what people talk about when they talk about social service

A terribly run down, barely furnished room serves as the office for this NGO, called S____. It was actually the first room as you enter the big house- falling all over the street with chipped, bare walls, half-broken windows and railings gnawed by rust. You wouldn't think it was habitable. But, it was in the middle of one of the most posh residential areas in Kolkata.
The NGO was run by a young student, little older to myself, who was studying medicine in Russia. He is quite short, has a clean-shaven face and reminds me of nobody in particular. He tried to pull the old EnglishToBengali trick on me. I'm going to speak in Bangla, he said. She, here he pointed at some strange female done up in a yellow dress sitting against the wall, is going to translate if you want her to. He laughed around at the others. Some of them chuckled. I smiled at him and asked him to speak in Russian if he so desired. He laughed and understood no more than that it was supposed to induce irreverent laughter.
They had two main objectives, he said. Educating the poor child from the slums and protecting women against domestic violence. He gave me an example about a woman who had been beaten by her husband on several occasions in Jadavpur. Apparently, he had filed an FIR against the husband and warned him off. If he continues to beat her, we'll have to go there together, probably armed with sticks, huh?- he jokes. Everybody laughs and the bottle of Sprite is passed around. Then he explains to me about a free medical check-up. It's going to be free, he explains again. For small, poor kids and women, he tells me. They don't get the same privileges as us, you know. Medical privileges you mean, I wanted to tell him, but I didn't. He's a nice, decent fellow and quoted from a Chekhov play once. I think, Uncle Vanya- but I'm not sure. Then he asked me if it was better to have a blood donation camp. It's more popular I think, he said. Yeah, I suppose so, I replied. He didn't say anything about anything else. No logistics, just a date- we'll have it on the 1st of June. Okay, I said.
In that ramshackle of a room, his mother was also present. She kept talking to me during my friend Mayakovsky's fiery speech against social injustice and refused to believe that I was trying to listen to her son. After he finished talking, another group, comprising of children, had arrived to practice for a Rabindranath function next month. Gorky's mother had started asking me what my 'special paper' was. I began explaining, quietly and unassumingly, about Foucault and Levi-Strauss. I also dropped Derrida. She got distracted and started adjusting her sari. Actually, it's European Drama I said, hopefully. She nodded and her son, now reciting Tagore in a deep, sonorous and emotional voice- now playful, then ravishing, again humorous- asked us to sit in the next room.
I sat with Stanislavsky's mother in the next room- equally under-furnished. I specialized in folk literature, she exclaimed breathlessly. But then I didn't study much. I love writing travelogues, she said. I immediately thought of Sameera Reddy in Kaalpurush. I think it was right then that I started losing faith in Buddhadev Dasgupta's realism. I wrote one on Haridwar (or maybe Rishikesh, I forget), but it didn't get published and I was shattered, she said. Oh, I yawned, looking at the ceiling. Yes, then I wrote a thing on Joy Goswami, you know. My friend assured me it was getting published from Delhi. But somehow, they said they selected another writer for the research. Some modern writers' series. You don't know how hard I worked on this. I spent days reading his poetry. I didn't know much about him, but then I read a lot and liked him somewhat. And my paper was really good, I knew it. Oh, I said, that's really bad. Yes, isn't it? (pause) Actually, I don't care that much about Joy Goswami. I just want to write something that gets published you know. Travelogues are my thing, I know.
I can see you studying all day from here, you know, she said (she had said this earlier). What? Yes, you're always on your bed (true), studying all day (not true). Through your window, you know? Oh, I said, surprised. So, this must be how that husband-murderer felt like in Rear Window- observed by Jimmy Stewart. So I know you can help me with this, Mrs. Hitchcock continued. Umm..I faltered. I'm writing this new series of ICSE books. Actually for kids you know, Science, Literature, etc. Tell me when you're free and maybe you can help me. I laughed amiably and pretended I received an SMS. No, I said, without any hesitation. I'm always free you know. I can come on Sunday, I offered. Sunday would be nice! she exclaimed. Me writing ICSE books (okay, co-writing)?
Jim Jarmusch in his beautiful and subtle film Broken Flowers taglined a simple philosophy- Sometimes life brings some strange surprises. It's probably true unlike a lot of things, now that I think of it.
Meanwhile, I could hear Doctor Zhivago recite Tagore outside and his voice flickered like a flame.