(This story has got no connection with any real life situation or individual, but just the author's imagination.)
In heavy morning traffic, the Mumbai roads have started roaring in different tones. When the arteries chocked too much, there was also dooming silence intermittently. A young man in formal dress was alighting from a taxi and darting into the reception of The Oberoi. In the hurry, he couldn’t respond to a nice welcome gesture offered by the well dressed guards at the main door.
After a quick enquiry at the reception he rushed to the elevator. Though the fragrance and music inside were enticing, the man seemed unreceptive to all. He hooked his eyes at the scrolling display. His destiny is the tenth floor. Any halt before that was intolerable.
He just glanced at his wristwatch. It’s 11am. Exactly the time told for him to face the interview board. The door was opened and a young beautiful executive popped out and tweeted, “Mr. Ramkumar Mukhopadhyay, please!” “I’m here”, the man replied, hiding his embarrassment under a deliberate smile. Inside, a secretary was sitting with displeasure on his face. “Good morning Sir! Sorry to tell that you are late by two and a half hours. We have been trying at your mobile, but that was in off mode. The board could but get a confirmation from the airport that you have landed; and from your hotel that you have already left for this place. Please leave your credentials on my table for a usual verification”.
Late by two and a half hours! While boarding the flight previous night from Addis Ababa, his smart phone and wristwatch were set to Ethiopian time which was two and a half hours behind the Indian. Wiping with kerchief a drop of sweat that was rolling down the right side of his forehead, Mr. Mukhopadhyay submitted his credentials at the table. “Now get in for the interview, Sir. Best of luck!” the young executive replied smiling.
Ramkumar Mukhopadhyay. One of the handpicked refugee management experts very familiar at the UNHCR head quarters, Geneva. Only because of that single reason that the interview board was forced to wait from 11am to 1.30pm just for a single candidate. The interview was only a formality. As soon as a concurrence was obtained from the Government of India, he was deputed as Director in charge of refugees in the north-east states. His duty was to see the veracity of those who claim to be refugees in those regions; whether enough amenities are provided for genuine refugees; whether human rights prevail there and so on. For a man who had been indulged in the boiling refugee matters in Ethiopia and other African nations, this Indian assignment was more or less an easy break.
That day, on the bed after dinner, his mind was churning over certain issues: first, falling late for the important rendezvous; second, carelessly keeping the mobile switched off.... “Had Susanna was with me, such blunders would not have occurred” he heaved a sigh.
Susanna. Sri Lankan brilliance in the form of a 26-year-old young female. It was during his third assignment by UNHCR that Mukhopadhyay met Susanna for the first time. It was all a mess inside the Somali refugee camps which was a cluster of shaky sheds with corrugated tin walls and roofs. Susanna was junior assistant to Mukhopadhyay who was in full charge of the camp’s protection under the UN. Gradually Susanna crept into the entire life of Mukhopadhyay. He woke up to her sweet kisses and slept at her feather touch. His speeches had inputs provided by Susanna. He trotted the globe according to travels plans immaculately prepared by his sweetie. Even after five years of such a fanciful life, they were not married. This always smouldered in Susanna’s mind. Once she vented by saying “I don’t want to live a refugee life”; another occasion she made it a point: “If we do not marry now, time will go and it will be too late for that to happen”. Each time Mukhopadhyay replied with no words but shrugs and laughter.
Susanna is now away from Mukhopadhyay at some place which the latter does not know. More than 500 days have already passed like this.
*****
Today Mukhopadhyay takes charge at his Guwahati office. He never liked sitting at a cabin and relying on field staffs. Day two onwards he goes in the field for reconnaissance. On his way to the lower Assam camps, there was a long queue of vehicles waiting. Boarder Roads Organization was fast repairing part of a road that was caved in by abrupt floods of Brahmaputra. After a long crawl, his vehicle reached a refugee surveillance centre. Nobody was in the office. Seats were almost empty. “What the hell is going on here? Where are the guys?” Mukhopadhyay was shouting angrily.
His growl definitely meant that any lame reason is unsolicited. A pin drop silence prevailed. Far end of the silence was disturbed by a faint roar of the Brahmaputra; and its near end by these female words: “Sorry Sir! May I humbly bring to your kind attention that this is already lunch time for this centre? You are late by two and a half hours than the time that was faxed to this centre”.
At first Mukhopadhyay felt a thunderbolt and later enjoyed it as music of his soul. He looked up and saw Susanna standing up. She looked majestic in sari. Her table carried a name board that stated “Mrs. Susanna D’zuza, Centre Coordinator”. One D’zuza has already possessed her.
Without any reply Mukhopadhyay walked into the refugee shelters. He soon indulged in making conversations with the inhabitants and became one among them.
Suddenly it rained. An old inhabitant lamented, “This year rain is a late comer. Untimely rains can only bring flash floods and destroy our land”. Mukhopadhyay managed to reciprocate with a smile. A smile is something that a refugee rarely sees.
In heavy morning traffic, the Mumbai roads have started roaring in different tones. When the arteries chocked too much, there was also dooming silence intermittently. A young man in formal dress was alighting from a taxi and darting into the reception of The Oberoi. In the hurry, he couldn’t respond to a nice welcome gesture offered by the well dressed guards at the main door.
After a quick enquiry at the reception he rushed to the elevator. Though the fragrance and music inside were enticing, the man seemed unreceptive to all. He hooked his eyes at the scrolling display. His destiny is the tenth floor. Any halt before that was intolerable.
He just glanced at his wristwatch. It’s 11am. Exactly the time told for him to face the interview board. The door was opened and a young beautiful executive popped out and tweeted, “Mr. Ramkumar Mukhopadhyay, please!” “I’m here”, the man replied, hiding his embarrassment under a deliberate smile. Inside, a secretary was sitting with displeasure on his face. “Good morning Sir! Sorry to tell that you are late by two and a half hours. We have been trying at your mobile, but that was in off mode. The board could but get a confirmation from the airport that you have landed; and from your hotel that you have already left for this place. Please leave your credentials on my table for a usual verification”.
Late by two and a half hours! While boarding the flight previous night from Addis Ababa, his smart phone and wristwatch were set to Ethiopian time which was two and a half hours behind the Indian. Wiping with kerchief a drop of sweat that was rolling down the right side of his forehead, Mr. Mukhopadhyay submitted his credentials at the table. “Now get in for the interview, Sir. Best of luck!” the young executive replied smiling.
Ramkumar Mukhopadhyay. One of the handpicked refugee management experts very familiar at the UNHCR head quarters, Geneva. Only because of that single reason that the interview board was forced to wait from 11am to 1.30pm just for a single candidate. The interview was only a formality. As soon as a concurrence was obtained from the Government of India, he was deputed as Director in charge of refugees in the north-east states. His duty was to see the veracity of those who claim to be refugees in those regions; whether enough amenities are provided for genuine refugees; whether human rights prevail there and so on. For a man who had been indulged in the boiling refugee matters in Ethiopia and other African nations, this Indian assignment was more or less an easy break.
That day, on the bed after dinner, his mind was churning over certain issues: first, falling late for the important rendezvous; second, carelessly keeping the mobile switched off.... “Had Susanna was with me, such blunders would not have occurred” he heaved a sigh.
Susanna. Sri Lankan brilliance in the form of a 26-year-old young female. It was during his third assignment by UNHCR that Mukhopadhyay met Susanna for the first time. It was all a mess inside the Somali refugee camps which was a cluster of shaky sheds with corrugated tin walls and roofs. Susanna was junior assistant to Mukhopadhyay who was in full charge of the camp’s protection under the UN. Gradually Susanna crept into the entire life of Mukhopadhyay. He woke up to her sweet kisses and slept at her feather touch. His speeches had inputs provided by Susanna. He trotted the globe according to travels plans immaculately prepared by his sweetie. Even after five years of such a fanciful life, they were not married. This always smouldered in Susanna’s mind. Once she vented by saying “I don’t want to live a refugee life”; another occasion she made it a point: “If we do not marry now, time will go and it will be too late for that to happen”. Each time Mukhopadhyay replied with no words but shrugs and laughter.
Susanna is now away from Mukhopadhyay at some place which the latter does not know. More than 500 days have already passed like this.
*****
Today Mukhopadhyay takes charge at his Guwahati office. He never liked sitting at a cabin and relying on field staffs. Day two onwards he goes in the field for reconnaissance. On his way to the lower Assam camps, there was a long queue of vehicles waiting. Boarder Roads Organization was fast repairing part of a road that was caved in by abrupt floods of Brahmaputra. After a long crawl, his vehicle reached a refugee surveillance centre. Nobody was in the office. Seats were almost empty. “What the hell is going on here? Where are the guys?” Mukhopadhyay was shouting angrily.
His growl definitely meant that any lame reason is unsolicited. A pin drop silence prevailed. Far end of the silence was disturbed by a faint roar of the Brahmaputra; and its near end by these female words: “Sorry Sir! May I humbly bring to your kind attention that this is already lunch time for this centre? You are late by two and a half hours than the time that was faxed to this centre”.
At first Mukhopadhyay felt a thunderbolt and later enjoyed it as music of his soul. He looked up and saw Susanna standing up. She looked majestic in sari. Her table carried a name board that stated “Mrs. Susanna D’zuza, Centre Coordinator”. One D’zuza has already possessed her.
Without any reply Mukhopadhyay walked into the refugee shelters. He soon indulged in making conversations with the inhabitants and became one among them.
Suddenly it rained. An old inhabitant lamented, “This year rain is a late comer. Untimely rains can only bring flash floods and destroy our land”. Mukhopadhyay managed to reciprocate with a smile. A smile is something that a refugee rarely sees.
- Sivakumar K.P.
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