Tintin reports

Of late, I came to know about an interesting blog. This blogger, who happens to be a resident of Calcutta, the good old middle-class-dominated City of Joy. Below is what he wrote in one of his posts. Happy reading…

Bhudu has always taken Buladi seriously. For him, the pint-sized boudi next-door packs quite a punch. She has mastered the art of getting the point across throwing caution to the winds and has an in-your-face approach. No ludo or hadudu for her.

He steps outside, looks around to see if anyone saw him, wears his shades…and then disappears into the crowd.

Naturally, Bhudu practises what Buladi preaches and expects a pat on the back. But instead, he got strange stares and silent admonitions the first time he visited a chemist to buy a pack of condoms.

Unmindful of the attention he might attract, Bhudu had walked into a chemist shop a few years ago and asked for a pack of condoms. Mind you, there were three people around – a mother with her daughter, a parar changra chhele and a middle-aged bhadralok (quite an ensemble). With little knowledge of the variety on offer, he had no idea whether to go for flavoured or plain or dotted and had asked the man on the counter to get him one — any one for that matter (what the heck!).

Bhudu was probably a little too rude (can’t blame him for that. He had little time in hand before mom returned home) since he was in a hurry. But he was not prepared for what happened next. A hush descended on the shop, the man on counter started scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, the mother clutched on to her kid and gave Bhudu a stern side glance, the changra chhele smirked, the bhadralok cleared his throat and asked the chemist: “Dada, katokkon dariye thakbo? Taratari korun.” (How long should I wait? Please hurry up.)

The naïve Bhudu was yet to realise what was going on. After all, he had assumed, at least two of the three people (if not all), have used condoms. So what was the fuss all about?

The bhadralok’s rebuke got the chemist going, but it was evident that he was not his usual self. He kept fumbling with the medicines, dropping the strips and even getting his calculations all wrong. And to make matters worse, by then a kakima had walked in. “Dada, ek pata Crocin deben?” (I want a strip of Crocin), she requested. It seemed the chemist was looking for this breather. He rushed inside the shop to get the pills. But this sealed his fate.

With the raging testosterones rushing to his brains…well let’s keep it to that…Bhudu hollered out: “Dada, amar condomgulo din.” (Get me my condoms)

That was it. The mother stomped out of the shop tugging her daughter along, who rightly pointed out that they were yet to get their pills. “Kono dorkar nei. Beshi peke gachho,” she yelled back to her perfectly logical and dumbfounded daughter. The bhadralok, who had had enough — collected his medicines and rushed out too, forgetting his umbrella in the process. The kakima, who had come into the scene late, was too shocked to react. Only the changra chhele (really respect him for this) kept his face straight this time.

The chemist, who by then, had figured out that his shop’s reputation was ruined beyond repair, came out with a resigned look, got hold of a folding ladder and stepped up to the top of the shelves. There, he rummaged through rows of pills of all shapes and sizes and then dug out what I was looking for. “Eita cholbe to?” (will this do?), he had enquired.

“Dourobe,” pat came the reply from Bhudu.

Since then, Bhudu has grown wiser and learnt to be discrete while buying condoms. He has also experimented with variety and settled for the exact brand and type which he prefers. So, these days, he goes to a chemist’s and specifically says what he wants in a hushed tone, avoiding undue attention from everyone around. The man on the counter suddenly looks like he is on a secret mission and vanishes inside the shop for some time before coming out with a white packet that fittingly, looks suspicious enough. Money changes hands and Bhudu slips it inside his bag.

Now, below are a few words from my side.

What bothers us? Ignorance, civic sense or simply because this is not the way we like it? (Yes, we like it, the way it comes, but, somehow, we don’t have the courage to admit …

True, we forget, it is a necessity, nothing else…

I feel, each and every adult (both psychologically and physically) person must (I repeat must) always carry at least one condom in his wallet.

Actually, we do not have any problem seeing the neatly (?) designed chemists’ shops, with condom packs, oils and tablets that claim to be sexual energiser (Really?) in front row of the showcases, but, we feel ashamed if somebody asks for a pack of condoms… How funny…

See man, they display those packs like nothing, but, I think, at the same time, they do not want to sell them out. Is it?

We, the so called ‘bhadraloks’, do stand by the road-side hawkers, who sells some oils, again they claim to be sexual energisers, and do hear what those people say…  sometimes, we peep what they show… they generally show some X-rated pictures… Hm, some even buy those ‘bloody’ oils… But, still, we feel awkward and became snobbish if somebody asks for a pack of condoms at a chemists shop. Hey, man, from where do these people buy condoms? From roadside hawkers? Or they don’t even bother to use one? So, is our society igniting unprotected sex?

This is what we are, how we are….