08.10.2009.

I have no social or moral conscience. But …

We have this totally weird calling bell, courtesy my Mother’s mindless dependancy on our electrician. It plays a shitty bollywood tune followed by an irritating female voice requesting to open the door. I have been fighting tooth and nail over the last two years to get Mum to replace it. I was at lunch when the bell rang. “Abar tora! Na ami kichu nebona… ekhon kichu lagbena, palao dujonei. Bell bajiona aar, ragi dadababu achey kintu baritey khub bokbey.” (You two again! No I won’t buy… I don’t need anything, now off you go. And don’t you ring the bell again or you will get a scolding from the irascible dadababu)… I heard my Mother say. “Kichui nebena… acha duto ditey hobena, ekta mishti dao taholey… adha adha khabo, aar ekbar bell’ta bajatey debey Mashi ekbar, ekbar.” (You won’t buy anything at all… okay you don’t have to give two, give us one sweet only, we will share… and will you please please let us ring the bell once, just once.) Unseen behind the curtains the fearsome creature called Ragi Dadababu watched the pair… the not yet into teens older one prop up the younger (three quarters of a foot shorter) to help reach the bell and then laughing heartily, walk away savouring a sweet each… happy.

I have signed a truce with Mother. As long as the bell doesn’t conk out on its own… it stays. My friend’s one and a half year old, I’m told wears only Ginny & Johnny clothes that cost about 1500 rupees each & drives a battery operated toy car half the size of my living room (forgive the slight exaggeration). A fairly good quality Bengali sweet doesn’t cost more than five rupees.

I suspect the only emotion I have left that still moves me beyond reason is rage.