Atrayee’s portrait of Purushottam, full of wit and humour, is an interesting satire. An exclusive for Different Truths.

Two years; done and dusted. The same bus, yelling out for a repair. The same bumpy road, churning each morsel of food eaten. And finally, the same mundane job of mine. The only thing that remains, beautiful amidst all these, is this Gul Mohur tree.

Delonyx regia, that’s the botanical name if I am correct. See! I do have a good memory. It’s just that it never kicks off when I need it the most.

I look at the tree. Bright and baroque, that melange of red and orange bloom, trying hard to reach the sky. It looks like a raging wave of fire, permanently sedated over an otherwise green tree. That’s why perhaps they call it the Flame of the Forest. No. The fire of the Forest, I guess. Dhurr!

I look at the tree. Bright and baroque, that melange of red and orange bloom, trying hard to reach the sky. It looks like a raging wave of fire, permanently sedated over an otherwise green tree. That’s why perhaps they call it the Flame of the Forest. No. The fire of the Forest, I guess. Dhurr! Early Monday morning and what am I doing? Dissecting the nomenclature of a tree which can neither raise my status nor my salary and never my fate. Useless!

“Oh bhai! Start. It’s been 15 minutes now.”

The ticket conductor sulks at my face; runs his eyes throughout the bus and looks at me again. “How many can you see?” He lights his beedi and nods his head. Like those bullying college seniors. Probing or threatening, I don’t know.

I blink blankly and gulp down a little confidence. “Bhai! I will be late.”

He smirks; puffs out a little smoke and says, “Government job…Nothing will happen to you… Don’t worry.”

The pot-bellied, half-balding man who has been sleeping on the adjacent window seat since then, is now wide awake. All of a sudden. He eyes me and then the conductor and again me and again the conductor. This prancing act of his eyes, like an astute Kathakali dancer, continues for some time until I stare back at him. He grins. Apathetic or pathetic; God knows. All I realise is, the crescent of hair at the back of his head is more than my whole hair put together. I drop my disgust there and again wait for the bus to start.

The pot-bellied, half-balding man who has been sleeping on the adjacent window seat since then, is now wide awake. All of a sudden. He eyes me and then the conductor and again me and again the conductor. This prancing act of his eyes, like an astute Kathakali dancer, continues for some time until I stare back at him. He grins.

It’s all my fault; I mutter under my breath. My watch ticks over to 7.30 and the conductor is just busy cleaning his ear. My God! How fast his little finger flutters inside the ear. Is he a hummingbird or what? He catches me staring at him and comforts me. “Five minutes.”

I should have travelled yesterday. All because of Ma. I don’t know what she achieves by meeting the prospective bride’s family only on Sundays. What harm can a Saturday visit do? In any way, I’ll be rejected.

Oh! She fasts on Saturdays. So does she go there to eat? Huh! One cup of black tea with no sugar and for that she reserves my Sundays. Till now six girls I’ve met. First of all, thick suspense brews as soon as the bride’s side hears about my age. 33. Not so bad looking, a state government job and still not married? Their surprised miens can be aptly framed in a Dan Brown novel. However, rejection never happens for age. For rejection, my salary is enough.

One cup of black tea with no sugar and for that she reserves my Sundays. Till now six girls I’ve met. First of all, thick suspense brews as soon as the bride’s side hears about my age. 33. Not so bad looking, a state government job and still not married? Their surprised miens can be aptly framed in a Dan Brown novel. However, rejection never happens for age. For rejection, my salary is enough.

“Hmm. Ticket.” The bus just starts its engine and there the conductor bangs on my thoughts. I take out my purse. There’s no 50Rs note, no 100s. God! I take out a 500Rs note and before I even give him he slams back. “Arey, give change sir…This is early morning…That too Monday. Where will I get change?”

“I don’t have.” I retort. I could feel the rudeness in my voice. The conductor clenches his jaws. Will he beat me? Or throw me out? I have an important meeting with the panchayat. I soften my voice again. “Every week I travel bhai…You know me.”

He smiles now. “No problem…Let me see if any other passenger has a change… Don’t worry.”

One more time that pot-bellied co-passenger of mine butted into the screenplay. “I have…I have… How much you need?”

What’s wrong? Is this man keeping all his senses on me alone? At first, pestered, I soon realise the need of the time. He takes out a bunch of money from his yellow jhola bag and gives me a combo of some hundreds and fifties for my new and crispy 500Rs note. All his notes are damp and blackened and sticky. Dirty. Why does this happen to me? I mean always. It’s like an immutable routine of my life. No matter how good I perform, I am bound to receive the lowest strata in every outcome.

What’s wrong? Is this man keeping all his senses on me alone? At first, pestered, I soon realise the need of the time. He takes out a bunch of money from his yellow jhola bag and gives me a combo of some hundreds and fifties for my new and crispy 500Rs note. All his notes are damp and blackened and sticky. Dirty. Why does this happen to me? I mean always. It’s like an immutable routine of my life.

“What is your name Sir?”

Once a help disposed of, the helper gets every right to be your dearest consort. Isn’t it? My pot-bellied friend is now sitting on my very next seat.

I clear my throat, thinking he would understand my discomfort. But he doesn’t. “Hmm. Purushottam… Purushottam Bhattacharjee.”

“Oho! Brahmin? Me too… I am also going to Kashirampur.” He opens up a wide grin. “Your face… Your name… Has this jyoti you know… The aura… I knew you were Brahmin.”

Aura, Brahmin, jyoti….what all bullshit this man is speaking? Caste declaration is hardly a thing these days. Who spells these things? And that too when being born a Brahmin is becoming more of a headache than any pride. I mean, reservation sucks. And my name? Huh! That is the biggest paradox in my life.

With mild dyslexia as a child, writing down just my name brought out a litre of sweat; set aside the remaining portion. If at all I ignore the dyslexia part of it, just think as to who keeps such a name in this century. I mean, my name sounded like an old grandfather’s name. And, it was a constant source of mirth for my friends. Whenever I put forth displeasure, my mother would do the translation. Best amongst all, that’s what Purushottam means. The name may mean a hundred good things but does it go well with me?

Look at the irony. I was a thin and puny kid who had to stand up to see the blackboard even from the second bench. Shy, introverted and an average student at best. Now tell me, how was I supposed to carry the burden of such a hefty name? Slowly, my friends shortened it to Puru. Better. But for the vagaries of linguistics. Puru in Bangla means THICK. A reed-thin body roaming around the school campus being called Puru!

Look at the irony. I was a thin and puny kid who had to stand up to see the blackboard even from the second bench. Shy, introverted and an average student at best. Now tell me, how was I supposed to carry the burden of such a hefty name? Slowly, my friends shortened it to Puru. Better. But for the vagaries of linguistics. Puru in Bangla means THICK. A reed-thin body roaming around the school campus being called Puru!

The bus bounces hard and the woman sitting on my back seat almost tumbles down to me. I look at her and she just pulls down her ghoonghat. Forget an apology! She rather grumbles upon me as if I am one of those women-groping passengers. Look at my face at least. I can’t even look at a girl properly.

My phone rings. It’s Ma.

“Tell me.” Another bounce and my words sound like a stuck tape recorder. “No…Not yet…I’ll call you once I reach.”

Ma is never bothered about my placement in a village. She is just happy with the fact that I am doing a government job. That too in the health department. And it is permanent. Wow! What an achievement! I mean, who gives a damn about that these days? My monthly salary is equal to my cousin’s Kanjivaram saree. She is into finance; works in a private firm; earns roughly 25 lakhs a year.

Could I not be like her? No. For having so much money to count, one must be good with numbers. And I? Since 6^th grade, I could barely manage to get above 70 in mathematics. And after that, I maintained a standard. My marks clung onto 58. Every year. One after another. Be it half-yearly exams or the annual exam; I didn’t move anywhere from 58. My parents were first shocked then, were in a state of denial and then slowly accepted. I couldn’t be an engineer. Commerce was out of the question. I have been excellent in the mug-up style of studying. So someone amongst those highly concerned relatives of mine suggested to put me in Biology. Why lose the opportunity to become a doctor?

Since 6^th grade, I could barely manage to get above 70 in mathematics. And after that, I maintained a standard. My marks clung onto 58. Every year. One after another. Be it half-yearly exams or the annual exam; I didn’t move anywhere from 58. My parents were first shocked then, were in a state of denial and then slowly accepted. I couldn’t be an engineer. Commerce was out of the question.

I keep down the phone and my pot-bellied friend chortles, “Wife?”

Irritating this is becoming. I grin. “Still Bachelor.”

He falls from the sky. Eyes broaden like a rosogolla and he scans my whole face. Is he pointing out on my receding hairline? Or sunken eyes? I don’t look that old; or do I? For once, I seriously doubt my appearance.

“How is it possible?”

I turn to respond but I am denied. He runs his index finger on my forehead and calculates something. My eyebrows curl, face crimps and I think of stopping the bus and get down.

Everything has been discomfiting since morning. In Howrah station, I try to pass by Manjari but she recognises me. She even takes the pain to introduce me to her husband, who is apparently a bank officer. They are going for a vacation to Shimla with her two kids.

Ha ha ha! Now, why am I laughing? For the miscalculations that I have made. Every single day. Every minute moment.

To be honest, after my 10^th class fiasco, I did study hard. My score in the life sciences was good enough to clear the medical entrance. Being in Kolkata throughout my life, I wished to get admitted in Kolkata’s medical colleges. I am not sure if that was just a bull-headed wish or a hint of overconfidence. The latter was though, not a progeny of me alone. The astrologer had confirmed that. I used to chant so many mantras as per his instruction. However, I couldn’t clear it. Neither the state level nor the Central one.

To be honest, after my 10^th class fiasco, I did study hard. My score in the life sciences was good enough to clear the medical entrance. Being in Kolkata throughout my life, I wished to get admitted in Kolkata’s medical colleges. I am not sure if that was just a bull-headed wish or a hint of overconfidence. The latter was though, not a progeny of me alone.

“Marriage is there…Soon.” Pot-belly declares. “Little hurdles are blocking your path.”

I smirk on his last line. But he doesn’t even look at me. He is now with my palm; turning and twisting. “Change of place is also there.” He says again.

Oh Lord! Where now? Kashirampur itself is taking away whichever girl accepts my salary and now a change of place.

“Girl’s name starts with M.”

Now I laugh out; without realising whether I am happy or sad. This state of mind has a name; I’ve recently learnt. Charmolypi.

M huh? Hmm! Manjari was my love interest once upon a time. We were classmates for our graduation in Microbiology. She was surely intelligent enough to sense the job market. Many times she had asked me to appear for all the bank probationary officers’ exams. In a bank or post office; even insurance companies. But who can save a person whose each step in life is worse than the last one? I denied it. I decided to do Masters, then a doctorate, followed by post-doc and blah-blah. She was logical enough for not to wait. And see now; she is happily married with a good family and a good salaried job.

Manjari was my love interest once upon a time. We were classmates for our graduation in Microbiology. She was surely intelligent enough to sense the job market. Many times she had asked me to appear for all the bank probationary officers’ exams. In a bank or post office; even insurance companies. But who can save a person whose each step in life is worse than the last one? I denied it. I decided to do Masters, then a doctorate, followed by post-doc and blah-blah. She was logical enough for not to wait.

“You see this line.” Pot-belly runs his index finger on my palm. “This makes a mess of everything you do.”

“What to do? Fate!” I sigh; thinking he will stop now. He doesn’t.

“You’re supposed to be a doctor.”

“Huh! Then why I am not?”

“If you give only two or three exams, how can you decide? You are supposed to be in a government job. Did you give that Army one?” He smirks.

Mr. Pot-belly is not entirely wrong. I was late to the exam centre for AFMC entrance and was denied entry. Why late? Because I read the centre address wrong. No whom to blame for that?

“You still are in the medical field, aren’t you?” He sounds confident apparently.

“I am in pathology lab… Blood tests, urine culture and all.” I sigh.

After finishing my Masters I sat for another set of entrance exams. This time, it’s for PhD. UGC- CSIR. Two years of the enervating task of a project assistant in a lab and then preparing for the exam; one needs balls of steel to do that. I failed. Again.

I was 28 and now jobless. And my parents had almost given up on me as I was at the borderline of the eligibility criteria for any exam. One day an advertisement appears for WB Health department. Under some Rural Development Scheme, the ministry plans for a local area diagnostic lab in some of the villages. With nothing else to do, I decided to chance my luck in that. Cutoffs, reservation and then references; and everything I cross somehow and land up with the job. Manirampur; my first posting. And then this Kashirampur. Village condition, health and hygiene status, literacy rate and everything else; all cry out in chorus. DEPLORABLE.

Even then I am okay until those occasional humiliations from the CMO come up. For them, I am the killjoy kind. Somehow or the other I always land up in the situations to utter the final NO. Or something undesirable. I conduct the pregnancy test and it comes out negative. I perform the urine culture, Candida rears its ugly head. TB test turns up positive in a lab which rarely sees positive cases. Stool test microscopy ends up being parasitic infection. There are some patients who even mention not to have their samples tested by me.

Even then I am okay until those occasional humiliations from the CMO come up. For them, I am the killjoy kind. Somehow or the other I always land up in the situations to utter the final NO. Or something undesirable. I conduct the pregnancy test and it comes out negative. I perform the urine culture, Candida rears its ugly head. TB test turns up positive in a lab which rarely sees positive cases.

One of our distant relative, Pradyut Vashishtha, one of the head priests in Kaashi once offered me to enter the family legacy. Become a priest. I never lend my thoughts in that line even though I am very pious and a ritual-following person. I could never believe that priests could make a living. And now I see their family roaming the streets in a swanky Mercedes.

Isn’t my name a paradox? Can anyone find cohesion between my name and my life? Sometimes I wonder if my life is messed up or I’ve purposely messed it up.

The bus stops at Kashirampur bus stop. Exactly 500 steps from here and one can reach the medical centre of the village. I’ve counted it. So many times. Now, imagine, how less interesting my job is here? Hardly 10% of the population comes for a check-up. Even in that, if 1% doesn’t get a desirable result they all step back. Many days, out of sheer boredom, I check my hair follicle under the microscope, or make a soil culture and identify the bacteria.

Mr. Pot-belly accompanies me in my walk as well. He is going to Panchayat chief’s house for doing some astrological reading. Their second daughter-in-law is unable to conceive it seems. Ah! There it is again. My previous efforts only have resulted in this embarrassing journey of mine with Mr. Pot-belly.

Last week, when I couldn’t convince the chief’s family with the semen test report, I only suggested an astrologer’s intervention, just to rescue myself from the mess of ‘men cannot have a sexual problem’. And now I am here with Mr. Pot-belly who never stopped for a minute in unleashing all my wrong steps.

Last week, when I couldn’t convince the chief’s family with the semen test report, I only suggested an astrologer’s intervention. Just to rescue myself from the mess of ‘men cannot have sexual problem’. And now I am here with Mr. Pot-belly who never stopped for a minute in unleashing all my wrong steps.

“One promotion is coming as well… But you’ll have it your way.” Mr. Pot-belly says his final verdict and leaves me at the medical centre. What does that even mean? I mull over his final words and enter the Centre.

“Selected or rejected?” The resident doctor chortles.

I just smile and sit on my table. Naathu brings a cup of tea there and I see an envelope from the head office.

“Friday, after you left it came,” Naathu says and leaves me with it.

My heart thuds faster. Is it the promotion letter or the transfer? Hope it’s not a suspension. Last week, I did speak to the CMO very rudely. A little sweat settles on my forehead. I cut open the envelope and take the cup of my tea in hand.

My heart thuds faster. Is it the promotion letter or the transfer? Hope it’s not a suspension. Last week, I did speak to the CMO very rudely. A little sweat settles on my forehead. I cut open the envelope and take the cup of my tea in hand.

The letter reads about my transfer to Kolkata in the head office; of course with an increment. Excited, I take a gulp of the piping hot tea, and I get my tongue and palate burnt. In that spur of the moment, I spill the whole tea on the promotion letter. Some of it even falls on my hand, some drips onto my pants.

Nathu and the doctor come to my rescue and there I stand rooted to the spot, seeing my promotion letter slowly absorbing all of the tea. I see the tea slowly making its way up to the words ‘You have been PROMOTED’, and a whisper runs inside my head. I seriously do have everything in ‘my way’.

Photo from the Internet