Non-erotic Dawn at Midnight By Pinuram - {Completed}

[usaiha2]

It was Friday; I was waiting for the bus at the College Street bus-stand. Just came out of Presidency College to travel back home. I was in my usual dress, in my usual cotton salwar suit. The jute bag 


containing my books and notebooks were on my left shoulder. I was frequently looking on my left wrist, the titan watch. I was probably getting late for my home. I could feel prying eyes of those 

passers-by looking at me as I waited there. I wrapped the dupatta all over my upper torso and clasped the jute bag on my chest to hide my treasures from those prying lewd eyes of the onlookers.

It was strict order from my Babu and ChotoMa to return to home before the night fall.

ChotoMa was actually my distant cousin sister Ulupi Di. Although she was my cousin sister but she was about the age of my mom. I called her Choto Ma (younger mother) because during my 

childhood days she breastfed me when my father died and my mom always cried. She took me in her arms and gave me warmth in the cold night, sang me lullaby while I slept peacefully on her lap. 

My life was in debt to her. I addressed my brother-in-law as Babu (pet name for a father). I never knew the love of my father. My father passed away when I was only two and half years old, so I tried 

to wring every tiny drop of affection whatever Babu showered on me.

During my youngest brother, Subroto’s marriage, ChotoMa was invited to my home so that I could pursue M.Sc. and due to her I was then standing at that bus-stand waiting for my bus.

I got admitted in Presidency College in the beginning of September 2001, after the results of B.Sc was declared. ChotoMa and Babu tried hard for my admission in Presidency College for my M.Sc. and 

I got admission with my major in Nuclear Physics.

I knew it very well that that Puja Vacation would be the most painful among the past twenty-five Durga Puja’s that I had enjoyed till then. Everywhere the air was filled up with vibrant ambience of 

Puja Vacation. Durga Puja was to come in October. People were roaming on the streets buying new dresses for themselves and for their near and dear ones. The sky was cobalt blue with tuft of white 

clouds floating around. The weather was pleasant as the monsoon left Kolkata just few weeks back. The aroma of the Puja was drowning the air around me.

I stood silently waiting for my bus and Teesta was talking with someone on her cell-phone. I didn’t have that luxury of having a cell-phone then. The bus arrived at last and we boarded.

We all had spare keys except ChotoMa as she used to arrive late. As I entered my house, I found Babu was reading the newspaper in his room. Babu retired last month from Airport Authority of India, 

DumDum Airport. He was Senior Manager in his organization the time he retired. He was very strict and disciplined and he tried to maintain that very discipline also at home.

Babu asked me in his usual deep tone---“ShonaMa; how was your college today?”

I answered quietly ---“It was ok Babu. I was unable to get the bus in time, all were very crowded coming from Howrah station.”

He asked for a cup of tea ---“ShonaMa, can you please make a cup of tea for me?”

---“Ok Babu.”

That was everyday’s question from Babu. Every day I came home after college I had to answer the same question. At times he used to call me as ShonaMa (golden girl) also. But that name was called 

by him only when he was in good mood.

I changed my dress to my usual cotton dressing gown and walked into the kitchen.

I took out the saucepan from the cupboard and poured water in that saucepan.

The water was boiling and I was lost in my thoughts again. The water vapours were flowing all over my face and my eyes were day dreaming again.

All the colours from my life were gone by a small wrong move. Life was like sixty-four squares of chess, thirty-two whites and thirty-two blacks. A person once told me. I felt life-less as corpse after 

the most beloved person of my life was taken away from me. That person was banished from his own house. What was his fault? What did he do? He loved me. He breathed soul in my life-less, 

colour-less life. Took me to the mountains and played with me like a child. In winter nights, I felt most secure in his arms. His only fault was that he loved me. He was younger than me by two years 

and he was the son of ChotoMa.

Perhaps no one would understand our love.

He screamed his heart out, trying to pacify ChotoMa that age was not a factor and neither had we had any blood relation. But it was the prestige and snobbishness of my ChotoMa and the relatives 

that made a guile wall of so called society and their responsibilities, around us.

They were very much protective about me. The room on the second floor was locked away forever. I was not even allowed to goto the roof. Every small traces of him were erased away from the walls, 

from the ceiling, from the doors and windows of that house. His old books were sold away; his old clothes were given away to beggars or to the utensil-vendors. No new person could tell that my 

ChotoMa had a son in her life; everyone knew that I was their only daughter.

ChotoMa took away the cream shawl from me after he left. The only trace that I kept secretly along with me was his brown diary. It was my “Bible”, my “Koran” and my “Gita”. There is an old saying 

that “It is always dark, just under the lamp.” so I covered that diary with a brown paper and kept that along with other books in my bookshelf. I marked that diary as “Optics Notebook”. Optics was his 

favourite paper.

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