The early morning has a chill in the air. Its middle of November and winter has slowly crept in our lives. The woolens are out from the steel trunks still smelling of the naphthalene balls. All are armed to face the winter. Indians look expectantly for the winter season to enjoy and flaunt their woolen garments and those wonderful scarves and shawls the ladies love to wear. Its time for the Indian families to go to the zoo with their family and celebrate Christmas with a cake and some oranges. The Kashmiri youths had already arrived at Kolkata. The first thing they do is buy a cycle and roam around the streets, selling fake “pashmina” shawls and lovely blankets. The “Bhutanese “have come down from the hills and have made their new homes in the pavements around Wellington Square of north Kolkata. Why this same routine affair goes on year after year? As a child I have seen them and now also the same way of selling their wares --- on the pavements with babies tucked up around the shoulders.
In front of the Adarsh Apartment two youths disembark from their motor bike. Hesitant steps. Looks up at the building. Does Mr. Santosh Kumar lives here? Yes, I replied, 5th Floor. I move inside my apartment. The morning tea was ready. I was enjoying my cup of tea when I heard some “shouting” and “screaming”. I opened the door and saw the two youths coming down the stairs, hurling obscenities and abuses. One of the sentences which I picked up rather startled me----- “You enjoyed while screwing; now you don’t want to own the baby”. My wife started to pull me inside the apartment. “You don’t have to listen to these dirty rouges, COME INSIDE “. Like most Indian lower burgeoning middle class families do, she also acted the same way. To hell with others, first let me play safe.
From the conversations among the two youths I could gather they are “recovery agents” of a particular bank/financial institution. Mr. Santosh Kumar had over stretched his feet from the blanket (Literal translation from Hindi proverb --- “Jitni chaddar ho utna pair fellao”) now with the compound interest Mr. Kumar is in doldrums. Yes, have fun while spending and later pay through your nose. Kumar works for a “Ranta” company of India. Good salary with lots of perks. But Kumar forgot the Indian traditional mindset. He tried to imitate the people of the other side of the world. Here debit cards go well but not credit cards. The salaried middle and lower middle class play it safe. They save and then spend and not vice versa.
The frequency of the visits of the “recovery agents” to Kumar’s house became frequent. Kumar became a fugitive. He avoided coming home. The sweet home turned sour. Mrs. Kumar was there to tackle those rogues. Life was torturous for her. She avoided any eye contact with her neighbors. Every one including my wife was secretly celebrating the “death” of a victim. After coming back home from office her topic of discussion centered on Kumar’s family. The bachelors, forced bachelors young and old, almost every one in the locality wanted to have a bite in the cake called Mrs. Kumar. Every male saw an easy prey. Their primitive animal instinct became alive. Some “benevolent” male members of our wonderful society wanted to “help” her by offering her loan with no interest so to tide away the situation. Mrs Kumar remained firm and took no help from any outsiders. Her brother came and rescued her from the situation. Now Mr. Santosh Kumar is back in his home by 7 PM. They learned a lesson of their lives.
What do the Kashmiri youths, the Bhutanese selling cheap sweaters, the ordinary lower Indian middle class family celebrating Christmas, Mr.Santosh Kumar tied in the rigmarole of debt have in common?
They fight every moment in their lives to survive victimization of the victim. That is the way the world is.
The author of this blog post is Mr. Sitendu De.
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