Our fear was caused by the unique topography of Venice.
La Serenissima – the Most Serene Queen of the Adriatic – comprises 116 islands linked by 423 pedestrian-only bridges spanning 117 canals, which aren’t called canals but ‘rii’ (pronounced: ri). What filled us with unease was a rio, – singular for rii – that we had to cross to reach the train station. The rio had to be crossed using a steep, overcrowded bridge, up which I’d have to lug two suitcases, a laptop carrier, and a duffle bag. Recovering from a painful leg injury, Bunny was unable to help.
In theory, I could haul one suitcase up the bridge, leave it there, come down, pick up the second suitcase and carry it up. But the first suitcase would be left unattended while I came down to fetch the second, an unwise proposition in that Venice, like all cities, has its fair – or unfair – share of light-fingered citizenry that does not make distinctions between ‘meum’ and ‘teum’ – mine and thine – when it comes to movable property.
This situation was akin to one of those mind games in which you have a sheep, a goat, and a tiger you have to ferry across a river in a boat that will accommodate only you and one animal. How do you ensure that one of the herbivores is not left with the carnivore sans your protection and ends up being protein intake? I’ve never been able to solve this poser. But the two-suitcase problem was resolved when Google came up with ‘Hasan Porter Service – Your Ultimate Luggage Carrier’.
Bunny WhatsApped Hasan who responded. ‘Apni ki Bangali? (Are you Bengali?)’ Bunny hazarded. The answer came back in Bengali script, which Bunny managed to read. It reassured us that ‘nischoi’ – without doubt – Hasan himself, or one of his colleagues, would be there at the appointed time and place to be of aid and succour to us. Like other places in Italy, Venice has many Bengali speakers, largely, but not exclusively, from Bangladesh. Many, if not most, are no longer the stereotypical South Asian migrant haunting touristy bars and restaurants in vain attempts to vend wilted flowers redolent of funerary solemnity while a silent ditty of displacement seems to play in the background: ‘I beg your pardon/ I never promised you a rose garden/ Along with the sunshine/ You gotta have a little rain sometime/ I beg your pardon/I never promised you a rose garden…’ Bangla is the lingua franca that keeps the wheels of Italian commerce turning – by running daily-needs mini marts to chefing and staffing restaurants, and managing other public services.
On our last night in Venice, we have ‘cena’ (dinner) in Alla Palazzina, an erstwhile palazzo turned into a fine-dining venue. Presiding over the hushed elegance is Italy-born Sunny who, apart from Bengali and Italian, is fluent in English, French, and for all I know in that arcane form of oral communication employed by people who call themselves ‘Nu Yawkers’.
Sunny keeps a watchful eye on his protege, Fatiq, recently arrived from Bangladesh who, with surgical skill, fillets the turbot we’ve asked for.
We converse in a medley of English, Italian, and Bengali, and I realise that Bunny and I have spoken more Bangla in two weeks in Italy than we have in the 37 years since we left Calcutta for Delhi. I also realise that Bengali and Italian have a common musicality: Italian is quotidian opera; Bangla everyday Robindrosongeet.
The next morning, Hasan Porter Service, represented by Abul, arrives with his cart that propels the luggage with ease over the bridge and onto the station for a reasonable pre-arranged fee. And as the train slides away from the platform, is it my imagination, or do I hear that Bengali word that encapsulates departure and return, valediction and welcome back? ‘Ashoon…’
