By: Sreelekha Chatterjee

I’m sitting in a bus, set off to College Street, the Boi Para or the books’ lane, stocking all college and university books—rarest of the rare ones. A handful of passengers. All part of an unknown motion.

Midway, the bus halts. Peering out the window, I see a group of people assembled near the traffic signal at a distance. I can’t read their placards. What are they protesting for? Are they college students like me? Shouldn’t I join them? After all, there’s so much to change. So much to fight for.

A surge of tears rises and falls from my eyes as two faucets open to the maximum capacity. I can’t open my lids as if they are sealed. Uncontrollable tears, yet unemotional. Everything stalled, inaudible. Stabbed in the moment. Finally, when I manage to unseal my eyes, I’m all alone. My heart kicks up.

“What was that? Where are the others?” I ask the driver, still seated.

“The road is blocked. The bus won’t go any further,” he responds.

Outside, an uproarious policeman charges his baton. To disperse the crowd or the bold thoughts shaping, powerful enough to break those in authority?

I have to take the metro fast, while it’s still operational. While my deliberations still reside within prescribed limits. While I still remain unmoored. Else, I may never be home.

***

Miles away from my childhood home, I am still on that bus, heading somewhere. Nearby, the protests—more of a dirge—are on at Jantar Mantar. Infinitesimal or massive? Only time will tell.

I can rarely differentiate myself from the dissenting students. Perhaps a student for life. Middle-aged, neither do I enjoy the admiration of youth nor the sympathy of old age. In either case, nobody actually listens.

Governments come and go like seasons. Enchanted, some of us sway in their wind like spineless herbs. My relationship with them is mostly like a love affair, always ending in heartbreak. I get over it with a hope akin to a weed that grows beneath a giant tree of doubt. My fingers press on the EVM button every time with renewed optimism.

Nothing’s changed. Examinations remain merciless. A paper leak eviscerates students’ bright future. Re-examination stress. Burden of re-examination fees. Precious time amputated. Felo-de-se when despondency hangs in the air. Stringent laws remain like garlanded photographs of ancestors no longer revered. The ruling government invariably slips through the sieve of resentment. But not anymore.

Nightmares fade, but reality doesn’t. Students cheating in exam halls. Coaching centers proliferating like mosquitoes in the monsoon. All sucking ones. Officeholders busy puffing their pockets. I pretend not to see, veracity questioning as always.

The timelessness of my state is scary. I still cannot open my eyes. No tear gas, but my tears remain uncontainable, perhaps impassioned. My body aches from the unseeable lathi-charge. Is the metro the only option for reaching home this time? While my considerations still limit themselves to safety? Caution betrays. My patience is enervated. Will I ever reach home?

###

Sreelekha Chatterjee’s work focuses on themes of daily survival, deep human experiences, emotional nuances and the unnoticed aspects of life. Her non-fiction pieces have appeared in SugarSugarSalt Magazine, Five Minutes, Thomasonian, The Chakkar, and elsewhere. She won the Mukoli Contest for non-fiction and received the Writing Talent Award for TMYS Review. She lives in New Delhi, India