The Lad from Habibjung

When young Dasu decided to unleash his tongue

On the windward side of the green mountains of the Sylhet district was Dasu’s village. Following the motorable road connecting the highway to Dasu’s Dharmanagar village, one had to take a north-facing right turn to enter his ancestral home. Back in 1930s houses were anything but matchboxes that we live in today. When one talked about his house, that too in the countryside of Bangladesh, he meant a sprawling area with elaborate thriving space even for the smallest herbs.

 The first block included a phiri (a barren land for children to play) on the right and a palm grove on the left. Crossing this, was the Kachari Bari, which was used by Dasu’s father as an Ayurvedic dispensary. Guests and travellers, who boarded in such households quite often, also put up here. On a regular day, the patients and outsiders were welcome till that portion. Because next block was dol shala. Here all the religious ceremonies took place. And only during festivals, the outsiders could step in and become a part of the festivity. A mighty Amloki tree looked over this area from centre and Keya shrubs stood hand in hand creating a circle to preserve the serendipity associated to this space. Then came Gopat ; the location for today’s anecdote from Dasu’s early boyhood. Gopat happened to be a pathway exclusively meant for cattle. This area was prone to waterlogging and flooding in monsoon. So it turned into a muddy bog laden with cattle fodder, urine and excreta… a fun place for children to dunk in, get dirty and create all sorts of nuisance.

In those days, schooling did not start before the boy turned five. So once he could sneak out of the innermost tier of the house, he was not called for till the lunchtime. That monsoon morning, Dasu and Hiru decided to cease the day and indulge in forbidden thrill of taking some wholesome splashes in the Gopat. But as they say, man proposes and God disposes! While they were filling their cups of innocent pleasure, with other Garoan boys (the adolescent shepherds), Dasu’s father, who had a late start that day, overheard cries of frolic from his worship area in Dol Shala. 

An otherwise calm man, quite amicable to children, Dasu’s father, however, wasn’t in his best mood on that day. Unfortunately,  Dasu and his cousin neither had any clue of Mashoi Da’s (Dasu’s father disciples called him by that name) presence nor were they aware of his current temperament.

At first he couldn’t believe that his son and nephew were a party to that boisterous gang. He walked few steps closer to the spot, to confirm his apprehension. Then the family-head, seething with anger, tramped to Kachari Bari and delegated a couple of his disciples to fetch the boys from the puddle. Without much ado, they jumped into action and in no time brought the jostling kids to their reverent Mashoi Da. Inexperienced of his father’s wrath, Dasu continued expressing his dissatisfaction by mumbling and grumbling and trying to free himself from the clutches of his father’s disciples. This infuriated his father all the more. And he summoned his disciples to fasten his son along with Hiru against a pala (a pillar) of the Kachari Bari. Nandalal, the underdog, grabbed this opportunity to impress his Mashoi Da. He ran to the Garoan lads, snatched a rope from them and tied his best knot so that the little imps could not even show a wriggle.

Dasu was not the kind who would resort to silent submission. To protest against his father’s punishment he came up with this bright idea of using his tongue. Out came… “ Shala… Pungir puth…” and many such words that the Garoans applied on their errant cattle. Those were invariably directed towards his father’s disciples, especially Nandalal. But naïve little Dasu was not aware that his father was still within the auditory range. Mashoi Da was walking away. But these words uttered by his son made him stop and turn around. Dasu could see his father’s face turn red. He was fuming through his nose. He rubbed his hands and Nandalal handed him a singla (a cane stick).  

In those days, spanking was legitimate. And after hearing Dasu’s prolific vocabulary, his Sanskrit Scholar of a father, could not help his barometer from breaking the boiling point.

It was lunchtime. Dasu’s grandma, like every other day came out on her prowl to huddle up the children and take them to the kitchen. It was only then that she found Dasu and Hiru, still tied to the pala, panting and drooping in pain. She loosened the knot immediately and tugged them into a warm embrace while weeping and murmuring prayers.

 Dasu’s mother was called upon.  She hustled in response; wobbling, trembling and gasping for breath as Durga would be born that autumn. A child was hanging from her neck and clinging to her waist. This one wasn’t hers though. She stood sheepishly in front of her mother-in-law, with her eyes fixed on the matriarch’s toenail. Her son and Hiru were still hiding behind their grandmother, peeping out curiously to watch the turn of events. Poor lady! She was feeling so numb that even pulling her son to her in order to check his wounds did not occur to her. Even if that had occurred to her, she couldn’t because that would violate the hierarchy of the household.

 It was a belief that a child, especially a boy-child, till the age of five was an image of God. In many cases, he remained so to his mother even when he had become an adult. But someone had to be blamed for the fiasco. Hence Dasu’s mother. She was not entitled to any such privilege. And as always, she had to bear the final brunt.

* Image courtesy: Google Image

Chasing Poetry

After ma's passing away, I've started dividing my memory into two halves: The Ma Days and Without Ma Days. Since Without Ma Days is only about a month and I am still brooding on what is happening, allow me to hatch incidents(for the time being one) from Ma Days.

This episode I name:  Chasing Poetry.

As those who know me, know Ma, should also know the kind of bond we shared. She was actually a person who could understand me better than I can ever comprehend myself. May be all mothers have this quality. But all mothers are not their daughters' partners in adventures and misadventures.

This incident belongs to one of those sultry early summer evenings when you almost get consumed in ennui. The only antidote to such a depressive trap, ma and I believed, was going  to a cinema.

So we checked show timings at theaters near our house, booked a cab, slipped into something handy and smeared double coat of lipstick for lipstick always elevates a woman's mood, if not her morale.

Incidentally, we chose to watch Secret Superstar: an incredible film which other than anything portrays the bond of unflinching love between mother and daughter. Certain dialogues of young Zaira, in fact reiterated a particular proposal that I had always kept open for ma.  After I becoming self reliant, I used to tell her: do hell with your daily drudgery and fare away to a far away place with me. But she never complied. You know mothers and their responsibilities!

The movie ended around 9:45. Even before leaving the multiplex I booked a cab without wasting time. Most of the shops had closed. So we couldn't do any  window shopping. It was ma's idea to wait for our cab outside the mall. As always, compulsively I chose to obey. The crowd started thinning but our cab didn't turn up. We waited. It was past 10 o'clock. Seemingly our cab driver was finishing a trip. And he was playing this in rewind and play mode for the past twenty minutes.

I had already called him four to five times but he was nowhere to be seen. I started mulling other options. And this moment of absent mindedness  was fiendishly utilized by a shaggy looking man wearing the shirt of a taxi driver.

In a fraction of a second he snatched my smartphone from my palm smeared in grease of cheese popcorn. Albeit, he could seize my phone from my right hand but my left hand grasped  his collar almost reflexively. Naturally he tried to let himself loose, knocked me off and hopped on the driving seat of a taxi which he had parked on the other side of the lane. Fully charged  by Zaira's daredevil attitude I could feel the power of Wonder Woman in my gut… I chased the driver clutching his collar and tried to drag him out of the taxi. But before I could get an upper hand over him he turned the engine and the taxi started wheeling away. Like a lunatic obsessive creature I hung on, until the taxi speed and I was nudged aside  by a stranger. " Have you gone mad! You think yourself to be some action woman? Why did you do that?", the stranger and many others railed at me.

Why did I do that? Well, I have an explanation. To start with, it was an average Lenovo smart phone where a couple of function keys had gone dysfunctional. Still, I had a reason.  All those stuff in document section… could be worthless to all and sundry but they were priceless to me. And that was reason enough to chase my phone… the phone that was stuffed with poetry.

Coming back to the scene: luckily, few good Samaritans, rather young knights on shining bikes came to rescue this damsel in distress.      " Ma'am don't worry. It's a dead end. We'll catch hold of him." Saying that, they vroomed off. Humanity is not lost,you know! A couple with a child even cancelled  their cab. They didn't want to abandon these helpless mother-daughter duo at such a dire situation. The lady asked me to block my phone and inform the police, asap. Getting the idea, my mother who was utterly drained out after seeing her daughter's heroism, started calling the police…frantically, yet futilely.

Within ten minutes if not more, the three bullets zoomed back into the crime scene along with my doper phone-thief, squeezed between the biker driving the second bike along with his pillion. I saw my antique piece swaying in the hand of the third biker. My phone was returned to me, almost like a wooing gift to a coveted queen.Ma made the bikers feel worthy with kinds words. Rejuvenated, they realized  their duty was not yet over.

That is why, enthusiastically they took up the charge of the thief's retribution. As if, it was a chivalrous responsibility levied upon them. And the mob thought no differently.Remember, the humane couple I mentioned earlier? The husband, with all due respect asked me and ma to step aside. The wife and the child were instructed the same. He rolled up his sleeves, rubbed his fist and charged ahead. Now I doubt, if he at all stayed back to protect us!

To my utter embarrassment, the traffic had ceased to cross that area. My defenders had positioned themselves in circular formation keeping my golliwog of a thief  in the middle, predisposed to his own predicament. In no time battering started. The dance of democracy… unleashing the epiphany of human nature.

Alas! I really didn't want this. I mean it. Unfortunately, ma couldn't reach the police, despite trying repeatedly. Seeing the scene turning  into a horror show, even I started dialing their number. In the meantime, a person from the mob, in a fit of mad zeal picked up a bamboo pole to hit the poor fellow. Horrified, I  rushed to grab the pole before it could be launched on my brutalized little doper-thief. I wonder, which gland in human body secretes such venomous hormones of animosity.

Poor chap, now he was at my feet not pleading for mercy but pleading to be rescued. I felt pity as well as guilty about this ripple effect. Mob lynching can never bring justice. Above all, mob lynching can not be a punishment for a petty theft. Is it that we deride some crooked  pleasure by lynching someone who is in not in a position to retaliate? If society progresses in cyclic order, would I be wrong to say, we are, in that case heading toward days when might used to be right; the era where big fish ate the small fish. In fact, at times I feel we have become fishes gasping in turbid and contaminated water.

Finding it unbearable, I intervened. My assortment of words which the world calls poetry can never be more precious than a human life. Moreover, I had got my phone back and the thief got his lesson. So I pulled up a stern voice and cried out to stop the fiasco.

Thankfully, a taxi driver offered his services to drive ma and me home. Promptly I plucked that lump of a thief and shoved him into the cab, telling my well wishers I'd get him arrested. But, under ma's prudent counsel we dropped him somewhere in between and returned home pondering which part of the incident would haunt us the most.

It was almost 11'o o'clock when we reached home. Phone rang. It wasn't the Police calling me back. It was our cab driver. He had just reached his pick up destination.

Insomniac's Delirium

This poem I wrote long time back. May be around 2006. At that time I barely knew what insomnia is. So it could be assumed that the poem was written from vicarious contemplation. In fact, this poem had found a tiny space in The Times of India. Although, I wonder how many have read  it. Anyway, now that I know what insomnia is, I ruminate over the muse who caused this poem.  

Insomniac’s Delirium

Hundred Phantoms haunt my mind;

Of past, present and unknown times.

Wanton desire’s panging existence;

Drenching me with sweating glands.

From the dead of night

Till the brink of dawn,

On my bed

I cringe and Beacon.

While my thirsty eyes

Chase fleeting sleep.

Sleep! Oh Sleep!

A will-o-the -wisp ?

If it comes natural to living beings;

Am I a ghost…..

In search of peace?

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A Daunting Cemetery I Visited Lately

Yesterday night I was haunted by this daunting cemetery that has makeshift graves and portable epitaphs. The deceased are beatified and left to be feasted upon by microbes in the damp dark subsoil.The portable epitaphs do toss at times in pain, when the decomposing flesh groans  or when insects feast on it.

Who cares? Do we even truly care for our living or nearly dying mates?

After all, it's a space saving and Eco-friendly solution. The corpses are left for two years. When the flesh gets nibbled and the bones are yet to be gnawed, the smiling skeletons are dug out of the grave and dismantled to make space for the new ones.The wealthy dead who have died several times in their lifetime to save enough money to rent a  niche for Rs.5000/- per month, gets one on the walls of the graveyard.

Those who lived like a grasshopper and not like a diligent ant, the ones who cannot afford Rs.5000/- each month till eternity, their bones are dismantled as well. These common bones are tossed into a well. Considering the economic condition of India, there must be many such bones jostling for identity inside the dark cavern of the well. I wonder, if they are able to assemble their bones when they wish to rise up to dance to " Zombie Jamboree" in the middle of the night?

RIP is a misnomer in that case. But indeed it's a sustainable process of managing dead. Or we need Mars for the corpses.

      

      

Reminiscing on Those Good Old Days

While I was overhauling my bookshelf, I discovered few diaries of mine. They all were written before the age of blogs, or at least before I started writing them.

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In that pile of scribbles I found this travel account. It is no piece of great work, much like most of my writings. Still I decide to share this simply because it cherishes one of those bygone moments when I felt at home with the two most special ladies of my life. It talks about a time when my life was so rosy, so complacent that I could recognize and be amazed by the simple glories of God. Yes, that was a time when I staunchly believed in the benevolence of God.

  So, this blog is only a memory walk into those happy moments under the cozy canopy of a blessed family. So much has changed since then…

My Trip To Shantiniketan

            Amusing on my naivety, I have kept the piece intact, as much as possible.

(Circa 2002. )

We drove to Shantiniketan which is in the heart of Bolepur, on 15^th August, wishing to get some independence from the modern, mechanized life of Kolkata. And our expectations were fully nourished after staying there for three nights and two days.

As soon as I entered Shantiniketan, the first thing that my eyes marked was the coherent coexistence of the rural and urban life. Huts and pucca houses stood side by side, swans swam in the pond, half naked carefree street urchins played on the road side and the women gave dung cakes for drying. But adjacent to all that stood mansions with garages.  We checked in to one such construction.

That evening we went on a drive into the outskirts of Shantiniketan. The people there seemed to be feebly acquainted with automobiles. They gaped at us as we drove over  red soil … the red soil that fascinated many a poet including Rabindranath Tagore himself. These poets, especially Tagore valued  country life and Santhal culture greatly. That is why our founder of Vishwabharati always tried to uplift the Santhals but never uprooted them. That is why, essence of tribal culture can still be sensed in every nook and corner of Shantiniketan.  Not only that, he also helped tribal art, dance and music to flourish under the thickets of Chatimtala.

Such beautiful amalgamation of rural and urban, tribal and modern has been possible only because of the inhabitants of this place. All are very friendly here. Even their quarrels sound like notes of music. They have a jolly face, as if highly satisfied with life.

When we entered the lodge, in the beginning we got overwhelmed by the reception that we became a bit skeptical. But soon we realized that the warmth they showed was out of sheer simplicity. On the second day we met a bow legged old lady near the Kopai river. She spoke to us in such a manner that anybody would think we knew each other for quite a long time. She asked one coin each from my grandfather, my grandma, my father and my mother. She was so thrilled to have gotten so many coins that she invited us to her shack. She also prayed for us at their Santhal Devi temple.

But all this has started to be tainted by businessmen. Their intrusion is engulfing the farming lands. Multi-star resorts are being constructed which are maligning the serenity of the place. The proprietors of the resorts retort by saying that these ventures are encouraging tourism, which is indirectly giving boost to the economy of the place. This is true to an extent. But it must be kept in mind that beauty of Shantiniketan remains in the chastity of the place. Few have already violated it, and many others attempt to do so. And this will not stop unless all stand arm in arm against such adulteration.

Nevertheless, we had a wonderful time in Shantiniketan. We saw teachers taking classes under the trees, painters and artisans at work in the open field. We also went to Tagore’s residence and viewed many sculptures made by the talented craftsmen of Vishwa Bharati.

But the most memorable part of the trip was Varsha Mangal show. In this show the dance and music students performed Rabindra Nritya accompanied by Rabindra Sangeet. In this way they paid tribute to the rain. Spending a musical evening at Shantiniketan, sitting among the students, residents and local people was a pleasure in itself… truly “Shadhu!”(heavenly)

Those were the scribbling of my living spirit. So ancient do they sound. So much has been lost, so much has been done. Yet I failed to write one more line although I have revisited Shantiniketan several times.Was it because I got preoccupied or it was because I have gone blind?       

 

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Traveller Anu: Hiraeth

Traveller Anu: Hiraeth: Hiraeth My morning awakes to a holy spur Leaving behind the smells of petrol As my faith rides me home Far away from the madd...

Hiraeth

Hiraeth

My morning awakes to a holy spur
Leaving behind the smells of petrol
As my faith rides me home
Far away from the madding crowd.

Through the pane I gaze and wonder
Cocooned in childhood nostalgia:
Vitality of the plains. Pondering on
the secrets of simple living
so much do I miss to capture.
En route my station.

Yet I return every time
Waving at the beckoning paddy fields
And Kans grass like fairy's wings.
To my vapmire's lair.
To the taste of urbane malls.

Could Eve and Adam settle in Eden
After tasting the forbidden fruit?
How could i!

A love-poem

I had written this love-poem some time back, thought of publishing it in the month of February for its popular association with “Love”, but somehow failed to do so. Anyway, better late than never:

I don’t know whether you would agree with me that love like youth like life perishes to dust and withers with time. We pass a certain span of time on earth doing some activities and trying to give it some meaning by naming it: purpose. When someone says: “I love you” ;
there is so much purpose and passion in it, as that person’s admiration, devotion and dedication is directed towards one particular “you”. And in the process of loving someone, that person is creating memory and unconsciously trying to surpass death.

But, are we able to reside in the memory that we thus create in peoples’ minds? After all, only an impression of personal perspective of the person who is beholding the memory, stays. Still our journey of life finds meaning only when we are able to find purpose, find lover and beloved in order to manifest our passion (the life force).

So, I believe we all are born rebels. Futilely fighting against death or aping to rise above it behind the ruse of purpose, thus overlooking the inevitable fact that nothing, other than documented memory lasts forever. Alas! Even that impressionistic perception  called memory is susceptible to mutability. 

I wonder! What are we perusing? What do we desire?What are we looking at?

With that thought, let me present my poem to you:

Pankaja

Celebrating the inevitability of mutability… A realization beyond love and life.

My love is like that fresh produce

in the market place

at the time of noon.

Failed at the day’s fondles

anxious and dwindled

tired and swooned.

Am I a freak pluck?

Can't I adorn a porcelain bowl?

Be the spice of  korma,

jalfrezi or ethereal jhol.

Its past noon!

I assume I can't even decorate

A poor man’s plate: Panta- Bhat:

Thought my woe betide soul.

I wish I could speak to my Master!

Convince Him, or His wife

to take me Home.

They could have

shredded me off,

severed my rot

and added me to their broth.

But they did not do so.

They dumped me beside

the sewage gutter.

in filthy stenchy

murky litter.

I wailed at my predicament!

Wallowing in my woe.

Past the noon

and the afternoon.

My putrefying ridges saw

A limp goat wobbling forth.

Thus finding some purpose

in being its nourishment.

It gobbled me whole.

Om Mani Padme Hum!

Om Mani Padme Hum!

My love is like that ridged gourd

at the marketplace

ravished by the goon noon.

Romancing with my

Limp Goat

until he becomes

Rogan josh.    

 

*Panta bhat: rice soaked in water overnight; to be consumed with chilli, onion, fries, poppy dumplings; popularly eaten during summer months.

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photo courtesy : Google Image

A Conversation Between Father and Son

An Important Conversation

Son, we all are at war.
Some for finance

Some for romance
Most with Chance

Between anima-animas.

"Papa,Why do we battle?”

Not for victory or prosperity, my son.
But surely for power and for wealth

And for recognition of a breath

Amidst the unfaltering terror

Being salvaged by hate.

“What do we fetch?”

Hunger and fatigue,
Pain and unhappiness
Suspicion and drunkenness;

That’s all, I guess.

“Papa, how do I save myself?”

Our Shepherd's path, my son
With love as the only ointment.
Do you remember
The jolly good fellow?
And his gift of hope
Right there in your pocket!

So my son

Hold my hand.
As we walk;
Let us sing.
Let us love.
Let us live.

Above all,
Let us search for peace
at first. That once dwelt

Within ourselves.

*picture courtesy: Google Images.

Petrichor: In reminiscence of Monsoon in Bengal

As far as I remember, I wrote this poem on 19th of June. My sincere apologies for the delay in posting the poem.

I still remember how my mother grumbled about the rain-less weather and the asphyxiating humid conditions of Kolkata on that day. Wondering their plight, I started browsing facebook and my eyes fell on an award winning photograph shared by my friend. It was that of a lion meditating in the rain. Instantly, it reminded me of the virile Royal- Bengal  Tiger that we saw from the watch tower of Netidopani during our Sundarban trip. It didn't end there. It was followed by a Kaleidoscopic vision of the plethora of vibrant shades of Bengal during monsoon.

Thanks to my father who fed us with West Bengal and made us see the charm in her diverse beauty. The beauty that beholds the plains, the seas and the mountains.... And being a Bengali I claim all of that to be mine..... all of us to be ours. We represent the macrocosm in our microcosm.

Once you are out of Bengal, you recollect it all, not in truncated bits, but as a whole. I too recalled those moments that way... including the floods of Balurghat where we had to shift to higher floors in order to save ourselves from drowning or floating away. We children, would spend our days making and racing paper boats. It was all a part of my growing up...And all of it has made me... Me. This again merges with the nebulous called us which in a way, inspired me to write this poem....

         Memories of the First Rain

The tiger meditating in the rain.

Drenching in wisdom from the skies;

Sinking in the earth 

As it sprouts to new life.

A spectacle divine!

"Alive! Alive! We are still alive!"

As the maiden in her green petticoat,

Swings to the plumes of a peacock dance;

While the squirrels and rabbits prance;

And amuse themselves to the tunes

Of the peacock throned lad;

Who meditates on the notes of rain

Awaiting his cattle to come back!

"Lo! Lo! We are still alive!"

Alive by the blessings of

Our grand- father mountains,

Who roar to the rains

And bring home monsoon.

And for the farmers who farm

And hide in darkness of the caves;

They too meditate and pray .

And know the mysteries of the rain.

Alas! Do we know them?

"Alive! Alive! We are still alive!"

My son has set paper boats on sail;

From the balcony of our apartment.

                                    With the fishes sailing from the ponds                                  

Crabs and tortoise from the shores

Of his vacation last month.

Will they reach a new found land? 

That's not there on the Google map?

His dreams amidst the rain drops say:

"Alive! Alive! We are still alive!"

And guess what, it rained heavily in Kolkata on that day. Maybe, Kolkata is missing me as well, or maybe,Nature Goddess became so impressed with the poem that she blessed Kolkata with rain. This must be sounding bizarre to you, right? However, that is not the end. The peacock in the poem actually came to visit us in the  backyard of our house in Hyderabad on the very next day. It was an impossible sight and it took some time for my husband and myself to believe what we were seeing..... But as the great saints say: miracles happen to us in order to re-instill our faith in God and also understand the benevolence of nature.

 Alas! this could only be perceived by souls who are in harmony with themselves and with each other. But considering the current circumstances; I wonder; whether our children will ever be able to sense  miracles in their lives.  

* The pictures have been downloaded from Google Image.