BRISHTI... Showers of Love

Brishti… is a beautiful word in Bengali. It is a word that signifies the overwhelming showers of rain which comes down from the clouds and percolates refreshing soothe into Mother Earth and the hearts of her earthlings. Dropping like little gems, the showers give us the freedom to wash away all discomfort and be untied with Mother Nature. 

It is very true that “beauty is in the eyes of the beholder” and so does the distinction between beauty and foul. We can consider it a dance of nature or a soling of dirt into mud; it all lies in our perception. The way we look at people, with admiration or vulgarity also lies in it. I Radha Roy leant it too, being a girl living in an Indian Metro City, about the piercing look in the eyes of the multitudes of men who shoot glances of glut at women, like spears. 

At 22, I am the final year student of St Austin College in Kolkata. My subject of study is Psychology and life moves on with the usual boredom of a middle-class lifestyle. Let me give you an example of one such fine day in my life…

“Wake up Radha, its eight fifteen already in the morning, you would get late for your classes again”, cries my mother Mina from the kitchen downstairs.

Just as realization adorns my eyes I understand that it is yet another weekday and time for me to go to college too! Waking up I brush my teeth, take a quick bath and get dressed in my jeans and a top and rush downstairs for breakfast.

“When will you ever become responsible”, my grim dad shakes his head as he ponders over the newspaper.

“You are 22 and would get married soon too. What will you do at your in-laws place with habits like these?” my father sighed without taking off his eyes from the newspaper, however.

“Chill dad. Who’s in a hurry?” I protest while gobbling the bread and gulping the tea.

Two angry glances fall upon me from two directions, one from the kitchen and another from opposite side of the table, of an eternal mistake they did 22 years ago, and as a result I was born.

Here ends the brief rendezvous at home and I rush to the bus stop to meet my friends Aisha, Shweta, Prashant and Vivek. We chat pointlessly as we await the bus to college and tease each other and disturb everyone else in the place. Just as the bus arrives we make a hard struggle to enter it and make space for ourselves among the multitudes of vendors, office goers, returning morning walkers and beggars too! This is a stark example of a collective medium of travel in the lives of many Indians who avail these dilapidated vehicles commonly known as public transport. Every commuter fights with every other while they try to place a foot inside the bus, as if this is the ultimate struggle of their lives! We too are but companions in this endeavour. Though all the strugglers can also get inside the bus if they maintain a queue, the struggle seems to be an inherent part of a common Indian lifestyle and we never unlearn the disorder and become more composed.

This target achieved, we all begin our journey in this brimming container called the public bus, cursing or praising each other while we all swing in the harmony of the container’s thrust from left to right. I often ponder in my wild imagination that the bus might be singing on its own, the famous “Brook Song” by Alfred Lord Tennyson… “For men may come and men may go; but I go on forever…”

We girls have to be a bit conscious in order to avoid the occasional stares and touches of men gnawing at our bodies with their imagination as they sweat in the fuss of the bus! It is a really frustrating event for we girls, and I often feel like being touched at every point with those fierce occasional eyes. However, not all men are bad and Prashant and Vivek do take the poise of protecting us throughout the journey. Perhaps, it gives them the pleasure of feeling the strength of their gender.

After half an hour of this scuffle we alight at the doorstep of the colossal institution, our college; where, as per some unwritten rule, we are meant to freak out and have enormous fun and bunk classes more often than attend them. The hours we spend here are the most vibrant and lively ones in the entire day. We are the kings and queens of our own world during these hours. The lousy corridors, the chats in the garden, the din in the canteen; everything has its harmony in their cacophony.

Just as the college hours wrap up we again gather at the bus stop and await the same journey of the fuss in the bus and return to our homes for experiencing the boredom of the evening and the calm of the night.

This was a day in all the days…

April 30, 2012. It was one such day in my regular life that became an integral part of my existence, forever.

Just as I stood in the crowded bus holding the top bar near the ladies seat of the bus, I observed somebody’s glance. A chill ran down my spine. I quickly took a look at my dress, an eye of consciousness of a girl, adjusted my dress and tried to ignore. However, the odd feeling kept on. I stared carelessly to check out the person properly. At the men’s side, there in the side seat was seated quietly an elderly looking haggard man with whitened spiky beard and wearing an unkempt shirt. However, his eyes were fixed upon me; a little smirk in his cigarette smoking puckered lips. 

The glance hit me like splinters. How bad I felt I could never state in words. How much I hated the man I could never explain too. The minutes felt like hours and I tried to wonder how a man of my father’s age could glance at the body of a girl of his daughter’s age! However, my mind kept flying to the glances and I wished that the bus stop of our college arrived fast.

It did so and we got down and quickly went ahead with the day’s schedule. However, the event kept lingering in my mind. I kept mum and didn’t tell anybody about it. 

The next day as I entered the bus, I was lucky again to acquire a seat. A few minutes later I saw the same old man, this time he was standing a bit away near the men’s side but was staring at me constantly. Again, I passed through the same discomfort of the journey that I explained earlier. 

That night I told mother about the incidents and she told me to ignore it and said,

“Don’t worry dear, this is something momentary and if you ignore he will stop bothering you after a few days”.

However, the events continued. My journey to college was gradually becoming extremely unbearable. I told Aisha, Shweta, Prashant and Vivek about the incidents too and they told me not to worry and said that they would see to it that some action is taken against the man the next day. 

The next day came and we mounted the bus, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Mixed with a bit of awe, it was a real relief to me and we went to college and I had a great time too! The event swiftly moved away from my mind that day and I completed my college with good fun. As the classes culminated we proceeded to the bus stop and stood chatting with each other.

Presently, I felt presence. Swiftly turning around, I saw with a great astonishment the same old man standing right behind me, and looking at me!

So great was the shock that a murmur came out from my mouth, “Guys it’s that guy here…”

Like a flash of lightning my friends surrounded the man and Prashant and Vivek abused him in public and a push landed him upon the ground. There was rage in all our eyes and bystanders passed their inquisitive glances at the event.

Helping himself to get up slowly the man spoke with a shaky voice “Please do not misunderstand me, please children…”

“How can you explain, what will you explain, you hound!” I shouted.

He slowly picked out his wallet from his trouser pocket and opened it.

“I am Anand D’Souza and this is my daughter Brishti D’Souza”, he started to speak in a shaky voice.

With awestruck eyes we looked at a small passport size photograph of a young girl in the wallet of the old man.

Like a flash of lightning a news went passed my eyes and mind.

The daily newspaper reported, a year back, about the tragic death of a young girl who was a student at the Windmill Church College. She was run down by a rowdy public bus in front of New Market, the busy shopping sector in the city of Kolkata. The girl was the only daughter of her parents.

The man continued, “She passed away in a bus accident a year ago. She was just in her second year of college at that time, a happy and cheerful human being silenced so suddenly and tragically!” 

Tears came in his eyes. 

“My wife has gone light of head ever since that event. I had to be strong to take care of her at least. I go to office everyday via this route. A few days back I saw you, my girl” he said pointing at me.

“Just as I looked at you that day, I felt like I was looking at Brishti my daughter, with the same innocence and cheer in your eyes. I felt I was looking at my little angel!”

“I made it a point to catch the same bus that you did, so that I could take a glance at you for the half an hour and see my Brishti come alive. Believe me, this was fuel to my flickering lifeline. I missed the bus today so I came running from office, as I couldn’t concentrate on my work. Here I stood beside you and felt the presence of my little baby who now resides in rest in her grave in Alipore. I am so sorry dear to bother you”.

We were sparse of words. I felt like cursing myself and crying out loud. Deep inside I thought that indeed it is very true that “beauty is in the eyes of the beholder” and so does the distinction between beauty and vulgarity. I couldn’t distinguish it myself, being a girl!

Before I could apologize, the man was gone. I never saw him again. 

My friends and I made a visit to the Alipore graveyard one weekend and found out the resting place of Brishti. We placed flowers and an apology note to her and her father, upon her grave.

I read out loud what I had written, “I am sorry Brishti. I am sorry uncle Anand. I know that my deed has but aggravated your grief. Please forgive me. I am really very happy that I remind you of Brishti, I think I am blessed to be so in a loving father’s eyes.”

Nobody noticed perhaps, but I saw the white flowers we had placed on Brishti’s grave shook a little in the breeze as if to tell me that she was indeed listening. 

Brishti, the eternal rain, gives us the freedom to wash away all discomfort and be untied with Mother Nature. The event of Brishti D’Souza and her father gave my heart the freedom to wash my eyes and enabled me to distinguish and understand human gestures.