A Different Philosophy

I

The bus driver leaned his body on the steering wheel and clenched his teeth forcefully. The helper could see that his fat mustache was waving in a hip-hop kind of rhythm as the bus driver almost stood on the break. Finally, the bus stopped with a strong jerk. All the passengers hit something close to them; some hit each other, some hit their faces on the seat backs. The luggage dropped off from the bunk and fell on some. Some people were catching some bags like tennis balls. Some were left alone, hollering. The bus was on its front wheel for a few seconds. It was dragged a bit, as if a bulky bull pulled everything with a strong superstitious rope.

A fully-packed, hard sack kind of thing dropped on his left shoulder. His face looked red and agonized; his voice got a shrill cry. An old lady leaned forward towards his ears and asked him in a rural Bengal accent, “Khub laglo baba?” (Are you very hurt, son?)

He looked back and said in a very disgusted voice, “No... It’s okay...”

Some men headed towards the driver and charged him with some abusive language. He somehow showed them that there was a big hole in the middle of the road. Most of the passengers were getting out of the bus and all most everybody was busy picking up quarreling mode. He jumped off the bus with his back pack and a sling bag. He frowned, as he always does, in his usual fit of temper. The place was like the middle of any forest; everything was exceptionally green, but the birds’ sounds were a little different, as if they had something more to decode about nature’s secrets. In short, they were busy in their own chittering ways. He heard the helper saying, “Go straight for at least one hour...you may get some lorry or any other...”

He did not listen more, in his words to the ‘extra’ blabbering.

He did not know what he actually thought at that time. He avoided the main road and started walking through the soggy, man-made, thin path. Truly, on this side, the grass was greener. In everyday life, he would have never chosen this way. He could see the main road and followed it from his own calculative distance. He looked at the road every now and then. He had the fear of losing himself. But his concentration perhaps found a new ruler of somewhere else; he could hear humming of an old folk song and rhythmic hitting sound of something hard and something clunky. He kept his eyes on the road, but he moved left—towards that sound.

II

He focused the camera on a young boy’s face and tried to keep the river in the frame. The boy was sitting on a dry branch. He would not be more than ten years old. Another boy would be around twelve-thirteen years old. He was repetitively adjusting his oversized shirt and trousers while cutting a big trunk of an old, damaged tree. The younger one was wearing just a faded red half-pant. The older boy was singing an old folk song and the younger one was making rhythmic sound with a coin pouch. He proceeded with different pitches, reprising one line, “Āmāra gharēra cābi parēra'i hātē./Kēmanē khuliẏā sē dhana dēkhabō cakṣētē”

(My house key is in Someone else’s hand/ how do I open and see the treasure of that)  

The boys suddenly stopped looking at the camera. The younger boy shouted in a rural Bengali accent, “Are babu, ashen...ashen edike!” (Hello Sir, Come...Come here)

He smiled and asked, “What song is this?”

The boy said, “It’s Lalan Fakir’s song...very old folk.”

He said in a soft voice, “Very soulful... Very meaningful as well.”

The boy said, “Yes...”

He pointed at the sky and said, “Everything is guided. We accept or not. We are nothing, babu. We are... what you say in English... zero... zero.”

His eyes were welling up. Possibly for the first time, he could feel the emotions of guilt and regret. He looked at the river. Then he opened his phone’s ‘message’ app. He had an argument with his friend and business partner before getting on the bus. He opened that and scrolled up those messages. His friend’s message bubble said, “Buddy, try to be in a good mood. Rural is not bad. You’ll see something simple yet beautiful.

He answered, “Listen, I want everything grand in my life. Why didn’t you come for this project? And what is that bloody simple? You’re such an aesthetically idiot...”

Then they had a huge fight over this professional trip and the argument pointed around their individual choices like ‘extravagance’ and ‘simplicity’. After a half-hour journey, when his car broke down, he taunted his friend saying that he pushed him into an ordinary bus. He even said that he would never let any of them forget this time.

He moved closer to the younger boy and said, “You’re my guru! You taught me the value of nothing... the philosophy of Zeroism.”

The boys looked at each other in awe. The older boy asked, “What is that, babu?”

He said, “My new philosophy.”

He then made a nearly perfect circle on the soggy land with a stick. He said, “Here I am, starting from zero.”

And then he jumped out of that circle, thought something and again jumped in. Now he stepped slowly out of that circle. He said, “I am starting from this zero and then making my simple path from this origin, ardently. Got it?”

He patted the boy’s head.

The ambience and these three stayed silent for some good moments. At some point, the birds teared up the quietude.

He looked around but could not see the road. He asked hesitantly, “How do I go now?”

The younger boy said, “ Will you go to town? You have come in a different direction babu. Will you ride cycle? You’ll reach in an hour. My cycle is a spaceship.”

They all laughed.

He took the bicycle. The boys placed his bags on the back carrier. He tucked his expensive wallet into the older boy’s shirt pocket and winked.