WEST BENGAL- DAY 1

Jan. 25th

ONTO MURSHIDABAD

To board a 7:30 am flight, the day has to begin early, very early. The enthusiasm for travel, of visiting new places acts as a solace, though. Anything for travel! And this time there’s a wedding to attend too.

The airport which never sleeps is buzzing with activity. Time is all that matters here, and yet time is all that doesn’t matter here. An airport is a world in itself. Once inside the terminal, the outside world gets lost, and disconnected. Transiting passengers become mini citizens. That is until the destination gets reached. The bubble breaks on arrival.

On this particular morning, the full flight arrives on time at Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose International Airport, Kolkata. The sharp and smart airport interior is an interesting contrast to the exterior. The bubble bursts. Welcome to Kolkata, the city of joy, and also as would get discovered in the days to follow, the city of parks. Welcome to West Bengal, the very white and blue state.

The warm muggy morning indicates that winter doesn’t touch the city. Taxis and passengers are on the move, and the loud honks of the vehicles seem dimmed in comparison to the shouts and calls made by one to another.

Kolkata will get discovered. But at present, the interlude is for the vehicle to arrive to drive to Murshidabad. Standing next to a sad-looking eatery and several anxious phone calls later, the elusive vehicle arrives. A Tata Tigor driven by Sabir Das, who looks more like a student than a professional driver. Tall, thin, bespectacled Sabir will be the travelling companion for the rest of the Murshidabad trip.

Murshidabad, 142 km away from Kolkata will take approximately 4 hours to arrive. Of course, there will be detours to expand time and space. Crowded roads, bumper-to-bumper vehicles, harried traffic policemen, the babu moshais who keep the city on the move, E-Rickshaws called totos here, and the omnipresent public buses, all make up this wondrous city.

Crossing the Missionaries of Charity complex, looking up to hoardings announcing the G-20 summit, jewellery stores, and apparel shops, it’s off to the suburbs. Soon the city gets left behind and so do the decently structured roads. It’s now out in the open and roads don’t matter here. Whatever little semblance of roads may have been are now upturned, in the garb of a makeover. Sabir says “ They (the roads) have been under construction for years now. One day”, he says hopefully, “they will get ready and then Murshidabad will be only 2 hours from Kolkata.” His whimsical smile says that he doesn’t believe himself.

The non-stop broken roads continue, crossing several towns and hamlets. Chakdaha, Ranaghat, Krishnanagar, Dhubulia ( the road surprisingly is good here), Bethuadhari. The State Highway begins, but the situation remains ditto. The highway is getting expanded, which means that there is dust everywhere. Trees, houses, people, and vehicles all are dipped in it.

Sabir meanwhile initiates a brief biography of himself. The youngest of 3 brothers, he has never been the academic type. He left studying after senior secondary and following the men of his household took to driving too. His eldest brother is a truck driver, presently on the way to Durgapur, the 2nd brother drives a tempo, and their father a toto. Having spent many a wonderful afternoon watching films with friends, Sabir is a great movie buff but doesn’t visit theatres any longer. “Everything is available online now” he explains, “ why waste money and time.” Telugu actor, Prabhas is his favourite and of course, Arijit Singh is his favourite singer. Murshidabad being the hometown of Arijit, in days to come it will become clear that the district loves him and only him. Sabir will only play Hindi songs in all his travels, his personal choices. Bengali music gets played only on special requests and is switched over pretty fast.

Along the way, several unique names whizz past. Golden Wings English Medium School, Bandhan School. Helen English School, Ice and Spice Restaurant, Red Cow Milk kiosks, Baltu tea stall. Sabir stops at Sankar Mistana Protishtan, a huge, tin-shed dhaba, his favourite, for lunch, the first of the several traditional Bengali meals to be eaten during the travels. Sabir cannot get thanked enough. His introduction is just delish.

WHERE IT ALL BEGAN- PLASSEY

A small detour is now planned. Sabir calls his boss to inform him. Once the green signal comes, the road to the Plassey Memorial gets taken.

Plassey, where the story of British colonialism in India began is today a small hamlet. The road to the memorial is lined with Palash trees on both sides and dotted with small refreshment shops, presumably for visitors. Amid mango orchards and agricultural fields stands the memorial said to be the actual spot where the last free Nawab of Bengal, the barely 23-year-old Siraj-ud-daulah died while bravely fighting the East India Company troops led by Robert Clive.

Today the memorial, though standing strong, is a sad sight to see. Maintainance is poor. Overgrown grass, fast food wrappers, and squashed cans of beer point to the poor respect present generations show for their history. The golden bust statue of Siraj at the entrance of the memorial is punched in the left ear. This does not, however, hinder tourists from visiting, so much so that a mini traffic jam takes place outside the memorial and Sabir has to manouevre carefully to begin the drive back.

Just across the memorial is the gated Circuit House which when peeped from the tall gate tells a different story. Manicured lawns, Palash trees, and mango orchards provide tempting shade and greenery. Some monuments standing in a clearing are better-taken care of.

Once the shaded boulevard road gets crossed, it’s back on the highway. A huge cement factory gets crossed, the first of its kind seen since morning. A few brick kiln factories too. That is more or less the industrialisation of the area. Murshidabad remains primarily agrarian.

THE RIVER SO POISED

Soon the road winds to the River Bhagirathi (ex-Ganges and soon to be Hooghly) and from now onwards it’s a drive alongside the river. As Murshidabad approaches, the riverfront is bursting with a thousand blooming flowers, quaint temples, and ashrams line up along the bank, and boat rides are aplenty. On the right side of the winding road are mosques, dotted along the landscape, proudly showing the district’s secular character. Murshidabad, after all, was founded by Murshid Quli Khan, born a Hindu by name of Surya Narayan Mishra.

The Bhagirathi, serene and mature gently flows along, carrying with it a billion memories that it has collected since its origin as the tiny rivulet Alaknanda in the Gangotri. Clumps of grass, called Kochuri in local dialect, float along the sides of the river as if in a regimental drill. Now and again as a fish jumps a ripple gets caused in the water, tiny circles form and dissolve. The quiet river accepts thrown-away chips packets, an empty Surf packet, and wrappers of biscuits. How far have they travelled is a mystery in itself. Who threw them in the river and why are some questions which can only be presumed.

The Ganga Vilas River Cruise, the ambitious Cruise ship project on the Ganges, just passed by a day or two ago and the local newspapers are still gushing about it. The residents, it seems, travelled in pre-booked totos to the nearest visible location just to have a dekko at the cruise ship. And places of historical interest like the Hazaardwari Palace were cordoned off for others while the cruise travellers visited it.

THE WEDDING HOME

Refreshed and changed, it’s now time to travel further in the district to the hamlet, Lal Gola, the destination of the wedding. Though only 5:56 pm, it’s pitch dark, the sun having set a while ago keeping in tune with its pattern in east India.

No self-respecting Indian visits a house without sweets. So, first Sabir proceeds to the numero uno sweet shop, and the best sweets, Bengali and otherwise get packed, further delay notwithstanding. But the warm welcome, the impromptu mehendis, and a dinner to beat all dinners make it all worth the while.

The drive back is on quieter roads, and most of the shops are now shut. Murshidabad sleeps early. Only village Jivanti seems all lit up. Perhaps it is a model village for others to get inspired from. In the pitch of the dark Sabir drives along, guided by the headlights of his vehicle and those passing by. He must be hungry, having refused the festivities dinner. “ My mother must have kept food for me”, he had said as an explanation, “ it will go to waste.”

Darkness is very picturesque in itself. Non-existent things and figures, images, and designs pop up everywhere. Trees swaying to the breeze create silhouettes and the odd tea shops still open add to the mystique. Petrol stations with their several high-intensity tube lights give comfort as Sabir glides by.

“Mam ji,” says a voice from far, far away. “ Hotel aa gaya.” The eyes open, but disorientation abounds. As the cloud clears, everything comes back. It’s been a long day, the memories of which are now ingrained forever.

The adventures in Murshidabad will continue, but for now, it’s a good night.

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