'Kabuliwalah! Kabuliwalah!'
How sweet of Mili. Made Kabuliwalah her friend, even if they are world's apart but nationality doesn't define of who they are. But I do remember that there is also a part where Kabuliwalah gets arrested because he gets into a fight with a man over debt. He was imprisoned for 10 years and then he was let out. But after 10 years, Mili didn't recognise her friend. How Foolish of Kabuliwalah to still love Mili even if she forgot him but he saw her as his own daughter. Sometimes even if you're nationality does not define you, you're actions do. It's best to never tell anyone of what you did in the past.
Do I have a Mili? Hmm, probably yes. His name was Chandan Chatterjee. He was a great friend. He had this book...but that book never was finished. Everytime we cycled, he used to complain that the book was good but hated it because it was never finished. I remember, I only gave him the idea to finish this book. To give his own ending. He said okay but, said that, 'I'll finish it when I finally find...my inspiration.' One thing was that I never knew that what he meant by the word 'inspiration.
I have this weird habit. On Tuesdays I sit near a stranger's grave with a glass of alcohol and talk to them about my life or any part of stories. Like, right now! I bring up random people's names that I have known and talk to these strangers' graves, about them for hours! I have always felt that they become lonely after they die...so I come to accompany them. Maybe that can make them happy. But am I doing these for them? Or, maybe me...
I have never been the greatest person...I used to sell drugs and do small thefts here and there. While selling drugs, I used to make chocolates and inside them would be the drugs. After that I just used to sell them. As for thefts, customers used to give me money and there I would go stealing the specific items that the customers had asked for. I had a group with me. Me, Chandan and Murali. That is how our lives were going. It wasn't pleasant though...of course the police thought that we were suspicious, so we would get beat up or the policemen would do a thorough checking of our apartment but their suspicion would be in vain. But, it was going pretty good, if we ignore the unpleasant part.
On Sundays we would cycle through the roads. The roads would be noisy and chaotic, children playing cricket on the roads only, auto-rickshaw coming from here and there, and the random lamp posts. There would be a different refreshment while cycling through these roads, it felt homey. Now here, I cycle alone...the roads are quiet there are trees on both sides and only a few people walking. Sometimes seeing this I feel like I was in a different world and now in a different one. Oh the good and chaotic days!
Chandan was my little brother. We were from a lower middle class family. Baba used to be a security gaurd but then he fell ill...and slowly had been paralyzed. Now Maa, started doing a job, but she didn't used to get much money. So me and my brother, Chandan used to go to market to sell vegetables that we could easily find in the fields. We also didn't get much money but by what we got and my mother's money we could go about our day. Then, one day baba died. And Chandan started to have dreams that our mother is depressed so, one day she would get out of the house without letting us know but he would still get up and follow Maa...when he asks Maa that where she was going, she would run and stand in front of train and get hit by it and he would only....only be one inch away from saving her! Maybe...his institutions were correct...because only after a few days when maa was coming home she had cross a railway station and when she was doing it...she left us alone. The only difference was that Chandan wasn't there.
I had never taken care of anyone! But now here I was...me a 14 year old had to take care of a 9 year old, Chandan. How much money did I have? ₹310 and 5 paisa. Oh, I could be the 'king' of the world! Just after Maa's death we couldn't even have a proper funeral or a burning of our parents' bodies. Baba's body was floating on the river banks...and Maa...we could only find her hand. I cried and cried for hours...I was holding the same hand who used to feed us food when we were infants, not going to lie but even when I was 12 I used to ask her to feed me; The same hands that taught us how to walk, write and sometimes she would also slap us when we used to get hurt. What memories!...
Chandan wanted to eat a ice cream...which came for ₹10...I also wanted one but we didn't have much money at that time. We could sell vegetables to gain money but, at that time much vegetables weren't growing so we also couldn't sell them. I brought a ice cream and gave it to him. Now I only had ₹300 and 5 paisa. I had to buy rice...So I went to the shop and found out that I am broke. Rice was ₹475! Then I bought some local rice which costed which was for ₹100. This was how life had been to us for a few days but after just a little while I found a friend his name was Murali, he introduced us to this work of theft and Drug selling.
This work of shame had gone for 8 years until one very interesting customer came. He had told us to steal in a very rich house...it was a small showpiece. It costed millions! The customer said that if we got him the show piece he would give us anything that we wanted...so during this theft...Murali betrayed us and called the police on us. However, one thing Murali forgot was that, he had forgotten to take the show piece. How would he? Because, I had it. But when we were running...one of the police man fired in the air to make us stop but that bullet hit Chandan right above the heart. I had no time to think I picked him up and went to the hospital and called the ominous customer. Unfortunately Chandan didn't survive, I was sad, happy and jealous all at the same time. Sad because- how many people was I supposed to loose. Happy because- he will finally find peace. And jealous because- he got to meet our parents before me. I miss those times when me and Chandan would sit in front of the fire lit by our baba...our Maa would sit near us. Baba would act and recite the story of Kabuliwalah...an-and whenever Mili would say his name, me and Chandan would with say with excitement 'Kabuliwalah, Kabuliwalah!'
I was too blinded by the memories that I forgot to see that I was crying like a 1 year old. The customer must've felt sympathetic...so when he sold that show piece...he gave the 50% to me. Meaning I had ₹6,519 and 50 paisa. But mine and the meeting of that ominous customer didn't end there...we used to meet every now and then. He saw me as his child, and I still saw him as a customer. He brought me to Yokohama, Japan with him. If my brother was alive...I would tell him that, how hard this language is. I learned Bengali, Hindi, and Engligh and now Japanese. Oh I am a linguistic!
My brother died on Tuesday and so I visit these strangers' graves on these this specific day.
That's my story...
Oh wait! Remember the book that I mentioned earlier? Well, Chandan found the book when while cycling on the road. Someone threw it on the side of a dumpster...and he got angered and took the book home with him...and then the rest you know of how he complained about the ending and I gave him the idea to finish it...so before dieing...Chandan gave me the book and told me to write the ending. And this book is so interesting that, no matter what ending you give it...nothing feels right. Oh what a mad writer of the main book.
I can never sleep peacefully...whenever I sleep, I am in this forest where everything is dark...and when I go forward, I see Baba drowned, Chandan's body where he is bleeding just above the heart and his heart are all white and his eyes are filled with blood and Maa's slaughtered face and body and her right hand missing...and when I look down I see my Maa's right hand in my hand...I hold it tightly and when I wake up everything is quite...I crowds I see them, just healthy...but three of them go to three different paths.
I remember that I asked my father one time that:
'Aren't we all equal to the eyes of God?'
Then Baba said:
'Equality before God does not mean the absence of suffering...'
(Just then the wind blew...and with that wind it felt as if whispers of the starnger ghost came with it...continuing the line.)
'Child. Infact, suffering is the very crucible part of life, in which the soul is tested. Bad things don't happen to you alone, they happen to all in different ways. Perhaps, you're suffering is the reflection of you're nature, or maybe it is a gift to bring you closer to the truth of the world. The question is, what will you do with you're suffering?'
Aah so you're just like my father?...I like you...I'll come meet you another time...thank you for listening to me, dear stranger...
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