Part 7: Fruits of Labor.
He looked at his still image in the mirror. The light that slithered in his room had reflected a crisp profile of him, his outline showing a clear margin from that of his surrounding. Only in reality, his life was a hazy blur with no real boundaries. His father, for one walked up and down his sense of individuality pillaging him of his own volition. Was it too late to conjure up a different reality for him? He had asked himself many times and he was yet to dream up time for the same...Hopefully one day, he placated himself.
One could walk out bold and brash upon frustration from being a puppet all day, but what was to happen to him when the puppeteer would snip off the strings he so fondly controlled. Would he still be that favorite marionette that delivered a tirade of a speech for uneducated masses to cheer and whistle or manage the image of that arduous local party worker who would be up for assembly elections in another 4 years?
He laughed at his own conflicting wants that crashed like rouge waves on the silent mass of boulder at bay. They picked up pace all the time from tides and currents only to froth up and spread out into a fluid veil of nothingness as they reached shores.
"Would you not want to take your bundle of joy, that daughter of yours whose eyes would gleam to know who Rani Lakshmi Bai was, your own son who wants to read up the literature of Rabindranath Tagore, think what we can achieve if every blessed daughter and every hardworking son of this basti can make it to school? Does it look like a dream? No...Does it sound impossible? No..." He picked up the glass of water from the nearby table and gulped down its entire contents in a stretch. His throat burning up from the pitch he had just rehearsed. The vigor and tempo he maintained in his voice, threw a strain on his chords quite diligently and yet he continued.
"And all this is every bit truth and reality if you will vote for Dwaraknathji...Me Anurag Basu...son of your own Debendranath dada doubtlessly and with heartfelt sincerity support Dwaraknathji. Will you remember the Rashtriya Yuva Seva Party when you enter that ballot room? You will because we all know that...." His words trailed and his animated hand stilled in mid-air as he saw the frail image of his mother sneak up on him from behind; a smile cropping up her face as she came to tap his shoulders.
"Baba is calling you...Are you ready?" she asked as she brought the Arthi high up to the same level as his chin.
"Ame Aaschi (I'm coming)" He said as he took the Aarthi to this eyes, hoping that some day he would have the same fire in him to burn to ashes the crap out of his life.
As his mother, a woman of no voice in his house, left his room, he spiffed up his gelled hair once again, neatly pulled out his stiff white kurta and made him look the part; a politician in the making.
Clean-shaven, wire rim glasses and the big dial imported watch gave a fresh look to a modern day Gunda. In all reality, he had never shot a gun or slit a throbbing throat of another living soul and yet he was one when he was the only son of Debendranath Basu, a man no less than the screen image of Vito Corlene in all of Delhi. Quite odd it was for a bengali family to run up the capital from gallis and chowks to lok sabha elections when the entire state only had a minority of their population. If their family came across as living terror to all of the mafia world, the closest he had come to proving he was to take up the reigns of his father was only by attempting to read Mario Puzo. Even at that unmotivated act he still had a few unread chapters slated for a later day. It was not the verbose literature or the details of the author that had stopped him from claiming the book to his 'Completed' list, but more by the question whether he belonged in that world of blood, gore and material hunger. Partly he wanted to use his father's name and glory to reach new heights in the political arena and then there was another side of him that screamed at the ruthlessness he would have to bear until he would make something of himself. He truly believed he could make a difference in this world. In all forms it was indeed a naive thought, but he was not naive enough to assume he could do so without being a somebody. He didn't know if he ever could prove something to someone, but he sure did want to testify against his critical inner voice that he did have a spine and liked to stand up with it sometimes. It was needed all the more when even she expected nothing less of him.
She was the only bout of fresh air that he often breathed. It was a payoff his father made, that he never would interfere in his drunken debauchery, for all that Debendranath asked of him. His father needed a face to his empire and a voice that spoke to stir nothing but fear after his own time. But he had no doubts that he could ever fill his father's shoes and had instead vowed to lead their family name into politics; a goal which he also favored secretly. And so his meetings with her went unnoticed and blatantly overlooked, even up to the point that his father never even enquired who it was that was worth all the drudge he sucked up to.
For all that was worth, he could have his way with her, but always to the curious looks of the minions who accompanied him, he had never even touched her, let alone sleep with her. If his life and political career was a losing war he tirelessly waged, she was another. He was his own puzzle he often liked to solve and she was one he wanted to decipher first.
Oddly, she was the only solace that was left for him. When she listened ever so patiently at his excuses for not being the man he wanted to be, she always came across to be someone from his own kind; the sort that caged themselves more in their mind than of any physical type. He liked spending time with her for now and he didn't dare go beyond exploring what it meant or why he did what he did. There was always a queer vague smile she brought upon his face every time he had tea with her. And he couldn't wait for the evening that was to arrive after his long day of toil in front of blaring speakers and quiet microphones. Simply put she was the fruit of his detestable labor.
After a very long time and I'm sure some even forgot the story line 😊...But I have to say this storyline demands much more concentration to characters and events than the other two FF's. So hope you understand the delay. This will definitely be updated more regularly too.
Edited Apr 8th 2011
People, I have made a mention of Anurag Basu in the first post of Rooftop as well. Maan was going in the car to meet him when the accident happened. In summary, Anurag Basu is the only son of Devendranath Basu, the mafia that controls pretty much everything in Delhi. Anurag does not have the demonic strain in him and hopes to make something of himself. And he also feels he can never fill his father's shoes and instead promises to enter politics. Although not a hooligan, he still has the mafia blood. He believes in being a somebody to make some true changes in the society and doesn't care if he gets there by hook or crook. He currently rallies for fellow party members and actively gives speeches around Bastis when campaigning for their party. His only solace being this girl, for whom he is still not clear about his own feelings for her. Hopefully this helps.
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