The Devi is Wearing Pink this Pujo

Swathes of Kaashphul, an azure sky and swirls of white clouds, like rich vanilla ice cream welcomed me as I stepped onto Ranchi station. The platform was teeming with people: some getting ready to go home and some like me, who had already gotten home. We negotiated the crowds and the coolies and managed to arrive all in one piece at the autorickshaw stand. Our Gem of an Uncle (will be referred to as Uncle Gem henceforth) like a conscientious host, was busy haggling with the auto-rickshaw wallahs over the fare. It wasn't easy, for they were not ready to budge by even a single Naya Paisa from the quoted one hundred and seventy rupees. This was twenty bucks more than the actual fare and for Gem Uncle and Other Half to accede to this would be a compromise of their principles. But because for the autorickshaw wallahs, we looked like the golden egged goose, they were loathed to let us off at one hundred and fifty. And so the haggling continued in true desi style as I stood watching with amusement alongwith my MIL and FIL. Suddenly a timid voice queried from behind my back: "जाना है क्या?"
I turned around to find a woman in pink standing behind me. Pink cotton coat, the kind you wore at the chemistry lab over a pink salwar kurta.
She repeated her question to me, "जाना है क्या?"
I took a few seconds to understand the situation: she was the driver from the Pink Auto Service. I had heard of these pink autorickshaws driven by women for women in other parts of the country; but I was pleasantly surprised to find a similar service in my little town. I replied happily, "हां जाना है.... ।" and would have hired her then and there out of a sense of sisterhood. But I held back a bit and like a good, thrifty desi, enquired, "कितना लेंगे?"
She replied without hesitation: "डेढ़ सौ।"
Thrilled, I yelled out to Other Half, "এ্যইইইইইই।"

Now this এ্যইইইইইই is the war cry cum clarion call of the Bong wife to her husband. It dates back to the days when the good Bengali wife never brought her husband's name to her tongue and called out to him using various euphemisms: "o go shunchho" (अजी सुनते हो), "Potlaar Baba" (पोटला के पिताजी) and other such romantic epithets. Slowly, over the centuries, the Bong wife's tongue sharpened, her patience shortened, her anchal expanded and her power heightened and the "o go shunchho" got abbreviated to the terse, business like and very powerful "Aieeeee." Each Bengali wife has a typical Aieeee which is specific to her alone and is broadcast at a particular frequency. Her husband's hearing apparatus has evolved so that he can pick up only her Aieeeee. There is never a cross connection, ever. This call is so efficient that it transmits easily over and through air, water and earth and though it can be softer than the sound of dew falling on the morning grass, it is louder than the loudest foghorn. I can personally vouch for this, because I have experienced it myself: at crowded melas, at thedeathly quiet golf course and of course at the railway station like today.
Other Half responded to the Aieeeee by looking my way askance, "Ki holo?" (What happened?) I told him, pointing to the pink lady. He didn't demur even a second. He called out to Uncle Gem, "She's willing for a hundred and fifty! What says, Uncle?"
At the first instance, only a "Oh! Ladies!" escaped Uncle Gem's lips. It did not sound too confident.
Now Uncle Gem is just that, a gem of a person and the dearest amongst all our combined clan of relatives. He is both, a father-figure and a friend-figure, a not so easy role to fulfill. But Uncle Gem does it with elan. That he is also a closet supporter of the women's emancipation movement was something that I had always suspected but I never had proof. So when notwithstanding his initial incredulity, he approved of the Pink Auto Service with a empathetic "Ok. Good!" I knew that my assessment of his closet women's emancipation support was amply vindicated.

And so the pink auto wove through the over-crowded streets of Ranchi towards our home. I sat behind the pink-clad woman driver and did what I do best: observe.
The auto body was not new. It was decorated with gaudy pink rexin trimmings and the seat we were sitting on was of the same loud colour. Our driver's uniform in contrast to the shabby worn out interiors, was clean, well fitted and pressed. I noted the slight giving away of the seams of her coat at the armpit on one side, probably caused by the sudden jerks of the steering handles. Her wavy hair was done up in a loose pony cum bun and cutely fastened with a tiny pale-pink rose clutch. She wore no jewellery except for a single black iron kada. On the glass before her were pasted pictures of her Gods, Jesus on the Cross and the Virgin Mary.
As the auto made its way towards our destination, I sat at the edge of my seat, holding onto the iron rods that framed the driver's back rest. No I wasn't scared, not of the drive but of the Pink Lady making a mistake, of her being proved a bad driver, of her failing, of me having to concede to myself : nah, she couldn't do it. But I needn't have worried. She drove beautifully; weaving skillfully in and out of that mad, unruly, hodgepodge of a traffic without glitch. She did not break the speed-limit nor did she drive timidly. She drove just like any male driver; but without the unnecessary and dangerous risks that some male autorickshawwallahs are wont to take. I will attribute this to the prudence that comes naturally to our gender. We reached our destination safe and sound and in good spirits and as Other Half rummaged in his pockets for the hundred and fifty bucks, I requested her for a photograph. She obliged with a ready smile, posing in her driver's seat. I asked her name and she told me it was मग्दालिन (Magdalene, after Mary Magdalene, one Jesus Christ's followers.) Later, as we discussed Magdalene, Other Half remarked in admiration: The lady drove so well. And not only did she drive well, she got us home almost fifteen minutes ahead of Uncle Gem, who had followed us in his car. She was able to do so because being familiar with the road and gali network of Ranchi, she had chosen the best shortcuts (without Google) to make sure we reached home in record time.

It would not have been easy to be an autorickshaw driver in Ranchi. Even though this Pink Auto Service is a government funded and supported scheme, I know it would not have been easy for a woman like Magdalene. Driving around in your own car in the city streets can never be compared to driving a commercial vehicle. The mad traffic, the jaywalking, the uncertain character and behaviour of the fare you pick up, the weird hours, the lonely destinations, the omnipresent fear of personal safety, the threat of being molested, the negative vibes from other male autorickshawwallahs and to cap it all, the common man's (and woman's) lack of faith in a woman's ability to drive (or fly a plane or man a ship or fire a weapon) would have made Magdalene's journey a tough one.

But as far as I was concerned, there was no doubt that she had made it and had emerged in flying Pink.

Pink is one of my favourite colours. I remember an incident from my past when I had to prepare a PowerPoint presentation for a meeting and I had made it on a pale pink background. My senior colleague (someone we respect and are very fond of) had been both amused and aghast at my choice of colour, for in my hyper-masculine organisation, pink is an anathema, the colour of sissies. Of course, I had had to change it, something I did in bad humour because I felt it was so sexist to assign gender to colours. That was many years ago. Today, I am quite happy that Pink is a woman's colour. It is now the colour of feminity, of freedom, of emancipation, of self confidence and of success. As a reader has just commented, Pink is the Force.

And so, this Pujo, the Devi is wearing Pink.