Kolkota Diary-7

When the call came asking, "would you mind meeting the North Parganas 24 (North) MLA?" from Trinamool Congress local President Dilip Das - whom I know as Secretary of Bongaon Lorry Owners Association, I said 'yes'.

Biswajeet Das (See pix above: right) must be in is mid-30s. He was tall and bespectacled and seated in the party office adjacent to Bongaon Municipal Office near NH 35. More than a dozen partymen were tightly squeezed into the narrow space when I walked in, escorted by the 70 plus Dilip Das.

I was alerted well in advance that the MLA is not comfortable speaking Hindi or English, but fluent in Bengali, his mother tongue.

"Don't worry. Am there," assured the multi-linguist Dilip Das.

There was another fat gentleman sitting next to him, who was introduced as Gopal Seth (see pix above: left), ex-MLA from the same constituency and presently member of the Regional Transport Authority. Luckily, he was like Dilip Das, multilinguist.

Am afraid of linguistic challenges because the true essence of what is spelt out gets lost when translated. Even the choice of words convey a lot when the spoken language is common between the speaker and listener.

I seldom faced linguistic challenge on the Indian soil. By and large, Hindi played the bridge language - not English.

Both Seth and the MLA - an usual sight of two young and ambitious politicians who have a stake in the constituency sitting and working together - regaled me with what their Trinamool Congress under one year old Mamta Banerjee government has done for Bongaon and what it plans to do to promote trade between India and Bangladesh. Specific queries were answered promptly by Seth and at times by the MLA with Dilip Das translating the same into Bengali and retranslating the same into Hindi/English for my convenience.

Political talk is nothing new. Each politician would try to show his party performance in glowing colours. Opposition would invariably try to belittle what is achieved by ruling establishment. You have to tread cautiously and weed out propaganda from performance by assessing the ground reality.

My request to visit Bongaon Municipal Parking, the first halting point for outstation vehicles coming into Bongaon, was acceded to. A 3-wheeler was commissioned to take me to the Parking lot (see below).

It was getting hot. The vehicle navigated through narrow gullies and speedbreaker-cum-pothole filled roads to reach the Parking lot, capable of holding 1000 vehicles at any point of time and plans are underway to expand the same to take additional 1000 vehicles. Laudable.

I could spot 150 vehilces with various items from various parts of India parked. It was tough spotting drivers in the campus. One was busy lashing the tarpaulin while another was taking bath at the huge rectangular tank at the back of Parking facility.

The administrative block was in pathetic state. Several rooms meant as rest room for drivers was in dilated state and filled up with rubbish and uncleaned for how long, I don't know. Most of the rooms of ground plus two floors was out of use for how long I don't know.

Why not given to drivers for resting? I could not resist asking.

"Union problems," crisply answered my driver companion and an INTUC volunteer.

However there was just one single office room with a young adminstrative clerk issuing parking tickets to incoming lorries from his desktop and printer (see below).

A small crowd of people collected, from where they come, I have no idea.

I climbed up the floors to go to the terrace: dirty, uncleared and several seasons of dried fungus several inches thick greeted. There was no railing as I climbed the stairs.

Clicked a few photographs and then noticed a few drivers sleeping under a tree near the exit gate.

A yellow board displayed Police Chowki near the entrance, but no police was present.

"They do come," chipped in my INTUC friend.

Walking around the administrative block, noticed a foursome group of drivers and assistants under a truck having their lunch (see pix below).

Approaching them, I 'helloed' and enquired. They have come from Uttar Pradesh, carrying glass sheets for Bangladesh. They were stranded at the Parking lot for five days due to border closure on account of labour strife on Bangladesh side.

"Why can't these people be allowed to eat in the unused administrative block?" I asked.

There was no response.

Were they asked to pay anything extra?

"No" said one them.

Of course, a Rs.10 bakshish is demanded when exiting, quipped another.

Noticed another driver was taking bath near his truck from the large paint container.

Why not bathing at the bathing ghat at the back of the parking facility?

"You have any problem if I bath here?" he shot back.

I did not say anything and moved on.

Told the INTUC volunteer to bring the 3-wheeler to the exit gate and meanwhile I walk across the length of the parking lot and join him.

That is when I bumped into the half a dozen drivers lying on their bellies and watching me curiously while their photos were clicked by me (see pix below).

They have arrived from Hosur, driving Leyland chassis, this morning and no clue as to how long they may have to wait to cross over.

All of them from Jharkhand and they were waiting for one of their colleagues to complete his bath before planning their lunch.

I looked at the wrist watch which read: 2.35 p.m.

I also begun to feel hungry.

Trooped out and got into the vehicle.

When the INTUC volunteer offered lunch, I politely declined.

Got outside the Bongaon Municipal Office, thanked him and began to walk back to the guest house.

It was hot and most of the shops were shut for lunch.

Perhaps they may open after 5 in the evening.

Who is going to come for shopping in this heat and dust?

Near the Bongaon police station, I stopped to buy a Walls cone ice cream.

Biting into it, I looked around.

Two sugarcane juice vendors were parked on both sides of the bridge and crushing tender sugarcane to serve a few customers. Under the bridge, on the vast expanse of dirty, but shimmering water, long boats were bobbing, unmanned. A kite was hoveirng in the horizon, looking for its prey.

Thought of eating in any of the eatery. Everything was shut, excepting one or two tea stalls.

I walked into the guest house and ordered the same 'rice-dal-salad' routine.

And began to wait for food to be delivered in my room and also for Alam who had gone to Petropole for the survey.

How many more days in this place? I began to wonder.