My taxi sojourns

S was our faithful taxi driver - We used his services whenever we were having guests or the husband was away and I needed to commute to and from College. There was a time when S was my mode of transportation for a whole two months. He would come in the morning at 8 and we would make our way through the highway and the narrow road commonly known as the junction. Our togetherness was brief, say a brief seven-minute in the morning and then another seven in the afternoon. But those minutes were an assortment of the weather forecast, politics, students of today, elders of yesterday, traffic defaulters, irresponsible animal owners and so on.

The journey would begin with, "Good morning S ji. Looks like it will rain today." To which, I would receive, "maybe yes or maybe not." Then the topic would skirt around the current trending news and our opinions. S ji would thrillingly use MC, BC and other colourful words which would shake me out of my reverie but then when feelings have to be expressed, why would a sieve be used. And then without much ado, we would fall silent only to puncture it with something else that catches his or my eye.

Together we used to count the days of the husband's return and mark his duty days with me. Our mornings were clouded with the urge to rush to College and our afternoons with the urgency to go home and rest. S would have stories of his customers and how each one was different from the other - some made him wait for hours while some were stingy; some wanted only his taxi services with low prices, of course, and some called him when their friends were in town. There was a fare for regulars and there was a fare for regulars' friends.

S was well versed with the kind of people after experiencing them as his customers. He could spot a rotten apple in a basket of many. He could advise on traffic timing and low prices in shops. He was an encyclopedia of the common man. I knew what he ate and what his children were up to and when he woke up, offered puja and bathed. Nonchalantly, he would talk about the area's councillors, police personnel, customs officer and their stories of greed and power. Everyone had been his customer one time or the other.

He used to understand my measly bank balance mid-month and lament how it is impossible to earn enough in a straightforward service. He used to say, "dho number ka kam se khoob paisa kama sakthey" (Illegal work only could earn more money).

I look forward to those mornings and afternoons when S and I chat endlessly and merrily about all and sundry. Then one day the journeys with S stopped with the husband coming back and my knowledge bank of 'local' stories became scarce and limited.

I then wondered, "What stories would I tell my students?" But then there is a story everywhere!

Revelling in micro-stories

Facebook has many treats to offer and off late, it gives me immense pleasure to read the micro stories that are posted by my friends. The stories have diverse hues and moods depending on the emotional state of the writer; But whatever the frame of mind, these vignettes of life are presented in lucid prose which is a reader's delight.

Stories have always fascinated me and I believe that all of us irrespective of our age, status, social standing have a repertoire of stories that are waiting to be read and listened to. Some stories are forgotten, some escape the hearer and some are safely kept in the vault of memory. But stories that are shared are the ones that make life vibrant and help us revel in the collective conscious.

My friend Bhavana Nissima and Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury were the ones who captivated me with vignettes from their daily life; And, I was impressed how these vignettes shared as status messages on Facebook were an excellent archive of storing ordinary happenings with profound commentries. The instances shared by them were not once-in-a-blue-moon experience which had to recorded as milestones in history. Far from that, the incidents were insignificant happenings which happen to most of us on a regular basis but failed to be seen with awareness and insight.

After reading these micro stories, I have often felt that simple everyday occurances are indeed profound and perhaps will never happen again. For example, a butterfly caught inside the home and trying to somehow find its way out or a mosquitoe that repeatedly escapes the Chinese bat or a creeper that somehow finds a tree to climb on and so on. Even blogs are all about stories - stories of courage, passion, pain, love, hunger, smiles and other similar topics. But writing a post takes time and needs some comfort unlike typing a quick status message wihich shares our stories to everyone who knows and likes us. I call these status messages "micro stories," which make me either smile, ponder, or wonder.

I have stopped seeing Sociology, Psychology and Political Science as mere academic disciplines restricted to the portals of Universities and Colleges. In fact, I see Bhavana's and Maitreyee's micro stories as reflections of the time and state of the society and the individual. I learn much from their updates than I might from a textbook.

Dear reader, care for a story - an everyday one that.

Love in the light of the lamp

Last night when we came back to our campus after seeing off some relatives at Madgaon railway station, it was about 00: 00 am. At that time, the various stone benches dotting the campus were filled with love-struck  pairs who were quite occupied with their respective beaus. The sight was lovely! The thought that these love-birds could have their private moments at mid-night was a liberating one. In most campuses, the security pounces on these young ones and orders them to their hostels at about 8 or 9 pm but here, there were no such restrictions. Theirs were the stone benches and the lovely young night. The scene brought to my mind the whole thought of love-stories. Most of us love listening to love stories. It gives a voyeuristic peep into another individual's life and also gives us fodder for future situations, in some cases, imaginations.

I remember as teen-aged girls we loved pestering our senior friends for their love-stories. And as always, the seniors blushed, blinked, became thoughtful or rather lost in thought and began by saying, "Our story is not like those films you see. It is a very simple and straight-forward one."  We nodded and forgot ourselves while we listened with rapt attention the account of the first meeting not even swallowing our saliva and travelled with them as they travelled in their minds. When the senior remarked about the first touch, our skins tingled and we blushed and wondered about the many films we saw replaying the scenes over and over in our heads until we grew sick with love for a non-existent guy and then when we heard the senior say, "He finally told me those three words," we would demand, "How, how did he say it?" Another blink, another blush and then the story ended. We sighed, "So many years, you've been going around?" and finally the stories lost appeal. Reality beckons and we masticate those words that so completely thrilled and fascinated us.

As we grew up, the realisation that the love in films is different from the love in real life hit us hard but still we liked to listen to love-stories. Then we fell in and out of love and were proud individuals who now had our own love-stories to narrate to eager teens and students. Many parts were modified and censored but the story never lost its charm.

I am now married and have heard many many love-stories but still when I saw those young students sitting on the stone benches with bodies closely touching the other's and hands clasped, I wanted to go and ask them their love-stories.

Do you like listening to love-stories by the moonlight?

Leaving you with a lovely song by Andy Williams who recently passed on.

Image 1: Internet
Image 2: Internet