As I accompanied Thakma to the CPI Party Office ( Bhupesh Bhaban) at 162/B AJC Bose Road, I tried to recollect the last time when I had been with her to any place. In fact I remembered distinctly a time years back when I had vowed never to share a journey with her.
I was seven, and stranded in the middle of a rush hour traffic at Park Circus crossing, getting late for an eye checkup. On either side of me, were two individuals who, in spite of sharing a matrimonial bond and a common ideological platform, held widely different views on things that really mattered. The mode of transportation, for instance. While my grandfather, looking white and tall in his favorite cufflinked shirt ( the only remnant from his feudal past) coolly hailed a cab, Thakma argued vehemently in favor of getting into the overcrowded mini, coming our way. The outcome being, they parted ways, Thakma leaping onto the mini, her pleading voice attaining a pitch familiar to people who had seen her in ‘action’. I sat firmly in the cab, swearing allegiance to the cufflinks, and bidding farewell forever to the Ila Mitra brand of fiery Stoicism.
বা ঙা ল না মা 
