The Box of Mangoes

The Mangoes.  They might have been fazlis.  (Image: wikipedia)

Now, it’s a small matter really and probably not something to fuss about.  It might be altogether better not to mention it.  But on the other hand, if promises are meant to be kept, so it’s true: India owes me one box of mangoes.

Now, in writing that, I suppose I am not suggesting ‘India’ in the sense that Sonia or Manmohan or even one Ms. Banerjee of Kolkata are, or should be, struggling with their consciences over said outstanding mango box.  India is clearly a big country with any number of issues upon the table in a singular instant and it’s reasonable to conclude that a certain minor mango debt is not one of their larger concerns.  No, when I write ‘India’, I suppose I am referring more precisely to the individual promisor in the matter of said box, a one Mr. Nurul Islam, a professional rickshaw driver by trade, from Malda Town in Paschimbanga.  But in any case, it’s not nice to harp on about unpaid debts.

I like Malda Town.  It’s distant enough from Kolkata to make a worthwhile journey break en route to the Himalayas and it’s neither too small nor large a town to be burdensome.  A further advantage is that foreign tourist numbers are sufficiently limited for the experience of a more genuine, unadulterated India to be had.  With the main sites sixteen kilometres to the south in Gaur, some kind of local transport is required for the tourist, and as the morning train pulls up alongside the Malda platform there would usually be a handful of rickshaw drivers waiting to oblige.

Gaur was the capital of the Pala and Sena dynasties from the seventh to twelfth centuries, although the ruins date from a later period, mostly the thirteenth to sixteenth centuries during Muslim Nawab rule.  As the ruins are scattered about the greenery of rural Paschimbanga, a few-hour leisurely rickshaw tour is a wise choice. 

Now, in everybody’s life there are instances when something borrowed or pledged was never repaid or delivered for whatever reason and despite intentions.  A box of mangoes is indeed a small thing so it’s best not to consider it further.

The essence of success in a tour of Gaur from Malda is in the character of the chosen rickshaw driver.  Ideally the driver should not take short cuts or stretch out the bargaining process over small matters through the duration of the day. 

It wasn’t immediate that we found Mr. Nurul Islam.  As the drivers at the station for the most part seemed eager to turn a quick profit, my friend Situ and I chose at first none and went instead to find lodgings.  After a good hour we stopped for tea, ironically back at the train station where the best tea stands were, and from the original flurry of drivers there remained just one.  He sat near us as we drank.  Patiently he waited until the negotiation commenced, and I bargained hard, less because of the price, more to know him better.  He seemed alright.

And so it was that we three sealed a deal over a pending departure cup of tea.

Mr. Nurul Islam wheeled up his vehicle and we started, first following the long road beside the railway then gradually working our way out of town until we reached the open highway.  It’s not easy, a rickshaw on a highway with overloaded Tata trucks bowling along at ungodly speeds, trucks that really need that extra pair of eyes painted onto the side fenders.  For the rickshaw driver, it’s not easy to know when to be forced onto the road shoulder for the sake of continued life.  But closer to the ruins the roads are quiet. 

Along the highway it was common to pass other rickshaws heading towards town and it was usual enough to be considered a trait that some of the other drivers on seeing Mr. Nurul Islam had a foreigner on board were given to calling out, sometimes rather greedily, ‘how much?’  It’d surprise me if in Malda-Mango rickshaw circles there weren’t big fish tales of what foreigners had been induced into forking out.  But our Mr. Nurul Islam replied, ‘I’m taking them for free.’  I liked him already.

Now, it’s not because of the mango debt I stopped speaking of Malda.  What occurred was really something.  I quit the chat of Mango Town due to the risk of the narration sounding too self-congratulatory.  It was never the point.  But now, risk in tow I’ve changed my mind, for the events of that day should be shared in just the way one Mr. Nurul Islam offered that box of mangoes.

Rickshaws give time for thoughts and mine turned to Mr. Nurul Islam, his life and how similar or different it might’ve been from that of his colleagues in Hatiya in Bangladesh, many of whom are friends.  It was impossible not to notice his shirt had a tear that seemed to rival the Brahmaputra in length and that one of his sandals was broken.  He was a family man, he’d said, and he had a pot belly that must’ve sheltered a sizeable colony of worms.  It’s never a good thing, worms, as the condition brings lethargy and drains strength, but it’s particularly inconvenient when you’re on a rickshaw for a living.

I pictured his house, making it Hatiyan-similar with thatch and no sanitation, though probably its roof was tiled.  I wondered at a world with both of us in it.  I was on a tour for not more than pleasure; he was all about physical survival. 

Meanwhile to the east the long zigzag of the black fence had come into view.  On the other side was Bangladesh and I wanted to stop the rickshaw, run to the fence and somehow embrace Situ’s country, but certainly there’s no way to embrace a whole country.  Close enough to the border, like the mango orchards the ruins of Gaur spill onto the other side.

Now, when I think of it the details of the mango promise were never finalised and whether it was talk of the gopalbhog, langda or khirsapati varieties, what he had in mind I couldn’t say.  Perhaps it would’ve been a mixture of varieties?

I could describe the various ruins but half of Gaur is in the ease of the subtropical paddies and mango trees by the pace of a rickshaw.  There’s the stopping for tea and chatter; and the finding a spot in the yards about the ruins to relax and ponder a bit. There is, however, one specific site to mention, the Qadam Rasul Mosque which is said to house the footprint of the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him.  Most of the ruins are fairly open but at that mosque there’s a gatekeeper who fusses about with keys to unlock the padlock to let the smattering of tourists enter.  He wanted baksheesh but he seemed a bit self-appointed to me; yet Mr. Nurul Islam, I saw him, from a fold in his lungee quietly pushed a few rupees into the padlock unlocker’s hand.

Now, when I think of it Mr. Nurul Islam simply said he’d present a whole box of mangoes if I came back to Malda during the season.  He probably would’ve picked them from random trees in his village, so I’m thinking there’s a decent chance they would’ve been fazli, or a majority may have been fazlis.  How long would it take to eat a box of fazlis?

By lunch time which is around two p.m. in Bengal we’d finished our tour and asked Mr. Nurul Islam to take us to a decent restaurant.  He’d chosen the best place he knew, a truck stop diner along the highway and, as once had been the custom in Hatiya, when he followed us inside he chose to sit at a distance, at another table.  The rights and the wrongs of it I don’t know but in Hatiya in the young days I’d made a point that the rickshaw drivers sit at the same table as us, for why should they not?  In Hatiya the tiny gesture had been well-received, though at first it really took some coaxing such that I wondered if I wasn’t disturbing them.  In any case, after some cajoling, at the truck stop the three of us ultimately ate together.

Now, the fazli are large, green skinned and sensational.  The favourite picture of Situ and me in the same frame is of us sitting on the ground at his wife’s ancestral home eating, dripping in fazli delight.  It’s not even in focus, that photo.

After lunch I don’t know, I thought I wanted to buy one Mr. Nurul Islam a new shirt.  It’s not the sort of thing I’m great at doing but on a short trip with a Sydney salary it didn’t seem like much, so we asked him to take us to the clothes market and to the best shop he knew.  We set off, back into town, without Mr. Nurul Islam having the slightest inkling of the substance of the plan.  On the way I coaxed Situ into, as he would say, ‘technical’ talk of the worms, on the delicate subject of the intricacies of Mr. Nurul Islam’s intestinal tract; and we stopped by a pharmacy to collect a couple of those chewable tablets, standard and almost free.  We tried to explain how to avoid the problem.

It was an ordinary shop he chose, a floor space surrounded by shelves in the corner of a building.  We removed our shoes upon entering and sat on small stools as the shop attendants fussed about pulling shirt possibilities from plastic packets.  I didn’t know how to unveil the surprise so at first I just asked Mr. Nurul Islam which shirt he thought would look nice.  He was agreeable to all; to be expected.  Then I put one shirt, a plain brown one against him to check its size; and said I wanted to buy it for him.

Now, suppose it’d been a box of a decent size, say fifteen or twenty fujlis inside, I’d estimate it would’ve lasted most of a week unless Situ had been there when I’d collected said box such that its contents would have to be shared. 

Of the shirt Mr. Nurul Islam protested.  ‘No, no, I can’t,’ he said; through Situ I made him understand it was okay, not to worry.  But by this time his eyes had the first signs of dampness about them.  So we agreed on the brown shirt in part because in front of the shop assistants it was all rather embarrassing; and we left.  Our tour was done so we asked Mr. Nurul Islam if he’d take us back to the train station and on the way with Situ’s help, I made him promise not to tell the other rickshaw drivers about the shirt.  It’s important to think of the tourists who’ll come later and who wants a Malda Mango where rickshaw drivers demand shirts and higher prices?  Mr. Nurul Islam promised not to say anything; but his mind was focused on his family.

‘My sister-in-law,’ he sobbed slightly, ‘she’ll say I cheated you for this shirt.  But I didn’t, I didn’t.’

When he pulled up and dismounted from the rickshaw he couldn’t hold it.  A certain Mr. Nurul Islam burst into full-blown tears with his hands about his face.  ‘You are not only a human,’ he told me, ‘it is Debota’s work you do.’ I knew those tears.  Those are the tears of someone bothering: not family, not friend and not for any reason.  By that stage my eyes were watery too and it was interesting that as a Muslim he’d used the Hindu word Debota, perhaps because he knew I wasn’t Muslim, although religions are in the habit of blending a bit in North Bengal. 

Well he’d blown his first promise, our Mr. Nurul Islam, if not in technicality at least in practicality, for his wailing had drawn the attention of other rickshaw drivers who rushed towards us to see what the foreigner and his friend had done to make him cry.  I thought we should leave in case they misunderstood and started to hit us, so I pushed the payment, a little extra, into Mr. Nurul Islam’s hand and he didn’t even look to see how much was there.  He didn’t look.  I suppose that’s what in this part of the world honest people do.

‘You come again in mango season,’ he said, the last we spoke to him, ‘I’ll give a whole box of mangoes.’

But he still had a broken sandal.

Firoz Minar at Gaur (Image: wikipedia)

Other small matters not worth mentioning might include a little list written on paper, three short words or a dog with a line of credit...


This article also published in Star Magazine, here: The Box of Mangoes



India Will Decide: Article Index for articles about India

Bangladesh Dreaming: Article Index for articles about Bangladesh

A Mountain in Need

Darjeeling with Kanchenjunga just visible!

Hatiya is beautiful. The morning belongs to kingfishers in brilliant blue swooping to catch fish from canals; the day is for large monitor lizards rustling in the bushes and a mongoose darting with urgency across a rural laneway. The afternoon is the buffalo lazing semi-submerged in a pond, off-duty from the plough; and the night is the domain of ginns, bhuts and their company, the howl of foxes and pained cry of wild cats.

It is in the long evenings which were not so long ago lit by kerosene lamp, in the tea shops, amongst the village men socialising, where even far-fetched plans sound grave. Situ is to blame for my gramer bari or village house affliction, for not only did he donate his family, his neighbourhood to furnish my life with hospitality as plentiful as the monsoon rains, but because he too has a traveller’s soul.

In the evenings, between the chatter over the price of vegetables, news of an impending marriage or a recent death, we’d make travel plans for entertainment, translated to include the other villagers. Mostly they were over-the-top, the temples of Thailand, the north of Norway to see the midnight sun of the Arctic summer, or the Australian outback with its endless miles of sky. Once he listed a budget for a trip to Ukraine via Moscow. I still laugh about the figures: $7.97 for a train ticket to travel thirteen or something hours, $5.61 for a hotel room… okay that’s exaggerated, I don’t remember exactly, but they were a little on the low side.

You can always tell a traveller. It’s not by the number of stamps in their passport, but in their eyes. Just talk of journey and a traveller’s eyes will get up in anticipation of immediate departure. My eyes have always betrayed me that way and so did his. It was only through the accident of our different birthplaces that I’d been granted the luxury of visiting many countries while Situ had not explored beyond Bangladesh.

I used to bring when I could, travel books listing all the world’s countries, the basic facts and a few pictures. He used to call me in Sydney and say, ‘I’ve just been reading about Malawi.’ His wife used to complain that he wouldn’t turn the hurricane lamp down until very late from dreaming his way around the world through the books; and within a year, cover to cover they’d be worn from having been read so thoroughly. It’s all behaviour to be expected from a traveller.

As it is between friends, mocking is expected behaviour between us. I used to list the countries I’d seen, counting the Sub-continental way using the creases in the fingers; then start to list the villages around about which was Situ’s travel list. And I used to say, ‘you need to see a mountain. You can’t have a successful life without at least one mountain in it.’ ‘I’ve been to Bandarban,’ he’d reply. ‘If they’re mountains, then why is it called the Hill Tracts? No, you need a big mountain, with cliffs and snow.’

With the joking I grew to know that I would take him somewhere; that I should find him a mountain. Such things are important.

Of course I would benefit too, since one’s first trip to somewhere foreign is an incredible experience that can never be repeated; the next best thing would be to witness a fellow traveller’s first trip abroad.

It happened in 2004. There was no international phone line to Hatiya in those days, so Situ used to make the somewhat arduous trip across the river, three hours, where he’d have to stay the night, just for a few minutes on the phone to Sydney. I was planning the usual visit to Hatiya; it happened nearly every year. This time I said, ‘we’re meeting in Kolkata.’ One can’t see through phone lines but I knew what his eyes looked like when he heard it.

Funnily enough Situ had always said he didn’t wish for India because ‘it’s the same as Bangladesh.’ Of course there are no two countries the same, as much as they might be branches of the same tree. India was easily affordable on a Sydney salary and for him the visa wouldn’t be much fuss. I knew he’d enjoy it. I always had.

Somehow he organised the passport and visa; there’s a few stories in that but best that he should tell it. Somehow he took himself to Benapole, nearly catching pneumonia on his first air-conditioned bus ride, and crossed the border alone.

Meanwhile I rang Kolkata, as fortunately I have a friend there too, Jayanta. He has a distinguished, really dry sense of humour, and he’d just gotten married. I was yet to meet his wife. ‘So your wife,’ I asked, ‘is she nice?’ ‘When you come to Kolkata,’ he said, ‘you can make your own determination.’

I asked if there would be any problem if I brought a friend this time, from Bangladesh. ‘Hindu or Muslim,’ he asked. ‘Muslim.’ ‘Is he a good person?’ I said he was and Jayanta agreed to trust my determination on that count.

Such was the excitement that my stomach didn’t descend to land at Dum Dum along with the plane: Situ should be there with any luck. Jayanta should be there with any luck. I met Situ first. He’d been waiting all day, sneezing from the bus ride, buying the consecutive three-hour tickets needed to wait inside the terminal building. But he was waiting and sneezing in India! Jayanta had brought a friend with an extra motorbike, so it was no trouble to power off to his place where we stayed a couple of days, during which they got to know each other. Jayanta’s wife was lovely, I determined.

There were many firsts for Situ on his trip: first masala dosa, first iced tea and iced coffee, now all readily available in Dhaka. He’d seen with dismay the historical mosque near Pandua, West Bengal. It was partly built from destroyed Hindu temples and you can see the faces of Hindu deities in parts of the brickwork. More inspiring was the coexistence of Hindu swastikas decorating the mehrab, the focal point of the mosque. Situ said in Bangladesh he’d been taught the arrival of Islam in the Sub-continent had been peaceful. Pandua says it wasn’t absolutely so.

It was hot the day we went to find his mountain, it was roasting. With sweat pouring down our faces like a minor waterfall, at the Siliguri jeep stand and headed for Darjeeling, I suggested we needed to take the jumpers out of my bag: I’d brought two since Bangladeshi winters are not quite as cold as in Sydney and Situ would need Sydney-strength apparel for what would be undoubtedly the coldest day of his life. He thought I was mad, in the heat. It was well over thirty degrees and I wanted a jumper!

I make little jokes about the jeep ride: Situ was so scared, as we rounded some of those vertical precipes along the roadway, he held onto the side of the jeep so intensely that layers of the skin on his hands came off. Truth was even on my second time there I was slightly nervous too.

In Darjeeling, Situ burnt himself while taking his first hot shower. It’s logical really, what he thought, that the hot water tap would come out at a set, comfortable temperature, rather than needing to regulate it with the cold tap. It could be like that. In Darjeeling we watched in awe as the clouds below us lifted over the course of the morning and continued above as we ate breakfast; and in Darjeeling we saw the white horizon hairstyle of Kanchenjunga, a name Situ would soon be using to criticise my Sydney-sized belly.

The Himalayas are where Hatiya comes from, by the Ganges, by the Brahmaputra. The Himalayas are Hatiya’s mother.

Back in the tea shops some weeks later, folk listened in wonderment as Situ described to them about ‘the town above the clouds.’ So he got his mountain in the end.




This article also published by Daily Star at: A Mountain in Need

The second part of this adventure is published here: Legends of the Brahmaputra

Hatiyan tea shop

India Will Decide: Article Index for articles about India

Bangladesh Dreaming: Article Index for articles about Bangladesh