The Return Journey[ Part III]

Finally, evening darkened the edges of the village, and it was already several hours past the time I had intended to leave. Prabir said he would drop me back to the station, and asked if I was comfortable sitting on the back of his scooty.

“Of course,” I laughed. Little did he know, I had ridden pillion on all sorts of motorcycles in several countries — including all the way from Patna to Kathmandu on a bike without a back seat. But that’s another story.

He started driving, and although we puttered along at a comically slow pace, I was freezing in the cold Bengali evening. Shivering, too, at the thought of a late-night train ride and then sleeping in that windowless room back at Hind Motor. I checked the time: already late for the train. And the next one was not for another hour or so. At this rate, I’d only be back in Howrah by 11pm, and would perhaps reach Hind Motor by midnight. Would the cycle rickshaw pullers still be around then?

“Didi, you should have just planned to stay here for the night,” Prabir told me. “You could have taken our room, or any one you felt comfortable in, for that matter.”

“Yes Bhaiya, but I didn’t know what I would find here in the village; I barely know you, so how could I plan to stay in an unknown place with unknown people? Sometimes, it’s not safe…”

“That’s true. It’s good you look out for yourself. But now you know us, next time you can stay as long as you want.”

“Can I tell you something? But don’t feel bad…”

“Sure, Didi, anything! You have become like my own sister.”

“When I arrived at the train station today, I was so scared! You showed up with a van and four guys who I didn’t know, I was wondering what would happen to me!”

Prabir laughed. “Yes, I’m sorry — when I borrowed the van from my friend, he forgot to mention that those guys also wanted a ride to the village, they had some work there. You must know, though, that we are a family of artists, just like you. So how could we possibly harm one another? People like us are not capable of such things… our minds don’t work that way.”

“Bhaiya? Since I am like your sister, let me tell you one more thing.”

“Sure.”

“You shouldn’t chew so much paan. It’s bad for your health.”

He laughed again, more heartily this time. “Yes, it’s true Didi. But this is my only vice. You’re right, though, and I’ll keep trying to reduce it…”

We finally reached the station at 7:35pm. The train was supposed to have departed at 7:05, and I was faced with the prospect of a long wait, alone, in a frigid station. The cold had slowed my body and dulled my senses, and my bag felt heavy, as if the weight of all the hours I’d been awake had piled up on my shoulders. I’d come a long way from the bustling Bangalore airport at five that morning. Sighing, I looked around. Prabir had approached a young man and an older woman, presumably mother and son, laden with cloth bags.

“You will go with them, they are getting down at Howrah,” he informed me. The son gave me a cursory nod, and his mother nearly smiled, pulling her sari pallu and shawl tighter around her shoulders against the cold. Her thinning grey hair was oiled and combed into a neat bun, and she was wearing thick wool socks with her chappals. I began to envy her socks, as my toes were exposed in sandals. Perhaps more sock-sellers would pass by in the train, I thought absentmindedly. Anyway, it was likely I’d have to wait for another hour or so until the next train, since we were late to catch the one that had probably just left. I looked for a bench to set down my bag and tripod.

The backpack had barely settled onto the bench when a light shone down the tracks, and the train pulled into the station. Prabir waved exuberantly, and I took a seat in the relatively empty train compartment, near the mother and son. “Call me when you reach!” he exclaimed, as I thanked him and waved back. The train pulled out of the station, and I realized that sitting near the door to see outside had not been the best idea after all: the cold, humid air penetrated my jacket and cotton shawl, and I curled up onto myself, using my backpack to shield my torso from the onslaught. Then, a most welcome noise pierced all the other sounds in the rickety train compartment: A nasal voice proclaimed “Chhhhaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiieeeee, goram chaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiieee!” Luckily I had change in my wallet, enough for several miniature cups of hot tea as the chaiwallas paraded through the train. Under normal circumstances, this railway chai can be insufferably sweet, but after a long afternoon of interviews and in this chilly train, it was a welcome burst of warmth and energy that stirred my senses back to life.

Many thoughts drifted out the window, and some stuck with me. Before leaving the village, everyone had suddenly started to lay out many different paintings, without singing the respective songs or stories, and asking me “Do you like this one? What about this one?” Each person had wanted me to buy their paintings. Unprepared for this, I had not brought much cash, and purchased only one small painting on cloth, which would be easy to carry in my tripod bag. The disappointment was palpable, and I struggled to explain in limited Hindi that I was not there just to buy a few paintings, but rather to create a documentary that would get them more steady publicity. The beautiful moments of the day had abruptly converged on this one, which felt deeply uncomfortable. All the things I try not to be were plastered onto my identity like cheap movie posters.

What was I doing there, anyway? A deep appreciation for their art and storytelling had drawn me to this place, everyone in the village had hosted me and replied to my questions all day. But what did I have to offer in return, except my word that I’d make a video about their work? And who would that video benefit, really, in the long run? I certainly didn’t want to be one of those filmmakers who shows up for a day and disappears forever, footage in tow. Prabir and I had discussed this on the scooty ride to the station, and he understood.

“I know, Didi, what you are doing. You are not here to buy paintings, but you will tell more people about us, about our work. But these days money is tight, that’s why my family was asking if you wanted to buy something.”

“I’ll come back,” I had promised. I told him a few of my ideas: we could make a platform for them to sell their paintings online, or send a few interns from art and tech schools to their village to stay for a month or two and help them set up a website. He was as excited as I at the prospect of creating a residency there. I resolved to make it happen, to follow through. Something that had not been a great strength of mine before.

I dozed in the train as it approached the terminus. My phone was running out of battery, and I scrawled Arpita’s phone number on the back of my hand in pen just in case. By the time we reached Howrah, three hours later, the train car was essentially empty, and it was already past 10pm. Luckily, I already had the return ticket to Hind Motor — all I had to do was find out which local train to take. I wandered the station, checking the signs, and finally sat down in an empty ladies’ compartment patrolled by police with ancient-looking rifles.

At Hind Motor, I tried to recall Arpita’s instructions about which side of the tracks was closer to her home. It was eleven o’clock, the streets were deserted except for a few ghostly rickshaw-pullers bundled in gamchhe and knit hats. Finally, I used the last of my phone battery to call Arpita and pass the phone to the rickshaw walla, who understood where we needed to go. I huddled silently in the seat, watching the sinews of this man half my size draw us steadily forward.

We reached the corner where Arpita lived, and I found that I didn’t have change for the meagre fare. Stepping down from the rickshaw, I started towards the nearby kirana shop, and halted, turning back to grab my bag. “It’s ok,” he reassured me, “you can leave it here.” I smiled, and took it with me, conflicted between the warmth of this man’s smile and the knowledge that I could not afford to replace my camera. There was a mildly bitter feeling about lugging my backpack with me, when he seemed so kind and trustworthy. I got change, paid, thanked the rickshaw walla with a smile, and made my way to Arpita’s house. After seeing me shiver, her mother had wrapped me in one of the fuzzy sherbet-coloured shawls I had seen women in the train wear. I don’t remember if we spoke or what we ate, only that I was thrilled to find a bed with a thick, warm blanket and a mosquito net awaiting me. I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke early the next morning to an enthusiastic uncle sitting at the foot of my bed shouting in English, “Hello! Hello! Where are you from? Are you English? I love English literature!”

Arpita explained from across the room,“Don’t worry, Alison, he’s my dad’s friend. He heard you were here to visit and wanted to meet you.”

I sat up in the bed, still bundled in the shawl and blanket. Attempting to hold a sleepy conversation with this animated fellow, who was from Bihar, I discovered that he was over the moon that I had visited his state over fifteen times. But I needed a strong cup of tea before pursuing this high-volume exchange, and Arpita managed to ask him to come back later, once I was properly awake. She and I spent the morning talking and laughing about our misadventure in Howrah station the previous day, and I helped her edit a video she was working on, before we ventured out into the winter sun to explore her neighbourhood. Later that night, I would leave for my friend’s wedding in the center of Kolkata, and was hesitant to break the reverie of the day that had just gone by. It felt like I belonged there, although it had only been twenty-four hours; even Arpita’s mother was reluctant to say goodbye. The affection was mutual, and I hoped that this was not a goodbye after all, but more of a hello; a “to-be-continued.”

[This is the last piece in a three-part series about my journey to Balichak, Bengal to document the stories of seventh-generation Pattachitra artists.]