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Memories of the Lakes
Tim Muckeridge
“Can’t take it any more.”
“Eh?”
“Can’t take it any more.”
The complainant,a slightly built,dark-complexioned woman in her early twenties,and her
companion,a young man of a similar age,also thin and short in stature,had just got up
from the stone bench they were sitting on, and had begun to walk back home after the
morning walk.
Were they a married couple,the wife probably complaining about her mother-in-law’s
constant and calculated nagging? Or, were they two lovers hesitating to rush into tying
the knot and still undecided as the pressure kept mounting on them to decide one way or
the other? Or,could they still be married but not to each other and the pressure had built
up on them to sever their relationship?
Such questions remain unanswered as thousands of people visit the Lakes in south
Calcutta everyday,leave the traces of their conversations behind with little or no clues
and no addresses to pursue their stories.
We don’t know where they come from and where they go when their time in the Lakes is
over.But for for sometime day after day strangers come to the Lakes and share space
with other strangers and then they go home or to their offices,factories,and other places
of work. The mammoth city sucks them into its enormous stomach and,at the end of the

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day,disgorges them to let them go back to their families or bachelors’ dens for the night.
But we can let our imagination run riot and try to build stories around snatches of
conversations heard by chance.
Take the young couple we had begun with.Ira could be the name of the woman.She
works in an IT firm,a start-up in Sector V at the Salt Lakes.her companion could be
Somdev,also an IT man but with a different company,probably Infosys.Together they
earn a very decent sum of money indeed on which they could easily marry and live
nicely.But both have problems.You see,Ira’s brother is a drug addict and needs strict
supervision.Their parents are dead and relatives are of little or no help at all.
Ira is ready to marry Somdev but does not know how she would be able to continue to
take care of Prashant,her brother.Somdev is a nice chap and fully sympathizes with Ira’s
problem but Ira is not sure if he would be ready to share Prashant’s burden with her.
The problem has been proving to be so nagging that finally this morning Ira burst out, “I
can’t take it any more.” “Eh?” was how Somdev responded as we overheard.But did he
say this because he could not hear Ira properly or was it a subtle though unintentional
expression of a growing sense of irritation on his part?
Ira wasn’t quite sure on this point though Somdev’s response,almost sounding
casual,irritated her and as her mind grappled with Prashant’s problem a side-thought
began to grow,was Somdev already getting disenchanted?
But I am not afraid to take care of his father,who is 78 years old,a cancer patient and
most definitely needs not just medical care but also sincere counselling.I am ready to do
all that and more.Why then is he getting nervous about Prashant? Or am I imagining too

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much? Probably what I am thinking about him is all completely off the mark and perhaps
he is as ready as I am to help me with my brother.
As they walked home side by side deep in thought while exchanging casual words
occasionally,Somdev felt that they should be more open with each other and thrash out
their problems and doubts once and for all.
That would be good for both,Ira by then had come to the same conclusion.I must ask
him point blank if he is nervous about Prashant.Look,together we can most certainly take
good care of both our father and brother,can’t we,Somdev and Ira told themselves at the
same time.
And at that very point they both thought of the Lakes which they had left a few minutes
ago,so serene,so cool,flowing by, undisturbed by human folly and miseries,and
celebrating nature and beauty.
Mr.Roy,a smart old gentleman
Now,here comes Mr.P.Roy,a short but smartly dressed old gentleman,who could easily
be in his early 80s,ready to spend a very pleasant morning with the group of old
gentlemen occupying their regular bench.It is said that Mr.Roy is a member of all the
prestigious social clubs of Calcutta and that in his heydays he used to adorn the
boardrooms of many blue-chip companies.He lives in the across-the road leafy and quiet
(and naturally the high-end) neighbourhood of Keyatolla.An obviously successful man
now spending his retired life in ideal circumstances.Almost every summer he is off to
better climes across the seas,no doubt duly accompanied by his demure and
fashionable wife Surama.
“Aha,Roysaheb is a bit late today,” greets a friend,perhaps a little younger,already

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seated on the bench.”Hare` Murare`,” shouts the jovial Subrata Haldar,holding on to his
patent umbrella.Summer or monsoon or winter,Mr.Haldar has never been seen without
his trademark umbrella,carefully rolled. “Hare` Murare`” is his standard greeting for his
friends and acquaintances.
“Did Mr Roy have a bit of a problem this morning in the toilet?” gently asked a third friend
whose name we cannot determine at this moment.”Did he have something at dinner last
night which probably did not agree with his system?”
Mr.Roy,who was surely once a holy terror in his company,smiled and said in a squeaky
voice,”I told Surama I don’t want to eat the mango,but she didn’t listen.”
The conversation swiftly turned to mangoes which had begun to come into the
markets.We would not pause to listen to the detailed discussion that surely ensued and
would rather venture out to meet other morning walkers.
The elderly lady and her young companion have just turned the corner and come into
view.The lady is wearing a pale yellow salwar-kameez set this morning;the young,
shapely and tall woman is dressed casually in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.While the older
lady,looking very much like a retired college teacher,is clutching a small expensive
purse,the young lady has a high-end satchel bag slung across her shoulder.
As they walk briskly,a constant low-voiced chatter accompanies them.It is well-known
that women are the greatest chatter-boxes of the world,and this couple,probably mother
and daughter or could they be aunt and niece,would easily out-talk many of their
sisters.But what do they talk about,one wonders,which obviously engages their complete
attention every morning and every moment of it.Their voices are always very low and it

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is,therefore,not possible to overhear them.But as they come close to the end of their
walk,they sit down on a bench and intone “Om” in a surprisingly sweet and prolonged
tone which reverberates in the vicinity for some time.
Coming to think of it,the old gentleman over there sitting cross-legged on a bench also
intones “Om” many times over.He is a practitioner of yoga and clearly maintains a
superb body,very athletic despite his age which could be anywhere between 75 and 85
years or more.
Just now an old gentleman wearing a t-shirt and shorts enters the Lakes,slightly
wobbling and perspiring rather profusely but nevertheless begins to jog slowly.We know
that even a few months back he would walk with a lot of difficulty,literally dragging his
legs in his stride and slightly shaking in the process.Looking at him one would then fear
that he could topple over any time.But persistence has obviously paid off,and he is much
more mobile today.
As the morning advances,walkers throng the Lakes,walking singly,in twos or in
groups,exchanging pleasantries with friends and neighbours,sometimes fixing
appointments for later hours in the day.”Good morning,Dholakiaji ,” greets the pot-bellied
youngish man.”How did yesterday’s meeting with the government go? Did they agree to
your demands?” Should we wait to hear Mr.Dholakia’s reply? But nobody waits in the
Lakes and walkers go on walking.So we pass the friends. Politics at times liven up the
chance conversations,though business matters appear to be the mainstay of such
exchanges.Is the BJP really making a headway in West Bengal? As matter of fact,this
topic caused much heated debate and almost a physical confrontation last year after the

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parliamentary elections were held. In any case,as friends and neighbours pass each
other,discussions flow freely with claims of secret information and instant analysis
chipping in.
Yesterday’s tumble in the share and commodity markets at times lend an edge to the
exchange of notes,all very swiftly done as walks can never be disrupted though the
presence of ladies at times demands civility, and walks are momentarily
halted;hellos,good mornings and namastes are exchanged;enquiries about one’s health
are duly made and answered,and walks are resumed.
But what is happening here on these two benches? A group of men has gathered
around one bench,a few others are either sitting on or standing before the next bench.A
lot of equipment,mostly looking quite esoteric,are laying here and there. A huge sound
system is being assembled nearby.Several arc-lamps and mirrors are being set up.
Wires are strewn all over. ”Have you brought at least three Bengali newspapers?”
enquires one man.”Dulal has just gone to buy them.Meanwhile,tea is coming along with
biscuits,” replies somebody else.
Is this an ad film being shot here? “No,this is a feature film,” explains a unit member.One
gathers from bits of conversations going around that a scene with three actors reading
newspapers and talking to each other sitting on the second bench will be shot soon.
“Manik Babu is already on his way from home,” rushes in a man.” But he wants to know
if he can drive right up to the spot.” “Tell him that no car can come up here.He has to get
down near Nazrul Manch and start walking from there.We will send somebody to escort
him.” “Shipra-di says she cannot walk in this hot sun,” gasps another unit member.”What

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shall I tell her?” “Take an umbrella and wait for her car to drive up and then escort her
here,” replies the trouble-shooter.
A sturdy young man,wearing a straw hat and with a view-finder hanging loosely from his
neck,talks furiously on his smart-phone, “Look Mr. producer,we may have been friends
once but all that is now over.You have been behaving so badly and disgracefully that I
would have walked out on you long back.But,as you know very well,our project has
reached a stage where we must finish it.And,let me tell you this plain and loud,I shall
make four,no less than four,features to show you what I am capable of.So never again
you talk to me like that.I am not your run-of-the -mill director.You can count your lucky
stars that I am still working with you.”
Now comes a grating noise,somebody scraping his feet on the macadamised road.This
must be the extremely thin gent,so emaciated that one would expect his body to
suddenly disintegrate while still walking. But nothing of the sort happens,and day after
day throughout the year,through sun,rain and chill,he comes dragging his feet all the
way from his home eight km away.
Mr.Natesan’s story
“Good morning,” Mr.Natesan who invariably draws attention to himself because of his
alarming physique and seemingly arduous gait is greeted by a polite gentleman.Mr.
N.,gasping for breath,sits down gratefully on the bench and begins his long litany of life-
long crises,problems and other vagaries of life.we learn that today’s pitiful example of a
human being was once a vigorous trade unionist,led a strong workers’ movement in the
company he worked in,which eventually led to protracted litigations,joblessness
and,ultimately,to an incurable neurological disease. The company where he waged his

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brave workers’ movement incidentally chose to go into oblivion.
“But I never gave up coming to the Lakes every morning,” Mr.N. concludes.”Sometimes I
fall down on the road or in the Lakes and my family refuses to let me come here
again.But I still manage to get out.You see,I faced many challenges in my life,and even
though I look like about to drop dead,I love the challenge every morning and and enjoy
coming to the Lakes.” “Good day,” he wishes and resumes his labourious walk.
The seat he just vacated is soon filled by a young man clad in not-quite-clean clothes
with a tool bag.The newcomer who appears to be a skilled worker must have got down
from a local passenger train at Dhakuria station and pauses to take rest while passing
through the Lakes.Another man joins him,a fellow worker,and starts talking about this
morning’s work.”Have you brought the chisel?” asks the first man.”Yes,” replies the other
fellow,” but do you think we can finish the work today?”
“Let us see,” says the first man,whose name,it appears,is Sushil.”The problem is that we
are expected to start work in Bansdroni from tomorrow.But this Southern Avenue job is
taking longer than we thought it would.It’s all because the owner refused to advance
money.If he had done s in time,we could have bought the materials last week and would
not have to waste one full day.” “This is the problem with bhadralogs ,Sushil-da”,responds
Bhavani. “Aha,here comes Muhammad.Hello,Muhammad bhai ,why did you miss our
train? Were you late in getting up?”
Muhammad,the lanky youth with a slight goatee,sits down wearily, “To tell you the truth,I
couldn’t sleep properly last night.Jahanara suddenly became absolutely tigress-like and
it was with a lot of difficulty that I could satisfy her.In fact,I could fall asleep only around

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four.I got up after 5.30 and even then I couldn’t easily open my eyes.You can imagine
the hurry I had to go through to catch the next train.And in any case,the train was awfully
crowded,I had to hang on to the rod at the gate.I must take some rest before I can get up
and start walking again.”
Workers and artisans keep walking through the Lakes on to their diverse
destinations,apartment blocks coming up across the vast city,office complexes sprouting
here and there,roads and flyovers being constructed in the expanding urban jungle.
When the evening comes and it is time for them to wash their hands,gather their
tools,and begin the homeward journey,they once again traverse the Lakes,now in the
reverse direction,with darkness falling over the waters.The birds are also coming
home,having collected twigs to patch up their nests on the tall trees which jostle for
space all over the Lakes.
We can see a tall woman,in all likelihood a house-maid, returning home after having
worked the whole day in different households.Basanti will also walk to the station to
catch the train back home.By the time she reaches her home,it will be past 9 o’clock,her
family gathering together to wait for the skimpy dinner she will have to conjure from
sparse stocks of vegetables.Is there any whiff of fish tonight? Even a little bit will help
gulp down the rice.
As Basanti rushes home,does she have any time or inclination to take a look at the
darkening waters,the cooling breeze blowing in all the way from the sea,the crows
finishing their last conversations,and the lovers exchanging glances in the glistening
benches under the ornamental lamp-posts?

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It is doubtful.You see,Basanti may even be surprised if you ask her this question.She
passes through the Lakes twice every day but her struggle for survival is so primordial
and so essential to the continuing survival of her family that she is scarcely given to
enjoy the beauty of nature.
In any case,nature has always been impervious to the travails of human life.When the
snow fell in wintry nights at Auschwitz-Birkenau,Sobibor,Dachau or Treblinka in
Poland,the scene outside the barracks must have looked enchanting in the pale
moonlight.But did the hapless Jews and political dissenters,fighting unimaginable pangs
of hunger and being readied for their horrible deaths,have any appetite to enjoy the
silent and unearthly beauty of those nights outside their death cells? Why,Kuwalsky, who
had so long been sleeping on the berth below,was taken away this very morning for the
shower.
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