating and echoing over the rice paddies. The students lined up inside the veranda to sing the national anthem which wafted in gently with the rain drenched breeze. My Golden Bengal, I love you ....... The charming hostess brought in a steaming cup of tea and toast biscuits, leaving them quietly on the side table and departed with a sidelong look. Was that a hint of a smile on her face? Must have been amused to see a city bloke observing such a mundane scene with so much wonderment, which to her was a daily ritual in the monsoon mornings! I was woken from my reverie as if rudely interrupted in a dream that I wanted to run on. My dalliance with the charms of the rustic scenery ended, to remain tucked away in a remote corner of my subconscience "to flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of memory". "Breakfast is served," the maid chimed to me as all the guests of the house assembled around the dining table. My morning show was over. It behooves mentioning that my impromptu writing was inspired by Badrunnessa, a name I give to the eternal mehboobas that reside in a man's heart, which takes no form or shape and eludes the grasp --- but provides agony and ecstasy in equal measure.
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