ONE
At the central part of the city, the main road runs between the gate of the closed mill and two-storied building recently bought by Professor Nihar Chowdhury of Kolkata University. While the ground floor is occupied by some old tenants, the couple settles down in the first floor with their one girl child, Siddha, who has been an occupant of a wheelchair for six years. She has large sensitive eyes and polio stricken legs.

She sits at the balcony in the morning and afternoon, silently looking around to see things - trams with metallic horns, the rushing porters carrying large sacks of goods, the children going to school on foot, quarrelling with each other. She sees the group of lambs with their serial number grafted on their skin under the canning of a shepherd by the side of the tramline. She sees the red coloured air-conditioned car, driven by a chauffeur, taking the rich businessman clad in a white piece of cloth and a towel for a traditional bath at the river.

And above all, she sees the white pigeons with feathery shocks, who are the treat to watch. They, when freed of their cage, roam around for a while inside the compound in fullest alacrity. Then, they spread their wings and fly around...then up...in rounds...stage by stage.

Apart from the pedestrians, two pairs of eyes follow the pigeons - one Murli's and the other Siddha's - gazing in wonder. Their sight follow the pigeon's flight ...up...and up...and up.

These two persons of different age, sex and backgrounds have one thing in common - they look at things in wonder. They live to see them passionately.

The large iron gates of the oil mill have a small gate within. Murli sometimes goes in and out through it. The girl has an overview of the inside of the mill from her balcony. And by watching birds, they become friends. Siddha calls him "Paira dadu" (Grandpa of pigeons) and Murli reciprocates by calling her "Khukumoni" (Little girl.)

The sun rises up and goes down daily on the bridge of wonder stylized over the flutter of wings. The mill, closed a couple of months back, awaits a transformation into a housing estate.


TWO
Two months back, the mill was running, and, on any working day, the machines did not stop grinding seeds to oil, which was then packed and given a label of purity to move for the wholesale market.

Our days pass like the droppings of a pigeon. Small and weak. It comes automatically to go in the same way without any effect. The days of the rich pass like elephant's dung. Heavy and solid. With lots of happenings. Ha...Ha...Ha..." All present there except Murli laughed, enjoying the joke of Kishorichand during lunch hour in the Mohini Oil Mill in the congested business area of the city, where sacks and containers are more than plants and trees.

Murli did not enjoy the joke because he was deaf.

He was silent putting paper labels on the oil tins - Pure Mustard Oil. For thirty-five years - fixing up labels...perfectly on the top of the tin without a word. Although the purity of oil has gradually been declining over a period of time, the label remains bright with confirmation of purity. One may be baffled! Pure - Which one? Product or its label?

And that afternoon, before all the workers, the proprietor declared mill closure. He was accompanied by a heavy police force and a couple of lawyers. Janaki Prasad Jain, the millionaire with fat gold chains around his large neck stepped out of his imported car and dragged his heavy body to the middle of the gate surrounded by his henchmen. His manager announced the company's decision while he was chewing mouthful betel leaf. Five minute affair. The mill was closed. The labourers were asked to vacate the mill. They were all speechless, directionless but fiery. Kishorichand grumbled at the back of the crowd, "So, the son of the bitch delivered a large dung!!! That covers us all for ever."

The comment had no ripple. The air was too heavy to breathe in.

Janaki babu spat on the floor and called Murli only. He closely drew picture in the air to make him understand that he would be receiving a regular allowance every month for looking after the pigeons in the cages within the compound - the only inmates that the proprietor did not try to bother with closure. So, it was decided that from next day onwards, the mill would have one shanty for Murli and one cage for the pigeons.

After the fleet of cars left, sparing smoky doom, the workers came to their senses and precisely to hatred on both Janakibabu and Murli. "You, broker of the owner! Bloody tout! Bastard! Now we understand why you are not allowed retirement." They all rushed to Murli. He was beaten to a pulp and remained unconscious on the floor, lying in the dust for hours.

Next day saw a huge commotion of angry faces of workers outside the shut down gates - gate meetings, red flags, festoons and slogan shouting. The cause of closure was the topic that had been rolling on in the discussions, followed by an escalating price of land for housing projects or shopping malls. The possibility of seeing the oil mill owner as promoter spiraled in. What a transformation of oil to bricks!

Inside, Murli, after recovering, although still limping, was busy settling down with his only job - care taking the pigeons. He had been doing it earlier due to love for these feather friends. Now onwards, it would be his only occupation.

With the days went by, the squatting became lighter, the strength of protest became thinner. The air carried less slogans. Festoons wore a faded look. The oil mill became a place of eight pigeons and their caretaker. Gone were the days of the sounds of the large machines grinding mustard seeds to refined oil. Silence prevailed round the clock except for the intermittent chirping of birds with droppings - lean and weak.

One day came, when the number of squatters became none before the closed gates. That day, Janakibabu, the mill owner signed the sale deed in favour of a real estate company for a large residential project on the compound.


THREE
The flight of pigeons...in rounds...moving up...and up. The flight is seen by the old man and the girl- an old and tired man with thick glasses and the other, fresh with clear eyes. Both look up in wonder, till the pigeons get back in return loop, when their small wings are tired and they are hungry enough. They slowly come down on the rooftop of the house of Laha's. Then move down to the parapet of the house of Saha's. And finally they take the last lap to the ground of the mill crossing over the rusted metal gates, strolling reluctantly to their cages - all under the care of Murli, who is relieved for good since he may not have to put label on the tins anymore.

On the other hand, Siddha cannot walk but flies instead on the wings of the pigeons...deep into the blue, in the sun or in the rain. Her mind reaches the cosmic height of wonder that makes her walk into another day enthusiastically.


FOUR
"Paira dadu, today, I have been able to draw a full picture! Do you want to see it?" Siddha shouts at Murli from the balcony waving a piece of paper.

Murli looks up perplexed. He nods after understanding her gestures.

"Then, catch it, it's gift to you!" She throws the page down. It reaches Murli, after taking a few laps, and Murli sees that the page has a flying pigeon on it.

"I see that. I know that it will be one from our backyard. Good, very good. Keep it up."

Murli is excited and cheerful with the page and the pigeon on it. He laughs at the girl and says "Very good! You must be a good painter in future. I shall paste it on the wall inside, let them also know how they look like!"

For a long time of his life, Murli has not been so happy and cheerful.


FIVE
That afternoon, a huge workforce, with bulldozers under a bunch of civil engineers, reaches the mill compound. Jaminibabu, brother of Janakibabu calls upon Murli to vacate the place within half an hour, as the measurement is about to start. All the temporary shanties and shades are broken down. More than a hundred workmen are around along with the policemen.

Murli, with tears rolling down his cheeks, opens the door of cages as the pigeons, frightened by the mounting tension and the crowd, start moving without direction. They are yet to believe that they are all homeless. They are yet to confirm that they must not return.

Murli, without a single word, breaks the pitcher carrying his drinking water and his earthen oven to pieces as he picks up his apparel in a bag to move out.

And he is to see the last flight of pigeons, as Siddha looks on in utter confusion.

In the bewilderment, not only the caretaker, but also his subjects fall prey to the circumstances, as one of the pigeons meets the high voltage overhead electric wire and falls down on the road just like its own dropping. Within a second, a speedy truck runs over it, turning it into a paste before the eyes of all. Murli shudders, Siddha screams out, the crowd present howls behind the vehicle. The black road carries bloodstains and crashed feathers for a while. But then, no visible sign is left on the surface.

The vehicle vanishes, it's wheels roll on one after another. The pigeon goes on a trip across the city as part of the wheels to run the stretches covering zebra crossing, traffic signals, and the tramlines. Murli sits down on the ground, speechless as if his son has died. The girl leaves for her room sobbing. The other pigeons are shocked as much as their human friends are.

After some spell of turmoil, the exercise of measurement of the land starts, followed by the demolition of internal shanties. The cage of the pigeons is not spared. The pots of grain and water are lying on the ground with the torn picture created by the girl that morning.

In the event of giving home to men of high net worth, some pigeons are shown the sky. The girl, the world of shock. And old man, the pavement.

By Partha Pratim Majumder