Gaurahari turned her head and said, "Grandpa will not drive on this road."
The fat, chubby young man wearing glasses is sitting in the back seat with anxiety on his face. Feeling dizzy. The spectacles slipped and fell towards the tip of the nose. Very stupid and helpless. Showing him. Reddish aura on the fair face. What kind of danger is there for people! Who knows the danger of this boy! Gaurahari does not know so much. Need to know or what! All the people are walking in their own alleys. Those are all private alleys. The life of all people is a private alley, Gaurahari's taxi does not enter there.
The boy said, what will happen then! I need to go that very soon.
You see the procession! Who knows where the laja turn! The front may have crossed College Street, the back may not have crossed Shyambazar's Panchmatha.
But I need it very soon.
Gaurahari muttered to himself in Hindi, then what to do! Let's fly!
The boy says helplessly, see if you can turn the car around. If you go further north through Circular Road, maybe the procession can be avoided.
Gray Street is now overcrowded. The cars are rubbing their bodies in the same way as the bad boys rubbing their bodies in the crowd. A tall Plymouth came to the right of Gaurahari's taxi, leaving no room to open the door.
This is private! What kind of interference is that!
Gaurahari pronounced the English word just as Father Evans of St. Anthony's English School in Dhaka used to pronounce it. Even today, when Gaurahari occasionally speaks one and a half English, the people of understanding look at him a little. All these pronunciations were learned in that English school, to the pucca masters. However, Gaurahari did not reach the last class of St. Anthony's. For two years in a row, typhoid and polio stopped him in the middle. Typhoid took Gourahari's brain, polio took left-hand and left-foot. What a tingling sound in Gaurahari's head when still excited. Sounds crazy-crazy. After typhoid, whenever he sat down to read a book, after reading continuously for a while, two anklet-clad legs would come from the toilet somewhere on his head and dance on the stage of his head. What a squeaky sound. At that time, Gaurahari would often sit mesmerized by that sound, all the scenes in front of her eyes would be erased and a scene of emptiness would emerge. And only those words and words. Rimjhim rimjhim, the two dancing legs are spinning, the north-south-east-west is confused. All his feelings would be drowned out by that word. His father was a businessman at Baglapati Ducksite, a house in Tikatuli. He was determined to bring all the boys back to Britain. The eldest two sons crossed St. Anthony's, but did not notice. Giri Doctor, Saheb Doctor, Calcutta Specialist, no one could stop that word. Baglapati gave a lot of cheeks to his son, doctors and his own destiny. Eventually, he left school and freed Gaurahari from the impossible. Gaur used to read to the master at home a little bit. There was no pressure to read. Polio the following year. He had to go to bed again for a long time. After many treatments, a Tantric came from Meher Kalibari and said, I can cure it, but the defect will remain. Stay tuned, Sarao. Who knows what healed. But he recovered. Only the left arm and the left leg became dry and sticky. Of course, those two are not completely useless. A little weakness, which is this. Otherwise Gaurahari does all the work with them. Until caressing the girl.
Hearing Gourahari's English words, a pair of black spectacled eyes through the window of Plymouth looked at him with a slight turn of his neck. The road was jammed for Plymouth. No place to rotate. He tried to retreat a little, then a Fiat screamed from behind. Gaurahari turned his head and said to the boy, you see Gadda! The private on the right has caused trouble. Who knows how long it will take to get rid of this entanglement!
The boy pushed his pair of glasses and looked around. He said, if we can cross the procession and get a taxi from the other side, then maybe—
Do so.
Does the procession seem too big?
Gaurahari smiles, hungry people, unemployed people are all over the country. The procession must be a little bigger. Don't go ahead and see if the tail is visible.
The boy opened the door and came back a little further. There are probably a few more miles.
Saying this, the boy looked at the meter and paid. Gaur says, can you cross the procession?
Tell me where to go. I need a big emergency. They will not cross?
So give? If you go to Pero, you will plant bushes.
The boy says helplessly, then?
Gaur smiled, entered the line and joined the procession. Walk a few steps, shake a couple of slogans, change the line and go to the other side. Shake the slogan a few times again, then cut it into pieces. That is the way to cross the procession.
The boy left. A fat boy wearing such round glasses is useless in this age. Gaur in the way, and laughs. Needless to say, at one time everyone thought that Gaurahari was also useless. In this world, with two dry hands and feet and the sound of dancing in the brain, nothing can go far. Baglapati thought so and muttered. The face is a big bad armpit. Boys don't stop talking nonsense. That was the glory of his sons. Absolutely useless currency. The eldest two sons passed from Jagannath College in Dhaka, then went to Calcutta, then went to Britain. The third Gaurahari was like a half-made doll. It was as if a craftsman had suddenly stopped raising his hand while building, so the statue of Gaurahari was not finished.