He was not in my school, but was known to me through a class-mate. He became the 'General Secretary' several times at college and went on to take part in active politics, since then. We used to hold regular adda sessions sitting on roadside parapets, enjoying potato croquettes with puffed rice; drinking innumerable cups of tea and puffing cigarettes. Our discussions went on anything under the sky but it would have to essentially lead to heated arguments. He was the one who always differed from the rest, bringing everything in the end to 'class-struggle' - corroborating his views with theories acclaimed over the world.
We even thought of staging an act in our locality. It was me who made the script - my first play-script, from a short story I found in a bengali magazine. We would carry out our rehearsals at his house. It was during the holidays after our Higher Secondary examinations. His parents were both eminent professors of history and political science. There was a huge library in his home containing one of the finest collections of books pertaining to subjects of almost all kinds. We borrowed many fiction and non-fiction titles from his library some of which had stayed with me for long. He was brought up on books from childhood and had a logical understanding of everything.
The story of the play had the main protagonist being a poor man who ran a small shop selling croquettes and samosas . His livelihood was threatened one day when an eatery opened up near his shop. Many of his regular customers now ran away to the new eatery which sold all such snacks in clean attractive packets with various sauces and salads in accompaniment; and all of these at prices much lower than the humble shop-owner's.
The poor man consecutively ran to the small and big shots of the local ruling party and complained. They assured him that they would sit with the restaurant owner and find a solution to the problem - after all the poor man was a loyal voter of their party. The solution could be that a few items would be called-off from the menu of the restaurant, which the small shop-owner sold; the party babus convinced him. Time went by and his sales kept on reducing. The man ran from pillar to post in the party office and was reassured every time that good news is on the way. Suddenly one day he received a notice from the municipality that he had to immediately shift his shop away from the location or it would be demolished, like many other illegal establishments being done. He looked up at the eatery, running busily as usual, standing tall as if in mockery to his condition. The climax of the play showed the man in a fit of rage tearing away the party flag, the one to which he had sworn allegiance to, since years. The play ended here.
But my friend was not ready to accept such an ending which showed his party, his ism in bad light. He wanted to alter the ending such that deceived by the men he trusted, the poor croquette seller now joins hands with many others like him and fight their cause, but with the flag in his hand.
Every year during the Durga Pujas, we used to hang-out at a favourite pandal from early morning till late at night. Be it a festival or other times, he was always clad in a pair of dusty jeans and white round collared T-shirt with 'Revolution' and all such stuff printed on it; a jute bag swung over his shoulder which had copies of a little magazine he got published every month.
What amazed me about him was the nonchalance with which he shed all inhibitions and approached the pandal-hoppers into having a peek at his magazine. ' Dada , just three rupees. Believe me, I've failed in my college exams while staying late at nights, preparing the contents and running to publishers. Please give value to a student's hard work. You'll surely like it. It contains articles related to current topics, short stories; No, no Sir, this is not my party's propaganda. 'Wait a minute kaku ..'I watched him with surprise, stopping the passers-by who probably mistook him to be a volunteer of the ' puja mandap' , guiding them through another way to avoid rush. I was aware about his debating skills, but could not help admire his marketing skills, now - for I really found people amused by his words taking his magazines into their hands and reaching out for their purses. I wondered where he could reach in his career later, given his natural talent at sales and marketing. However if he only got time from his life's mission of creating class-less society and gave some time to himself; I told myself.
Almost twenty-five years have passed now; I last met him or any of my friends of that group. I hardly could've, given that I've changed jobs, cities. Moreover, life's responsibilities left me with little time so that I could visit my old friends at the place where I grew up. I searched Facebook and many other social sites frantically but could not find him. And then suddenly like a bolt from the blue the news of his death reached me. One of my friends found me on Facebook at last and I learnt from him that this close friend of mine had gone insane in his last years and was admitted in asylum where he hanged himself from the ceiling. I so gathered that he was unable to take the recent changes in political happenings around him - the fall of the doctrine of socio-economic reform which he believed in, the world over; and the change of values within his own political fraternity.
