Through the World on a Bicycle-Part One

The courtyard surrounded by dilapidated walls was filed with young Japanese and western tourists. At one table Japanese and at another western and what appeared common among them was the rising tobacco smoke and the distinct giggles. I was fascinated by a middle-aged Japanese man in Benagli Lungi smoking bidi, so I sat down and joined him to find out his reason for traveling and also the reason why he was into Bengali culture. He said he had been living in Kolkata for months and he didn’t know when he would return to Japan. He didn’t have much to say.

Apart from his indecisive plan his jocular mannerism was another fascination. I Pulled out a cigarette, smoking I chatted with the man about frivolous matters I joined the man and the crowd of two swelled, with the arrival of more Japanese ladies. The ladies pulled out Indian clothes from plastic bags. They sat down smoking Japanese cigarettes bought in India and sometimes giving a curious look at the yogurt in earthen cups. The conversation started in English was now switched to Japanese , and I became the man who was reduced to a mere listener.

Between the Japanese and western crowd was a rather tall young man. I saw him stooping over bicycle wheels. There was nothing significant about him in term of his appearance. Unlike the western and Japanese tourists dressed in hippie Indian clothes, he wore a simple black vest, his jeans were rolled up till his calf muscles and his feet in bathroom slippers. He was so absorbed in his oiling bicycle wheels that he was hardly aware of the noise and the commotion around him. Even though he didn’t stand out as a typical tourist there was something about the man, the serenity he exuded and the ability to be indifferent which was not found in many.

I asked the middle-aged Japanese man about the bicycle man. He said  “ He’s a Japani cyclist, riding all.. all the way from Bangladesh. Very, very dangerous.”

When darkness descended the city fought back with dim lights, and it was pierced by the ceaseless noises. Like any other power, eventually the noises dwindled and what remained was the humming of returned people, the clattering of utensils and the abrupt cries of tourist drunk on Kingfisher beer. I lay on the bed under the gurgling ceiling fan and began wondering about the inanities I had been engaged with. The book I had opened was of no interest, the deeper my contemplation was the slight headache that had been troubling me was transformed into a migraine forcing me to close my eyes.

I went out the hotel to get some breakfast from a roadside tea-stall and some newspapers. When I came back carrying a water bottle and some newspapes I went straight to the same table where I was with the Japanese man in lungi.

The bicycle man was at the table having black coffee from a thermo flask. On the table his diary was kept open; he seemed to be busy with some thought and without looking up he stopped the pen he had spun and wrote for a while in Japanese. I sat down opposite him without saying a word. Before I opened one of the newspapers I wanted to light up a cigarette.

I asked “ Do you mind if I smoke?” , He replied “ No problem. You like coffee? Get a cup and help yourself.” I sat down smoking but without enjoying his coffee. The newspapers placed on the table were of no importance as I sat facing a cyclist who I had heard had been paddling around the world. I inquired how long he had been riding his bicycle. He said for three years. He excused himself and left the table for few minutes. A while later he reappeared carrying his tent and sleeping bag. The tent was set up and the sleeping bag was spread out. Soon few kittens from the hotel ran around the tent for a while and took shelter in it and then came the mother meowing.

     

He said his name was Masa and he was a man of little word. Soon after he had divulged his name he busied himself with a pair of scissors trimming some tarpaulin sheets. When he had finished he returned to the table and sat down drinking his coffee, and I assumed he was going to tell me something about cycling journey. The playful kittens now came out from the tent following their mother. As the mother stretched out on the cemented floor her kittens ran about her and then they went back to the tent, but, this time, to climb over the tent. They tried several times in vain and then they resorted to scratching the tent with their sharp claws rendering Masa to turn around to look at his tent. He stood up and picked up the kittens and put them down somewhere on a corner. But the kittens proved incorrigible and Masa had to ensure the safety of his tent.

Picking up the relentless creatures with his gentle hands he put them on his lap and caressed them with his long fingers.

Eyes staring at them and hands still caressing the comfortably sitting creatures he uttered in a tranquil tone “ They are the most happiest kinds. They know where to find happiness.” Raising his eyes he now stared into the distance and “ In Japan people kill themselves. The life there is very mechanical. Life is all about competing with class mates and then rushing after jobs. When the worry to possess is over you have already forgotten yourself who you are. There is too much going in their mind and when they can’t take it any more they commit suicide.” He squinted and sighed. 

To be continued....