For Sol. Here is an intriguing little story for you.
Papu had always craved adventure; even as a child, fantasies and fantastic journeys came thick and fast in his head. His imaginary friend was a singer in a rock band with crazy tattoos, crazy hair and a wild look in his eye. He was also a world traveller and a man of no fear. An explorer.Papu wanted to be like him.
In his dreams, Papu chartered planes and followed stories of interesting people. On a whim, he might have heard a story of a boy, living in a remote Bengali village, who had befriended a tiger in the jungle, lived in the most hidden, most curious part of the delta and kept a boat for escape. And he was off, to follow the boy and write his story.
As he slept, Papu heard a story about a lady with twelve children and green eyes who could heal; a shallow pond that never dried even in the hottest part of the year; a magician who lived in a box in Kolkata. In his dreams, he followed these people, met them and became their friends and they introduced him to a world beyond his ken. Of a djinn, a fairy, of magic in the water and healing in a tree. Of things you could see at the corner of your eye at dusk and of a world of adventure, mystery and strangeness.
And thus was his world, thinking, thinking - when he was playing cricket in the street with the boys from the neighbourhood or when his mother made his favourite foods.
When Papu was grown, he became more sensible. He became accustomed to responsibility, as it is right to be. But at night, when Papu slept, the dreams came. There was a man with a great moustache throwing balls of fire, a beautiful lady with long hair singing songs full of sadness and places nearby that you could not see other than through her eyes. When Papu woke, he found that his face was wet with tears. This went on, until Papu couldn't bear it any more.
Ignoring the requests of his parents, who told him that he had to work hard and find himself a wife soon enough, Papu went wandering. He went in no particular direction, through the village and the temple. Through the fields and by Mother Ganges. He stayed with kind people who took him in when he explained that he was on a journey and that he was lonely and unhappy and was looking fore something. Perhaps they thought he was a mad man; perhaps some thought he was a holy fool yet to articulate his cause, but they cared for him. And then, one day, Papu was in the Sundurbans, that wide, low watery expanse on the edge of the Bay of Bengal. Here, there are endless streams, waterside settlements claimed and released by the mud at monsoon time, dark forests and creatures. He found an empty hut and sat down. He chewed on some betel leaf he had with him; a gift from the Panchyiat at the last village he had visited. He thought. Eventually, an old man came in and sat down, smiling at Papu, but saying nothing, They shared a little betel. A storm came up. It came stronger and stronger and soon, Papu realised that the hut was in harm's way: that the water was whipping up around it.
The old man left the hut. Papu did not know what to do other than follow him. The wind and rain were dreadful. He would not have been able to hear his own voice or the voice of the old man had they ever tried to speak to one another. The old man climbed a tree as the water lashed at the ground, with increasing viciousness, below him. He beckoned Papu to follow. And there they stayed, lashed tightly to the tree, until the wind died down. The old man was limber; he was also calm. Papu, however, was terrified and struggling to hold on.
Morning saw an exhausted but alive Papu climb down from the tree. The old man helped him. The mud was thick and he followed the man through the forest to a clearing where he saw a small settlement. Invited into a small dwelling, Papu sat and stared. A tiger was there, asleep on the floor, a lady with long hair resting on him. In the corner, there were large smouldering coals; three of them and Papu was pierced through by his memory of the man who juggled fire. As he looked from the very corner of his eyes in the dusty light of the dwelling, he wondered if he could see more people or creatures - but of this he was not sure. And then, he slept, lulled by the pressure of the old man rubbing his feet with mustard oil to soothe the pain from gripping the trunk of the tree through the night.
When Papu woke up, he found himself alone on the warm soil of a forest clearing. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do other than move on. Move on home, certainly to a world of responsibility, but Papu would bear this lightly - even gratefully, if he could. He thought that he must have dreamed it all but he saw the blisters on his feet and he could smell the warm scent of the mustard oil. Even today, the rest is a mystery and you, dear reader, must make of it what you will. Papu, though, - today a family man with a decent kind of job - always remembers, once in a while, to look out from the corner of his eye, to meet a glance from someone and to let in happily and gracefully what dreams may come.
Photographs 2003 from Jessika Fortin at www.flickr.com These are of the Sundurbans in Bangladesh.
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