The Coward

The Coward

©mulshankar13.
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The bicycle is the most important possession for a child growing up. Being able to ride one without the two small props on either side is synonymous to self identity. It is a feeling which would remain one of the most important impressions in his or her mind for the life ahead.

We grew up inside a government jute mill. Dad was then the Assistant Manager in the mill which was nationalised in 1980 along with six others of which one was outside Calcutta. The Khardah jute mill where I and my siblings grew up was along the Hooghly River as many others. I could see the mighty tributary of the Ganges flowing in its full pomp and show on the lazy afternoons seated from the veranda of my house. The mill campus in itself was huge and segregated into different areas, broadly the mill area and the residential quarters. The jute mills of Calcutta were established during the British Raj. The mill campus was a wonderful mix of never ending production lines on the eastern side and the palatial bungalows, the modest lower grade officers’ quarters, the officers’ club house and the rich flora and fauna meeting the banks of the Hooghly on the western side. However, the Radcliffe line drawn in 1947 had scissored the jute mills from the fertile grounds where jute was cultivated. Bangladesh. The beauty of the jute mills was on its wane since then, yet enough for me to look back again and again with nostalgia as I would grow up and older.

Three brilliant jetties namely, Jetty No 1, No 2 and No 3 ran in exact parallel to each other, extending a good few yards into the river. A big rotatable crane was mounted on the side ending towards the river on each of the jetties. The finished bailed jute was brought on huge platforms running on the railway tracks to these jetties. The cranes picked up these bails and unloaded them onto the ship anchored below the jetty.

Dad had not been able to buy a bicycle for us although he wished to. His modest salary was always overtaken by Mamma’s expenses. Not that Mamma had high tastes but her prodigality was driven by two predominant factors of a few others. Mamma’s obsession with hygiene and cleanliness ensured that all the clothes including the linens were washed everyday spic-and-span. And so were the utensils with cleaning detergents much larger in proportion than required. Her maximum part of the day went in keeping the house and things sanitized. It was a regular chore which we as children watched in complete fear aware of the fact that we should do nothing to spoil her efforts. Her anger was limitless. She would never hesitate at the least to beat us up black and blue.

Secondly, her empathy and nobleness was well known to one and all especially to our relatives who couldn’t stop praising her benevolent nature on her face. Neither did they fail to criticize her clumsiness and strange obsession with cleanliness at her back. They never hesitated to capitalize on her nobleness despite her shortcomings either in the form of a deemed to be non refundable monetary loan or an extended weekend vacation at our river side house. All this ensured that the household groceries and cleaning stuff which were stockpiled more than required for the month were well over before time. Dad never protested because it would be of no help and consequently was always in a debt.

With other kids around in the immediate neighbourhood already having a bicycle of their own we were the only odd ones out. We couldn’t expect them to share their prized possessions with us every time. Nor could we ourselves always afford the humble countenance of gratitude for their generosity in sharing their bicycle whenever they did. Nonetheless, we did our best to learn how to ride a bicycle. We often managed to convince Dad to leave his bicycle at home for us so that we could practice. But Dad left clear instructions not to venture outside the mill area with the bicycle.
And we never did until that fateful afternoon during our summer vacations.

Over time since we were able to balance the bicycle while riding it albeit after a few bad bruises, our confidence had multiplied. We decided to head to the market outside the mill to buy our holiday homework stationery on our over-sized bicycle.
“Pinky, you told me I can ride from here. Please stop. I must ride now”, I requested Pinky, my sister, who was elder to me by two years.
“No Dipu. This is the mill area. You see, there are railway tracks here. I can’t give it to you now. You won’t be able to ride from here. Your feet won’t reach the ground. On the way back from the market towards home, I will let you ride it”.
Upset I protested a little louder than before.
“But you told me that you would let me ride it from here. Please let me do or I’ll apply the brakes”, I threatened seated on the front beam of the bicycle.
Pinky conceded. She slowly applied the brakes and brought the bicycle to a stand reaching for the ground on her left leg.
“Be careful Babu. Just apply the brakes if you are nervous. First apply the brakes before anything else. Keep away from the tracks. Hold the handle firmly. Do not...” , cautioned Pinky.
“O yes, yes, yes...” I interrupted her.
“Now you sit in front”.
“No I won’t. You ride alone till you reach near the weighing platform scale and stop for me there”.
“No, I won’t stop. You have to come with me. You need to trust me. I can ride it easily. Come”, I reasoned.

With Pinky saddled in front of me I carefully put my left leg on the pedal and pushed the ground backward with my right leg a couple of times before I perched my bottom on the bicycle seat.
I paddled on slowly. My feet couldn’t reach the ground so I was a little extra careful. I tried my best to keep away from the rail tracks. It was a great feeling. It was a feeling of achievement being able to ride the bicycle all on your own and this time with a passenger seated in front.
The weight of Pinky was doing no good to my balance on the bicycle. The grip on the handle was firm but I couldn’t give the bicycle a straight direction. In defiance to my determination to ride straight I was coming closer to the tracks, involuntarily though. I had started moving almost parallel to the outer track near the road and dangerously close to it. In fact, I was almost riding over it now.
My exuberance had given way to panicky.

Pinky shouted, “Watch out, watch out! Don’t ride so close to the track. We will fall.”
“Dipu, apply the brakes! Don’t pedal, don’t pedal”, she continued.
I could hear nothing what she yelled. My entire focus was on the front wheel which was going up and down the track. I was trying my best to get it off the rail track. But the more I tried in doing so it would go back again over it. The road parallel to the outer rail track had been newly patched up. It reduced the height difference between the track beam and the road. It made my task more difficult.
During all this I never realized that it was not the front wheel which was going to throw me off the balance but the rear one. All my dexterity in managing the direction of the front wheel had brought the rear wheel running perfectly over the rail track. In a panic I applied the brakes near my right handle. In the flash of a second the rear wheel skid off the track while I still kept on frantically pedalling.
My legs could barely reach the ground because of the height of the bicycle.
Pinky shouted for one more time, “We are falling...!”
The very next moment that I can recollect I remember that I still held the left arm of the bicycle in my palm while it was down on its right side with Pinky on the ground. Her right hand was half under the handle. I had managed to smoothen my fall by placing my right foot on the ground during the fall.
As I gathered my senses to lift up the cycle from the ground Pinky had tears rolling down her eyes. Bruised near the wrist her elbow seemed to be protruding out a little more unusually. She was in pain.
I was confused as to what should be done now. Pinky sat on the ground with her left hand holding the right one.

“Dipu Babu, what have you done?”, yelled Akhil.
Akhil was the overseer in Dad’s winding department who happened to pass by to the labour welfare office on the other side of the mill road.
“Let me see, my daughter! Show me the hand”, Akhil helped Pinky to get up.
“She has broken her hand for sure. Why were you riding a bicycle Dipu Babu?” enquired Akhil, this time more angry than concerned.
Aghast, I went cold.
 “Pinky you stay here, I’ll just call Dad...”, I consoled her.
“No, we’ll take her to the dispensary first. It’s straight ahead. I’ll send someone to call for Rai Saheb”, interrupted Akhil.
By now a crowd had gathered. And Sengupta uncle was the first to reach among Dad’s colleagues. Sengupta uncle was a giant of a man with protruding eyes. My initial impulse was that he is going to scold me hard. But then his entire focus was on Pinky’s apparently broken hand.
The crowd was busy assessing the extent of damage done to Pinky’s hand and contemplating if they should wait for our Dad to come or should they directly take her to the dispensary. Some debated if it was a fracture or a dislocation and its repercussions.

Amongst that entire din I stood occupied with my own thoughts, “What will Mamma do now? What would Dad say? What would my school van mates say? I broke my sister’s hand! I am not sure if it would join again. I should not have ridden the bicycle. She told me not to! Mother would whoop me to death. I’ll tell her it’s not my fault! The bicycle just slipped on the tracks. It was too difficult to balance with Pinky sitting in front. But wait, Pinky didn’t want to come on the bicycle. She would tell Mamma. She would tell everybody. The tracks shouldn’t have been there on the first place”.
“Sengupta Saheb! Take her to the dispensary first”, requested Akhil to his boss.
“Dipu Babu, you also come with her”, added Akhil.

“If I take her to the dispensary I would be identified there as the one who broke her sister’s hand”, I reasoned with myself.
“I must run home. I must tell Mamma that Pinky’s hand got broken. She fell on the ground while riding on the bicycle with me. The bicycle wheel just skid. It was not my fault”, I could already feel Mamma beating me up. I could feel everybody pointing me out as the bad, to be shunned guy who broke his sister’s arm.
“I’ll come back Pinky. I’ll inform Mamma and come back. I’ll ask her where is Dad”.
“We have already sent for your father. You come alongwith her to the dispensary”, instructed Sengupta uncle.
But even before he had completed I ran. I ran in the opposite direction leaving Pinky behind me still in pain. I ran as fast as I could. I ran far enough till no voices could be heard calling me the culprit. I ran. I ran a coward.
I rushed into the house through the open veranda to see Mamma standing at the kitchen door.
“Mumma, Pinky broke her hand. She fell down from the bicycle. The wheel just skid over the tracks.”
“Where is she?”
“She is near the mill.”
“And you left her there?”
“No there are a lot of people from the mill. They would be taking her to the dispensary. Should I go too?”
“No! There is no need to go now. It’s already dusk. You wait here.”
I was happy that I needn’t go back again. I wouldn’t be able to face the crowd, the doctor, the nurse. Everyone would know that I am the one who broke her hand. I was happy that Mamma didn’t beat me up although sceptical if she might beat me up once Pinky is back.

As I got lost in the cartoon being aired in Doordarshan that evening Pinky came back a good few hours after the sunset with Dad. Sengupta uncle was there too with few other colleagues.
I was relieved to see Pinky back again.
“Would Pinky be okay, Dad?” I asked.
“Yes, she would be all right in three months”, comforted Dad.
Sengupta uncle added, “Be careful not to scratch even if it sweats. And try to keep it vertically up for most of the time. Keep a pillow under it when you sleep. Keep moving your fingers, Pinky”.
I consoled myself, “Well you see, nothing much happened to her. It was just a broken hand with a big plaster. It would get ok in three months. Just three months! But she should be careful not to scratch even if it sweats. I don’t think they remember that I was riding the bicycle”.
I quietly moved away from the bed making room for Pinky to sleep.
Dad looked at me and smiled, “You left your sister and ran away instead of taking her to the dispensary?”

“I had to inform Mamma”, I replied.
“The workers told me that he was there and just ran away”, Dad turned towards Mamma.
Sengupta uncle gleefully added, “Clever Rogue!”
That night as I slept quietly on the giant couch near the drawing room I worried.
I worried, “Will Pinky get ok again? She would be. I guess yes. Dad told so, didn’t he?”
I wondered how many more faces tomorrow would be able to identify me as the one who broke his sister’s arm or still far worse, the one who ran away after breaking it. How would everybody in the school van react? Would they call me a coward? Has Mamma kept the beating piled up for some other day?

 “I shouldn’t have run away. I shouldn’t have ridden the bicycle. I am sorry”, I talked myself to sleep.