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prose by Rosie Shakespear
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The Journey Back From Thakurpukur
Clambering onto a creaking rickshaw, squeezing two western bottoms onto a hard, narrow Indian seat. Our pot-holed track leads away from the bus-stand and skirts around a serene pond lined with palms, banana trees and hibiscus. We leave the dust and the markets and the shouting and the bustling and the haggling and the heat behind us. A warm breeze ruffles our hair.
Onto a bigger road the ride is still bumpy. We cling to the sides of our vehicle whilst smiling at the locals we pass, their sarees and scarves fluttering. We catch glimpses of the pink sky and a dying sun through the gaps between buildings. The day is over but in this dusk life has broken out at the sides of the road. Food stalls are opening, chai is being brewed and groups of people are sitting down to play cards.
We leave the goings-on and hang a right, turning towards the paddy fields. The first star is out, bright and glowing in the opaque, indigo sky. We listen to the sounds of pedals pounded upon and wheels turning against the hard road. The crickets and cicadas have begun their evening song. Birds circle high in the air above us.
We reach Kalagachia and alight, paying our panting driver 20 rupees and muttering thank you in Bengali - “dhonebadt”. It is dark now as we walk through the village, and the night around us is still. We gaze across the streches of water around which the village has grown, our eyes drawn to the rippling pools of light reflected there.
Our booted feet break through the skin of puddles and splash us through the flood water and onto higher ground. The air is calm and clear. We inhale long and hard and the school grows nearer.
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Notes:
I wrote this in India last summer, where I was working at a rural school in Calcutta. It was the middle of the monsoon and for the first three weeks it rained constantly, and the whole village flooded. On the night I wrote this the rain had finally stopped and that particular journey back to the school from the market was idyllic.
I was reading Virginia Wood at the time which might explain the quasi-'stream of consciousness' style... maybe.
I don't write a lot of prose, so I'm a bit unsure/nervous of posting this!
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Posted: 29th April 2008
Words: 300
Viewed: 894 times
Comments: 2
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