Flight Mode
| Posted in Fiction, Flight Mode, short story | Posted on 3:54 AM
'Ma,
I think I'll go take a walk then?' Pinu asks tentatively to his mother, who is
seated beside her husband on the couch, sitting directly opposite to a fat,
stout gentleman with a receding hairline and gaping front teeth.
'Yes,
son,' she says. ‘Go and take a walk around the park but don't leave the block,
okay? We'll be done in about half an hour.'
He
nods courteously and wishes goodbye to his mother and father, and to the new
man he doesn’t know, who is wearing a red-and-black striped flannel shirt and
grey pajamas. The man waves back energetically, slightly smug; as if he were
seeing off somebody he knew very well.
As
Pinu climbs down the stairs from the second floor, he can hear his parents and
the man conversing.
‘So,
let’s fix the date on the 3rd of January then, Mr. Ghosh?’ the man
inquires, addressing to his father.
‘Yes,
we would love to do that, but you see, Shubhankar…’ his father speaks strictly,
stern; trying to maintain a professional yet friendly demanour. He had already
known that the first floor of their house in Salt Lake
He
begins walking to his right; his house is second from the left end of the
street, which is now painfully silent save for the two dogs barking in the
middle of the street. He walks and he remembers, that the house opposite to his,
in the next lane, which is still guarded by watchmen as it was when he was 4
and lived there, belongs to a politician his grandfather used to be a good
friend of. He was told many times by his mother that she was thankful to God
for the security at that house because it prevented break-ins at their place as
well. Then he looks at the house next to his, remembers that he visited this
place too, that an old lady lived here whom he used to refer to as deeda, that her grandson had once come
and they’d played a racing game on the computer. He walks on ahead, looks at a
building with a leaf-patterned front gate, marked as house number 147. He
recalls that he had a friend here, that in the little space in front of the
parked car they’d played with building blocks. He doesn’t remember that friend
anymore, only that she was female and that his relatives used to tease him saying
they’d get married someday. It seemed funny to even think of now, ironic even
more so because he didn’t remember her name; what was it, though, he asks
himself. Shreetoma? Shiuli?
Further
ahead, he sees another house that he remembers visiting in the few weeks of
summer that he’d spend in Kolkata every year – it is a big, three storey house
which is painted different shades of blue. He stands at it and gazes for a
second; remembers that the first floor was used as an office, that once he was
invited there by Paarthoda – as he
remembers his father addressing the man who lived there, who by Bengali
convention became his kaaku – and had
played the last level of Max Payne on a computer. He remembers Diya kaakima
and her in-laws pampering him with various sweetmeats, that they had a TV which
had an in-built cricket game. They also had a dog, he recalled, which had to be
leashed every time he was around. Maybe they’re still in there, he thinks. He
wants to visit them again, but he knows he can’t, not at the given time at
least.
There
is a park next to that blue house, and at its center is a cemented columnar
construction. Its periphery is lined with narrow passageways that segue into
other streets at the ends of the park, and as he enters the park through the
green zigzag gate, he remembers walking on these corridors with his grandmother
at night as they’d walk to the market to buy vegetables. He walks around the
park, looking at the swings and the slides which he had ridden when he was 3
feet tall. His cell phone vibrates in his pocket, but he recognizes the number
as being from his network provider and so rejects it. He sits on the cemented
column and sets his phone to flight mode; his phone flashes a message: Flight mode activated. All active
connections ended.
He
is happy at this decision that he has so spontaneously taken; on most days he
wouldn’t so much as bother with his phone, but today, his instincts urge him
otherwise. He touches the wire of the earphones, which even though connected to
his cell phone are not in his ears; he presumed he’d be listening to music as
he took this walk, but now he wants to be by himself; alone, yet not quite so,
in a park he knew only too well but was somehow not even acquainted with.
He
welcomes the sudden outburst of nostalgia, a curious combination of sadness and
happiness, laughter and tears, sorrow and joy, as he looks at the red, rusted monkey
bars and recollects how he had fallen from them once and had scraped his knee;
he looks at the merry-go-round and fondly reminisces of the first time his
mother had put him on it and spun, and how he’d laughed all the time he was on
just so he could show his mother how happy he was even though he could only see
her for less than a fraction of a second, her figure whizzing in and out of his
sight.
He
stays in the park for a moment longer than he wants to, sits at a park bench
and visualizes his mother sitting next to him, younger, with lesser wrinkles, a
thin line of vermilion along the parting of her hair and a bright red bindi on her forehead, watching over a
younger version of himself. And at that moment, as he sees his memories come
back to life, he marvels at how all that has happened there has suddenly given
so much more meaning to a place which otherwise wouldn’t have meant anything.
As
he leaves the park, he wonders whether he’d be able to visit it again, and
decides he would want to, even if it’s for just a minute.
He
continues walking as he now steps on roads that he’s not familiar with, even
though they look alike. He mindlessly ponders as he takes a right, then a left,
admiring the elegant yet passive buildings, the graceful manner in which they
attract attention but don’t demand it, notices with amazement how each street
he walks on feels like an avenue because they’re all lined up with trees
belonging to the house owners. Amidst all the streets and lanes and turns, he
ends up in front of a pastry shop he’s never seen before. Is it new, he
wonders? Could be, he answers himself, but even as he does so, he decides to
not proceed further in fear of getting lost. He thinks of calling his parents
and asking them for directions, and takes his cell phone out. As he types out
his father’s number he sees the little white airplane icon and realizes that
his phone had been on flight mode, and that no possible connections could be
made to or from his phone.
He
almost gasps when he realizes the gravity of the situation. What if his parents
had called him up, telling him to return home sooner? What if something more
serious had taken place and an emergency had ensued? What if, God forbid,
something terrible had happened? His girlfriend has probably sent her 2 more
texts whining about how less he cares about her since he hasn’t replied back to
any of her 5 previous texts messages that have arrived ever since he has in
Kolkata. She might also have sent him a text message saying how much she hates
him for treating her like filth.
Now,
on most days, in this situation, he’d have put his phone off flight mode,
called his parents and asked for directions, and he’d have replied
apologetically to his girlfriend on his way home. But something has taken over
him today; has encompassed, consumed him. And so he decides, with the same
spontaneity, that he’d find his way back home no matter what – it his hometown,
his neighbourhood after all.
He
turns away from the pasty shop, checks his cell phone for the time; for his
half an hour to be up, there are only 3 minutes left. Maybe if he’d walk fast
enough, or run, he’d still make it in time. And as long as he gets home in one
piece, he figures, his parents will not mind an unreachable phone.
Flight
mode, it was.
X-x-X
This new year, let something take you over.
Cheers to flight mode! Because it's not just a phone profile, it's a way of life. :)
Here's to a happy new year! To a happy 2012! It's going to be awesome!
^_^
X-x-X-x-X
PS. It's 3.54 am. What better to do than to spend the first four hours of the new year writing?! :D
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