Sarcasm and Sewri

(For lack of activity on this blog, I had to chapofy from gosumag)

Owing to my contracted imagination, poor memory, undeclared frustration and utter lack of knowledge, I request to be excused for writing on what you might find to be a mundane subject. Sarcasm, it seems to me, is the right medium to describe this delightful place which I am fortunate to tolerate everyday.

Out of the many avenues of entering Sewri, I choose the Railway Station. Even with blaring sinusitis I have managed to identify the arrival of this station, owing to the enchanting (mal)odour of dried fish. It always strikes my consciousness hard enough to catch me off guard – every time. I get off the train only to hear the monotonous crackles of an unseen antique speaker which I have come to associate over the past three years with (un)timely railway announcements. Two policemen (one of the many kinds of men you will meet soon) stand guarding something, about which I have been curious for a long time. They occasionally pester the hawkers to reinstate their authority in the public’s eyes. I find them irritating because apart from their royal moustaches and pot bellies, they have nothing else descriptive about them, reducing the size of my article by a few lines.

I also unavoidably spot the Polyuric-men standing around the periphery of the station. These men have residual cave-men instincts and mark their territory sincerely everyday in their favourite niches. (Sometimes, I feel they are necessary as their large scale generation of ammoniacal odour neutralizes that of the dried fish.) I find this ironical as Sewri has the highest density of public toilets than anywhere else. (‘Anywhere’ being the finger-countable places I have been to in my whole life.) It makes the typical morning of Sewri a riot of colours – colours of buckets of all sizes and shapes, meant for different purposes and lined under different taps.

Leaving the station behind, I encounter my first dose of major excitement. It is time for some serious athletic activity. Every year in the three months of monsoon, the narrowest pavement leading out of the station has its tiles freed from cementing bondage. Anyone who dares to step on them is thrown off balance and is swathed in mud from knee to toe. So an aerial view of this pavement probably resembles a large number of adults engrossed in a difficult game of hopscotch. Of course, to make this game more exciting, there are overhanging tarpaulin roofs which cave in as rainwater accumulates and give away without any warning. It drenches me in gallons of water especially when Murphy knows that I have unedited Gosumag articles in a vulnerable canvas bag.

In these regions, you encounter the first signs of any wildlife in Sewri. The wildlife is quite sparse, mostly comprising of colourless strong willed mongrels with inhuman canines and odd mating habits. Another constant four legged species is the friendly cow tied in an unfriendly fashion to the old woman who owns it. Day after day, the cow stands ruminating respectfully with its derriere exposed to the hundred hands which take its blessings regularly.

In Sewri, I never fail to get a Gutkha-carpet welcome. Here, every man and woman revels not only in consuming gutkha but also in watching its tiny plastic packet flutter innocently onto the street. Also, the gutkha chewing-men staunchly believe that the world is their spittoon. I always guard myself from sudden spurts of blood-red well-masticated betel leaves striking from unexpected directions. I am fortunate to witness the process of the formation of some of the largest stains on the street. (You get the best results if you spit off a speeding motorbike.) These paan stains along with the gutkha packets adorn the streets of Sewri which get converted into a wild canvas of the modern artist.

I apologise for introducing the most proactive member of Sewri’s active social life towards the end of the article. I call him the Leering-man. This man (who I am sure is found in many other places) provides hundred percent entertainment on my way to the 8 o’clock morning lecture. Be it calling me “Garam garam murgi...” or the occasional grope or shove, he becomes another victim of the cave-man instincts lurking in these areas.

All this and much more have made me an ardent admirer of life here. But what I wish to share with you is the philosophy of life in Sewri — ‘If life comes to a standstill and you ruminate too long, they will touch your rear. So don’t chew too much, just spit...’