Hunger is My religion— A Real life experience turned into an oeuvre

Hunger Is My Religion— An open letter that matters...                                                                                       

                                                                                     To

Dear Shreemoyi,

 

                         It was an unusually hot summer noon. The mercury raised a steep fourty six. With all its pride, the sun blazed up, belitteling the boasting beauty of a virgin earth. Not a single soul was visible on the streets. The drought like soil fissures, strewn in a serpentine manner on the balcony-flower-pots, cried the plight of the farmers from distant lands and remote villages of a seventy years old independent india.They are a queer lot, who can be denied Minimal Support Price, but have never been denied to succumb into the comfort of their only birth right, they never had to fight for : Death. Malati, Juhi, Kamini are left drowsy at the green corridors—they no longer blushed, teased by a sudden gush of soothing breeze. The earth felt like a living hell, emblazed by the wrath of an unknown monster. In such a time, there was no room left to romanticize a torrential rain, a hill station holiday, a dried up Khoai, or may be anything of that sort.

                        This was exactly the weather inside the hollow of my head on that noon. On top of it all, something unsettling lingered the whole noon between me and mother. Before they become one’s best friends for the rest of the life, there remains a time, especially late teenage, when parents are a trouble. And then there arrives, a group of benevolent aunties (the varied group includes kakima (younger to mother), Jethima (elder to mother), pisima(sister like to one’s father) and the list goes on), who would shower their pearls of wisdom somewhat like this : “ Babu, Don’t scuffle with your parents. Nobody will love you, on earth more than them.” Certainly, I second that nobody can deny the importance of parents in one’s life, but that doesn’t necessarily mean there would never arise a point of conflict in opinion, between a child and his/her parents. It is normal. But, this kind of easy upbringing , of not letting the child express his/her opinion, not to debate maintaining civility, only shrunkens the more mature state of a relationship, so deep as that of a child to his parents. More unfortunate is its wide spread practice in society, where children, fearing conflict, have to hide their individual opinion, from their parents who are labelled, without citing its criteria,their ‘Best Gifts For Life’.

                         However, a nineteen year old me of that noon, could hardly think like now, when I am a tad bit mature, in terms of my age and experience. I don’t exactly remember now, when I stand at a distance with that incident, what really happened in between me and ma, it being that trivial.None the less, that day shall ever remain tinged with the shades of a permanent memory, which transformed a part in me, more sensitive towards life. I am sharing here, an imprint of my experience that took place on that very day, relying upon how I registered it in an email, written to my best friend :

     

             Dear Jhumu,

                                       Hope, everything is at its place in your life. I am good too.I learnt about your admission to IIT, roorkee. Congratulations on that note. However, I am in a haste to share with you something that I came across today. So, without delaying further with formalities, I am straight away jumping in what I actually want to share.

                                        Today late in the afternoon, I left home absolutely irritated. Firstly, the A.C. was not working ( and it’s terribly hot now in kolkata) and secondly, Ma was continuously trying my patience. Finding no solution to her, I left. I had only two hundred bucks with me, plus had to do lunch , which I skipped at home. (Here I confess, the menu at table appalled me, therefore I skipped it… pretending to ma, that I am mad at her). Boarding a train, I found myself at  Sealdah. You know the south station of Sealdah, has a flavour of its own. Life gathers there unpretentious, in their most honest manifestation. There come people from every walk of life. Ah! It is still free from marcantalism. I had my lunch there at the Railway Canteen. A  mere seventy bucks bought me a happy meal, at a place which doesnot cater to any specific economic class. It was not a ‘shut your mouth and chew’ kind of an eatery. It was a restruarant, where if you want a little bit of extra daal to have the last morsel of your rice, they don’t cost you.

                                     With the happiness of a full stomach, I found myself seated on a bench in the middle of a platform. It started to rain.The vertical coloumns of the shower trickled down, from the edge of the roof shade. A group of four sat before me. From their appearance , It felt they work as domestic helps at homes. One among them searched leeces from the other’s hair and they talked about banal day to day stories. Meanwhile, my mind drifted apart. I was thinking this and that, fiddled a little with my phone and was sorry for Ma. I shouldn’t have created mountain out of a mole hill at home.  No sooner than, I was preaparing to leave , a feeble voice demaded my attention, stopping me. Turning aside, I beheld, an elderly man with shruken skin , in tattered clothes. He requested , “ Please give me some money. I am homeless and starving”. There was an appeal, so genuine in his voice that I couldn’t ignore. While I searched for my purse, I found in the amulet, in his arm few quotes written, which clearly didn’t indicate the religious sect he belonged to.Intrigued, I asked him, “ Who are you? A Hindu or a Muslim?”. Bewildered he replied “ I am just Hungry”.

                                                                       Expecting a reply from you soon…

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Yours Truly,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Mini

                                                                                          ( ______end of the write-up_____)

[ Though I never wanted to declare it. But yes it is a mix between reality and amalgamation. People often attack writers tgese days saying ' why did you lie?'... Well have a little sensitivity a writer doesn't 'lie', he/she imagines and puts that imagination inside the shell of reality. Please stop being insensitive and stop calling writers 'liers']