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| 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.’
