Storymania - Life On The Broken Wings by Partha Pratim Majumder

Life On The Broken Wings
Partha Pratim Majumder

- ONE -

At the central part of the city, the main road with tramline runs in between the gate of the closed mill and two storied building recently bought by Prof. Nihar Chowdhury of Kolkata University. While ground floor is occupied by some old tenants , the couple settles down in the first floor with one girl child, Siddha , who is an occupant of wheelchair for six years with large sensitive eyes but two polio stricken legs.

She sits at the balcony in the morning and afternoon. Silently looks around to see things of daily smell.- trams with metallic horns , the rushing porters carrying large sacks of goods, the school children going on foot quarrelling with each other. The group of lambs with their serial number grafted on the skin under the caning of a shepherd by the side of the tramline. The red coloured air conditioned car , driven by a chauffeur , taking the rich businessman clad in a white piece of cloth and a towel for traditional bath at the river.

And above all, the white pigeons with feathery shocks , who are the treat to watch. They , when free out of the cage, roam around for a while inside the compound in fullest alacrity. Then, they spread their wings and fly around�. Towards up�. In rounds�. Stage by stage.

Apart from pedestrians, two pairs of eyes follow them watching � One Murli�s and the other � Siddha � gazing in wonder. Their sights follow their flight �. Up� and up� and up.

Till they return . These two persons of different age, sex and backgrounds has one thing in common � to look at things in wonder. They live to see them passionately.

The large iron gates of the mill has a small gate within. Murli sometimes gets in and out through it. The girl has an overview of the inside from her balcony. And by watching birds, they become friends�� Siddha calls him �Paira dadu� (Grandpa of pigeons).and Murli reciprocated by calling her � Khukumoni �(Little girl).

And sun rises up and goes down daily on the bridge of wonder stylised over some flutter of wings. The oil mill , closed couple of months back, awaits a transformation for a housing estate.

-TWO-

Two months back , the mill was running and on any working day, machines did not stop grinding seeds to oil, which was packed and given a label of purity to move for the wholesale market.

�Our days pass like droppings of a pigeon. Small and weak . It comes automatically to go in the same way without any effect. The days of rich pass like elephant�s dung. Heavy and solid. With lots of happening. Ha�Ha�.Ha� � All present there except Murli laughed enjoying the joke of Kishorichand during lunch hour in Mohini Oil Mill at congested business area of the city, where sacks and containers are more than plants and trees.

Murli did not enjoy the joke because he was deaf .

He was silent putting paper labels on the oil tins � Pure Mustard Oil. For thirty five years � fixing up labels��. Perfectly on the top of the tin without a word. Although, purity of oil has gradually been declining over a period of time , but the label remains bright with confirmation of purity - one may be baffled ! Pure � Which one ? Product or its label ?

And that afternoon, before all workers , the proprietor declared closure accompanied by a heavy police force and a couple of lawyers. Janaki Prasad Jain , the millionaire with fat gold chain around his large neck steps out of his imported car and drags his heavy body to the middle of the gate surrounded by his henchmen. His manager announced the company�s decision while he was chewing mouthful betel leaf. Five minutes affair. The mill was closed. The labourers were asked to vacate the mill . They were all speechless, directionless but fiery. Kishorichand grumbled at the back of the crowd,� So, the son of the bitch delivered a large dung !!! That covers us all for ever.�

The comment had no ripple��.. the air was too heavy to breathe in.

Janaki babu spat on the floor and called Murli only. He closely drew picture in the air to make him understand that he would be receiving a regular allowance every month for looking after the pigeons in the cages within the compound � the only inmates the proprietor did not try to bother with closure. So, it was decided that from next day onwards, the mill would have one shanty � of Murli and one cage � of the pigeons.

After the fleet of cars left sparing smoky doom, the workers came to senses and precisely to hatred on Janakibabu and Murli. � You, broker of the owner ! bloody tout ! Bastard !!! Now we understand why you are not allowed retirement. � They all rushed to Murli. He was beaten to make him a pulp. Remained unconscious on the floor �� in dust for hours.

Next day saw a huge commotion of angry faces of workers outside of the shut down gates, gate meetings, red flags, festoons and slogan shouting. The cause of closure was the topic that had been rolling on in the discussion followed by escalating price of land for housing projects or shopping malls. The possibility of seeing oil mill owner as promoter spiralled in. What a transformation of oil to bricks !!!

Inside, Murli ,after recovery, was limping and busy in settling down with his only job � care taking of pigeons. He was doing it earlier due to love for these feather friends. Now onwards, it would be his only occupation.

With the days went by, the squatting became lighter, the strength of protest became thinner. The air carried less slogans. Festoons wore faded look. The oil mill became a place of eight pigeons and their caretaker. Gone were the days of grinding sounds of large machines grinding mustard seeds to refined oil. Silence prevailed round the clock except intermittent chirping of birds with droppings � lean and weak.

One day came, when number of squatters became none��. before the closed gates. That day, Janakibabu, the mill owner signed the Sale Deed in favour of a Real Estate Company for a large residential project on the compound.

- THREE �

The flight of pigeons�� in rounds��. Moving up��. and up. The flight is seen by the old man ��.. and the girl��.. their flight is seen and enjoyed by all on the road other than the couple � old and tired man with thick glasses and the other � fresh with clear eyes. Both look up � in wonder, till the pigeons get back in return loop , when their small wings are tired��.. and they are hungry enough. They slowly come down on the rooftop of the house of Laha�s. Then move down to the parapet of the house of Saha�s. And finally they take the last lap to the ground of the mill crossing over the rusted metal gates , strolling reluctantly to their cages � all under the care of Murli , who is relieved for good since he may not have to put label on the tins anymore.

On the other hand, Siddha can not walk but flies on the wings of the pigeons��. Deep in the blue��.. in the sun or in the rain . Her mind reaches the cosmic height of wonder that makes her walk into another day enthusiastically.

- FOUR �

- � Paira dadu, today, I have been able to draw a full picture !! D�you want to see it ? � Siddha shouts at Murli from the balcony waving a piece of paper.
Murli looks up perplexed. He nods after understanding her gestures.
- � Then, catch it , it�s gift to you !!! � She throws the page down��.. it reaches Murli taking few laps and Murli finds out that the page has a flying pigeon on it.
- � I know that. I know that it will be one from our backyard. Good , very good. Keep it up. �

Murli is excited and cheerful with the page and the pigeon on it . He laughs at the girl and says � Very good ! You must be a good painter in future. I shall paste it on the wall inside , let them also know how do they look like ! �

For a long time of his life, Murli has not been so happy and cheerful.

That afternoon, a huge workforce with bulldozers under a bunch of Civil Engineers reaches the mill compound. Jaminibabu , brother of Janakibabu calls Murli to vacate the place within half an hour as the measurement is about to start. All the temporary shanties and shades are broken. More than a hundred workmen are around alongwith the policemen.

Murli, with tears rolling on his cheeks opens the door of cages as the pigeons, frightened on such a mounted tension and crowd, start moving without direction. They are yet to disbelieve that they are all homeless. They are yet to confirm that they must not return.

Murli , without a single word , breaks the pitcher carrying his drinking water��.. earthen oven to pieces as he picks up his apparel in a bag to move out.

And he is to see the last flight of pigeons ��. As Siddha looks on in utter confusion.

In the utter bewilderment, not only the caretaker but his subjects fall prey to the circumstances, as one of the pigeons meets the high voltage overhead electric wire and falls down on the road just like its own dropping. Within a second, a speedy truck runs over it into a paste before the eyes of all. Murli shudders, Siddha screams out��.. crowd present howls behind the vehicle. The black road carries blood stains and crashed feathers for a while . But then , no visible sign is found on the surface.

The vehicle vanishes��.. wheels roll on one after another. The pigeon goes on a trip across the city as part of wheels to run the stretches covering zebra crossing, traffic signals and the tramlines. Murli sits down on the ground speechless as if his son has died. The girl leaves for her room sobbing. Other pigeons are shocked as much as their human friend are.

After some spell of turmoil, the exercise of measurement of land has started, followed by demolition of internal shanties. The cage of pigeons is not spared. The pots of grain and water are lying on the ground with the torn picture created by the girl that morning.

In the event of giving home to men of high networth , some pigeons are shown the sky, the girl � the world of shock and old man � the pavement.

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