This painting evoked nostalgia and the flood gates of my memory is inundated with thoughts of Rawmoni.
Rawnoni is not a great shake and neither a pretty lady. Rawnoni is as raw as one can get. He was a drunkard and coarse man of no manners, shameless too!
Life is not a trickster and it creates a platform of worth and value for the most so called wretched drunkard whose contribution to run the social machinery remains unforgettable but on the other hand those who would live to remember and savour the deeds of those simpletons had exited the planet and ones remaining are on the threshold of realms gaping at the setting sun, wondering if the next morning’s sunrise would be theirs.
In this course of holding on to memories and slipping away into oblivion I remember Rawmoni.
I deliberately use the spelling of his name with the stress on the W to retrieve the sounds in rural bengal and the affection people rolled into calling pet names or more precisely the much flavourful ‘daak naam.
Rawmoni , I recall him for many a good reasons. His name rings a bell often in my mind when I am in or when I miss certain things.
Around late 60’s there weren’t any English medium schools in my village. The place where Baba and Ma had to move into was far, very away from the city. Even though my Baba owned these farmlands, he was not a farmer. He was a Chinese furniture designer of repute in British Calcutta. He was a generous man who chose a life of simple middle class family man away from his own circle of people.
Rawmoni was a cycle rickshaw puller and my Baba had developed a trust factor on him. He was appointed to take me to a Bengali medium school about three kms away from home.
Rawmoni was always high on locally brewed liquor, his speech had a slur and his mouth odur should not chase away his customers, he would chew bettle leaf scented with paan masala. His feet would wobble as he would walk and with a squint pair of eyes, the young boys would call him ‘Dair battery’ meaning one a half battery. With so many disadvantages Rawmoni was like a fighter pilot when on on the Rick, he would be fit as a fiddle , alert like an airforce pilot, safe as in the palanquin.
Much later in life I could crack the code as how and why my strict father found Rawmoni to be reliable and trustworthy.
Rawmoni , as I said was chosen to take me to school at five am, during winters he would arrive all wrapped up in discarded flags of countries I still do not know, and a large monkey cap, he would be Inebriate though, chewing paan. Many a times though I was just seven, tried asking Rawmoni about the flags because such similar types were used by a certain section of people in that place. Rawmoni would proudly announce the source of these curtain size, flag wraps. ‘Shada sahib diya’ ‘ Shada sahib implies to the priest from the local church may have. As he would peddle his rickshaw, he would reveal the truth.
Rawmoni was very punctual rather punctual so to say, many a times he would be seen dragging himself and his Rick at 5 in the evening the previous day. When asked he’d nonchalantly say ‘ ‘Morning 5 o clock is not very far away, lest I oversleep, I came off now itself! ‘
My father would send him away after packing some food for him.
In summer he would be light hearted in our morning ride to school. Rawmoni would sing morning songs, so i may not fall off to sleep. As little as five that i was loved the music he would make while singing. In between he would point out to different directions. “Up on the palm tree lived a Brahma doitte, under the shrubs the salamander laid her eggs, just behind the wall stays a spirit with a thin long nose.
You see that tall tamarind tree, he would point at a distance, the fruit is so sweet that the bandicoot eats up everything and when the farmer goes to collect them he brings home only the empty tamarind shells hanging with animal kaka in them.. then he would laugh and his rickety rickshaw would move and sway along with it I too would laugh and make my day.
After a year or two when I was big enough to travel to the city school Rawmoni rickshawallah discontinued his connection with us but now and then would travel in his Rick when visiting places around the neighborhood.
He was aging due to his habits and malnutrition. I was fortunate to connect with him years later when I would visit Calcutta during the Christmas season.
As I said every wretched is a hero in some way or the other and none can outbeat his actions. Rawmoni rickshawallah was no less. The Christmas season as usual calls for baking cake in the overcrowded community bakery. We had to be present there early morning in any of the days starting from the 15 th of December and register our family name, pay a token advance after which we would be given a time slot.
Such bakers were from the Muslim community and were experts in cake mixing and baking. Every process would be manual and delicately handled by the workers. It is a laborious and back breaking work, where in the mistiri chacha had to continuously be on the job, one party after the other. Mixing butter and sugar with bare hands is injurious and painful but chacha with his pan in mouth muteness would be dedicated for hours together.
So yes! Rawmoni the rickshawallah would be sent to get our name registered. His smartness was supersonic. He would not return to inform us about the time Or day of the cake making , so we get ready with the last minute preparation. We would make a good quantity so the ingredients had be well cut, chopped, sunned in advance, packed, named, eggs bought, butter procured quite a ceremony, as both Ma and Baba were very particular about the decipline of cake making, adhering to family recipes.
So Rawmoni to our surprise and shock would appear out of the blue on the day of the appointment with no prior notice. He would not be apologetic or ashamed but expected us to be wet hen in the rain getting things done to meet our deadline and keep up to our appointment which would not be possible.
When Baba would yell and scream at him, he would losing no time would turn his Rick and peddle away and not be seen in the vicinity for a couple of days.
In the meanwhile in his own, accord Rawmoni the rickshawallah would book a fresh appointment and this time be good enough to come and inform Baba with his head down and not inebriated. That was his style to say ‘Sorry. ‘
If our booking slot would be in the wee hours in the morning Rawmoni the rickshawallah would be at our gate at 7 in the evening, when asked why so early? His standard reply would be ‘ 5 am is not very far away, lest I am not awake to be awake. ‘ After this simpleton’s reply what else could my father say but to tell him to take the blanket from the attic and sleep in the barn while Ma offered him hot dinner and soup to beat the bitter cold.
Early morning the next day Ma and I would load the rickshaw with every detailed commodity. Managing our caps and shawls would be a task. Holding those crates of egg in a stack and managing the bags in between our legs, keeping the frozen butter in a bag that would not touch our skin was an added precautionary measure to be taken.
There Rawmoni was now up and about to peddle us through dark roads on the biting winter morning, a 2 km ride. Two women and a drunkard on the wheel, absolutely safe and comfortable.
Year after year until 1998 Rawmoni the rickshawallah was alive to be with us and engage in our household chores.. drunk as ever, reliable totally..
©grace