Briefcase

I dont know if any one of you is old enough to remember the briefcase. From my earliest childhood, it was something that symbolised the transition from youth to manhood. Muhalla bhaiyas who used to lounge around in the club-rooms, playing carrom or cricket or generally discussing global issues, day in day out, without break or dip in enthusiasm, suddenly became respectable and serious when they landed jobs and started taking the 8:55 bus to office with a briefcase in hand. You no longer could greet them and ask them the East Bengal Mohun Bagan score of the previous day's match, or whether the latest Mithun starrer was worth watching or not (you could of course ask him these when he held court in the club in the evenings, but then you would have to wait till he has finished a lengthy discourse on how office politics is ruining the work culture in India, or how had ticked off his boss when he had dared to ask him stay an hour after office to complete some urgent work).

Not everyone was so lucky though. There were some poor souls who got jobs where the office did not give them briefcases to carry (after all, not everyone can aspire to be an Insurance Salesman, Maintenance Engineer or Sales Executive). These guys were treated with absolute disdain and we used to ridicule these poor bastards when we used to occupy our newly inherited positions of importance in the club house. 'Imagine', we used to say, with a superior smirk and knowing winks, 'Biltuda goes to office without a briefcase and have you seen the superior expression on his face? As if we dont know what a shitpot he must have joined'.

One such dada must have shared the same opinion as us. And after scrapping through his BCom Pass and landing a job somewhere, he started for his first day in office with a gleaming VIP swinging in his hands, looking as if the moment he would be approached, he would point the damn thing and mutter 'go ahead, make my day'. But we knew Keshtoda, and his academic record and his personal magnetism. And we were pretty sure that it was quite beyond him to secure a job that would require him to carry a briefcase. This was discussed in great detail over the next few days and finally a courageous handful of decided to waylay him one morning and demand to inspect what was inside.

That fateful morning, we waited at the curb, with hearts beating slightly faster, but secure in the knowledge that the para would get a scoop that would be talked about for ages to come, ensuring out place in para folklore for eternity to come. Sure enough, Keshtoda was challenged, his briefcase siezed, opened, while he blabbered in forced indignation, shoulders already stooping, downcast eyes fighting back tears as we all stood around his open briefcase containing a ridiculous collection of children's books and stuff and his tiffin of a banana and 2 slices of sugar sprinkled bread.

In the evening it all came out. Frustrated at not getting a job he had joined some social organisation that goes to slums and teaches children how to read write and stuff like that. They pay conveyance (state transport) and a princely sum of 20 bucks a day for lunch. We all had a great time that day, ribbing him for his worthless life, the other successful dadas explaining to him that he should have gone to them, they would have arranged something for him, why even the peon in their office gets 750 bucks a month!

Keshtoda took all this quite well. He just sat there quietly, sometimes giving a rueful smile when someone said something particularly funny (like Ajitda telling him to start helping our uncles with their housework and chores and then all families in the para will pool in with some contribution for him), sometimes clenching his hands when Romada declared that these NGO-s basically supply young women and children to the Arab world (and Romada would know, his uncle was settled in Canada for the last 28 years), but generally disappointing all us neither by breaking down or trying to fight for and defend himself.

Anyway, from the next day onwards Keshtoda started going to 'work' with a jhola slung on his shoulders. Initial ribbing died down soon enough as our interest moved on to other topics and targets. We all moved on in life, in turn got briefcases of our own. Some fell, some soared. The briefcase no longer generated respect. Kids were moving around with mobile phones and laptops. Some carried only combs to work. Some sat at home and earned trading shares on the phone. But all of them had one thing in common. Everyone moved like an automation. Nobody smiled, nobody stopped to talk to people they crossed in the streets. Nobody came to the club room anymore. Nobody knew whether their next door neighbor was alive or dead. Nobody had anyone to talk to when they felt lost and hopeless and needed someone to talk about their memories or their fears or their hopes.

Except Keshtoda. He looked as serene as ever. He looked fulfilled, satisfied and totally at peace with himself. Someone was saying that he was working as an advisor to Unesco. Someone was saying that he might go to the US soon to deliver a paper. But one thing I knew. The briefcase I had lent him when I started using a laptop looked like it had finally found its way back home.