Jingle bells jingle bells jingle all the way . . . . C.J.

V
Contrary to what the title suggests, this article is in no way related to Father Christmas. This is the story of the dying breed of indigenous businessmen in a small place called Konnagar. My grandfather had a house built in Konnagar, where he stayed after retiring from service. Naturally, that is where I spent a considerable amount of my childhood days. I remember waking up every Thursday to run off to our neighbours house for the morning Prasad. They were aged and they adored a little devil like me, thus I was a frequent visitor there. Now, almost every evening the power went out, for a minimum of a couple of hours. That period was when I heard the jingle. Staring out into the pitch black night dotted by the light from candles in houses, I heard a jingle in a distance, as the minutes passed; the rhythmic Jhun jhun jhun jhun became louder until I could see an unprotected flame bobbing along the road. I was taken aback by this and spent many an evening associating it with every possible ghoul I knew. One day, I asked my mother Maa, oi alo ta ki? meaning mother what is that light? she replied oita jhaalmuri wala, daakbo? Tui Khaabi?; I was delighted, not only was the enigmatic light revealed to be harmless; it was associated with edible goodies. After that night I was a frequent customer at the Jhaalmuri Express. Although it has been some time since I have visited Konnagar, I clearly remember the scene from the window from where I saw the jhaalmuri wala. A decade ago, it was a reflection of the moonless night sky, today; it is the depressing dazzle of headlights and tube lights. Commercialization of the area has rendered the indigenous shops and their keepers obsolete. Everything is now under one roof and one name, the jhaalmuri waalas son probably works there hauling cargo off the supply truck. Although it has proved to be beneficial for the masses in a financial way, my heart aches to see the shops where I bought toffees for 25paise closed down, so many dreams, hopes, tears, joys and memories associated with each of these closed doors. Behind every door lies a person who had hoped that the shop would be a success; that his business would thrive, then he made friends with the locals and would chat up a storm with every customer that came along, perhaps he even dreamed of leaving the shop to his successors. However, fate proved to be a heartless bitch and wrecked all those dreams, small, harmless, innocent dreams. Today, I no longer see the jhaaalmuri wala pass through the road; I do not see my neighbours (they died some time ago); I do not see the shop where I bought my first cricket bat, where I bought my first betel leaf, my first lollipop, my first marble or my first mango bite. There is light now, to light the way, the road has become our own but the journey is now foreign. And Just like that, my childhood is over, Sometimes, I just close my eyes before I go to sleep and I can almost hear a sound in the distance, it still goes Jhun jhun jhun jhun . . . .