As I walked through the park it was hard not to notice the slight chill. I was dressed up warmly, but not everyone was prepared for this sudden change in weather. I smiled seeing young couples in a state of perpetual hug to keep out the wind and loners walking faster than usual to be engulfed in warmth. For me, the chill manifested itself in a much different way. Each time the cold air brushed my face it transported me across the seas to my home and all that, that would be happening in India at this time of the year. For the umpteenth time I reminded myself that this was not the time to dwell on the past - I must get back home and write, before Adila's story escapes me. Rather, before the rawness of the emotions cooked themselves into just another statistics. A parent reminding a child of the unfinished homework that needs to be done before play.
At home, I quickly prepared a cup of steaming chai, with lots and lots of adrak and a teaspoon loaded with sugar - just the way I liked it. All those years, outside India had not managed to rub off this habit - rather magnified it into an addiction. I smiled as the words "pure desi" hit me - a term my friends used to tease me whenever I told them that no matter what, I would not return to India, atleast not to live there permanently. It was there way of letting me know that no matter how much I was in love with the peace and quiet of this faraway land my heart was still Indian and someday I was bound to get back (probably in old age) and regret the time spent away from Matrabhumi.
Grabbing a box of cookies I started working on the first draft of Adila's story. How her mom, a Hindu by birth married a Muslim against the wishes of her family. A sip of tea and a bite of the cookie.How despite all the opposition from their respective families they lived blissfully in a small village by the sea in Bengal (now Bangladesh). Another greedy sip and a bigger chunk of cookie, all full of dark brown chocolate. How food was in plenty and despite being poor they managed to be happy, just like they do in fairy tales. My hands reach out to another cookie and my mouth for another sip of tea. How they celebrated Diwali and Eid with equal enthusiasm and.....
And then it strikes me again - but this time with a full force. Memories. Nostalgia. All of a sudden the cookie loses it taste and my ears strain to hear the sound of some faraway, non existent drums - the drums that announce that the Goddess is going for "Visarjan". Of course no sounds are forthcoming. I can feel my nose twitching at the imagined smell of smoke from the holy fire. As if in a daze, I walk to the balcony door and open it, just a wee bit. The cold air strikes immediately but along with it, it brings in the smell of falling leaves, of the retreating sun, of the wind that has lowered its intensity but not what I long to hear, long to feel, long to smell.
Flashback. You can sense the change in the air even without looking outside. As the weather tries to beat out the hard Indian summer in the plains, the coolness creeps in slowly. Initially it leaves just the tip of the fingers a bit cold. The next day you realise that the street lights have come up at an early hour. Still the next evening, you see and smell a neighbour's house being painted all anew. Still another, the sounds of excited children running ahead of their parents to buy sweetmeats. The sound of drums, the smell of the holy fire mingled with that of puri- aaloo- tamatar being cooked for feeding the kanjak, the sight of women draped in all finery heading to the pandal - this was all that my heart desired at the moment. The arrival of the winter seemed incomplete without them.
And yet, silence all around - even as the drums and the crackers do a somersault in my head along with samosa, dahibada and rasgulla. The uncrowded silence I so lovingly cherish about this place suddenly loses its flavour and I want to be back to India amidst all the humdrum and colour of life. Amongst all that traffic sound that even past 10 PM held the capacity to get onto my nerves. Lost in a mirage of thoughts I feel this need to talk to someone. Its a late hour in India and not the best time to call. I call my husband but he is busy. By now, the roar of silence around me is defending - as if making fun of me - "this is what you came here for?". My heart answers, "Well yes, that was one of the reasons - but not any more". To turn off those thoughts I decide to turn on some music. Youtube - I type in the first song that my fingers dictate -"Ye jo des hai tera". Rather than taking away my thoughts, the song pushes me deeper into them. I feel my toes twitching when SRK steps into cold water. I feel his agony when he looks at the photos pinned by his desk. I feel....a thousand things...but all in all just one emotion, that's so new to me.....
Nostalgia. Memories. Smells. Colours. Sights. Sound. Tastes. I miss India.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Nothing happened one winter morning except....
It was a bright sunny winter morning. The clock was striking 10 AM - and the activity in the small town functioned in a high degree of precision. The men folk had left for work long ago and the "jananis" (women-folk) were slowly coming out to enjoy the winter sun after finishing with the morning chores. Ditto with the children - with the vacations on there was not a single thing to worry about. Most of them were still in their night dresses with a thick line of kohl (kajal) marking not only their eyes but the faces as well - the bathing ritual usually happened in the afternoons. The jute charpais and chatais emerged in the sunny lawns almost as if they were the extention of the sunlight itself. Gossip started flowing, even as the nimble fingers converted balls of wool into sweaters. The low height of wires segregating the houses and not so broad street enabled the flow of conversation and the children games across several houses. A peaceful relaxed scene indeed.
Of course there were exceptions. Mrs Sharma and her children had just woken up. As the children rushed out to play with toothbrushes still in their mouths - Mrs Sharma also ran after, to bundle them back. As always she was in her super favourite flimsy supposedly sexy cream coloured nightie- which had grown ugly with overuse, with a black petticoat- the edges of which trailed underneath, longer than the nightie itself. Two of the youngest ones - she managed to catch in the lawn -she slapped the nearest child saying "after the breakfast". But the eldest one had managed to get away to the park, 3 houses away. She told him in loud tone "not to enter the house or else she will break his legs". He did not seem to care for this was a every day scenario. By the time he would get home his mother would be so busy with chit chat and TV that she would not even notice. He was not worried about the breakfast - he knew that if he went to Chintu's or Monu's place for a game of ludo or chess he was for sure to get a bowl full of aaloo bhujiya or some other tasty namkeen. Even right now he could see from the corner of his eyes that his mother was already talking to Nirmala aunty, even as his siblings watched him with jealousy. Right opposite the park, another group of aunties were also looking at his mother, talking in low tones and laughing aloud. At some remote corner of his young mind he knew that they were discussing how his lazy mother let her husband go hungry in the morning, how she romped the colony right in front of the men-folk in that flimsy nightie of hers.......But he did not care....his "caring would hardly change anything" and then wasn't he too young to care? Ok ok enough of that...all attention on the game please!
In another house, not so far off, a girl of about 10 stood swinging on the gate all alone. She, her house and the family who stayed there seemed to be another exception in the colony. For one, she seemed clean and bathed, with her pigtails neatly tied unlike the other kids. Her lawn never seemed to be treaded by other children or the ladies - it was an island of quietness in the noisy, happy ocean. The cooker was already whistling in the kitchen and from the look of it - that must be the lunch that was getting ready. Ahead of schedule. Nothing out of ordinary- that was normal for them.
On most of the days, the girl sat reading in the sunshine, but once in a while her eyes would look longingly at the children playing in the park. Probably her parents did not want her to play the dirty gully games or make a mess out of herself in her life by listening to all kinds of janani-gossip.So she remained to herself drawing or playing with a ball or swinging on the gate, but almost always alone. Even the other children ignored her...she did not exist for them.
Today she sat watching the construction that was happening in front of her house. Not a super exciting thing for a kid of 10 to watch but she seemed mesmerized by the women folk who were carrying about 6-8 red bricks on their head to the men folk who were doing the actual construction work. After a while she went back to her book - it was them when the accident happened. Not actually an accident, just that one of the boys who was loading the bricks fell unconscious. The other workers quickly brought his in front of the girl's house (that was the nearest sunny spot). They called her out to get some water. She quickly ran to get some and then stood right next to the boy, who refused to open his eyes. Sensing that he might be cold in his thin shirt and half pant, she took off her own sweater and covered him even as the workmen insisted that he would be ok. She then asked as to what had happened to him. An elderly workman told her that he had gone unconscious probably because of the cold but somewhere in the background she heard about Ramesh staying with his drunkard uncle since the death of his parents. The uncle used to beat him daily, make him work on hard jobs unfit for a 12 year old, took away all his wages and even starved him.
She looked again at the boy...sorry at Ramesh. Even in his unconscious state he looked tired and sad. His skin was dry, broken and cut at places- unlike her own which glowed with health in the winter sunshine. She remembered the CRY ad on TV which showed a kid her age being scooped out of bed on a winter morning to be in his mother's arm and another child who had nothing but tattered jute bags to call his blankets. How often had she wished that she would be the kid whose mother took him in her arms each day......all her mother did was to shout out her name endlessly as she carried with the house work and her repeating "haanji, uth gai" (I am awake) even as she stole the last few minutes in the comfort of the warm bed in between the shouts.
Looking at Ramesh she knew she was asking for something so useless. He was the one who needed love and comfort. She instantly said sorry to God and a small prayer to set everything right for Ramesh. In the meantime, Ramesh's uncle also appeared on the scene. One look at him and she knew that all that she had heard about him was truth. He just stood there like a mute spectator eyeing her sweater and not even once did he caress the boy's head - like her mother did when she was sick or hurt. At that instant, as an answer to her own prayers, she had a bright idea.
She ran indoors and breathlessly recited the whole story to her mother. Her mother listened and praised her for giving away the sweater. The girl's eyes gleamed with hope - maybe her mother would say yes to her plan. As she followed her mother onto the scene she phased out the question "Can we keep him? His uncle does not love him...I will teach him and maybe he can also come to school with me.....Please mummy?" The please at the end of the sentence sounded desperate. Her mother took one look at her and then looking not into her eyes said..."we cannot". "But why?". The desperateness was much more pronounced. "Everyone and all books say that we should help fellow humans...then why?" Her mother ignored her question, instead she asked the crowd of workmen at her gate "Kya hua bhaiya?" (What happened brother?). The workmen repeated the story even as the mother sat down beside the boy and ruffled his hair. Almost by magic, he opened his eyes and looked longingly at her. She checked his forehead for temperature and then commented almost to herself "He seems to have high fever....take him to the hospital". The uncle complained that they did not have any money and even started asking for money, right away. The woman knew that the money would go for hard drinks, so she offered medicines even as her daughter whispered in her ears "Let's keep him...otherwise he will die". She consoled the girl saying "He will not... that's a promise" but not a word about keeping him. She asked the workmen to move the boy to the charpoi in the lawn so that he would not have to lie on the cold cement. They did that. Seeing that her mother was helping but unwilling to keep the boy the girl tried another tactic, "Lets keep him till he has fever...the day he is ok we can let him go"
The mother again was quiet. She offered the boy something to eat and some milk to drink so that he could take medicine. She gave him a blanket and caressed him again (this time the girl looked jealously) and then as if nothing had happened went inside to her work. So did the workmen and so did the ladies who were viewing the spectacle - back to their gossip and sweaters. Only the girl and the boy remained. They did not talk to each other...the boy lay staring without sight at the sky and the girl staring at him. She was not sure if she wanted the boy in her private space any more. He did not talk to her and he seemed to have earned two caresses from her mother for no reason. But still she liked him. She imagined what her friends would say and what she would teach him first? Would it be algebra or would it be geography?
The thoughts carried her back to the book and the boy went off to sleep as his fever subsided. When she went inside to get a glass of water for herself she put forward her request again. This time her mother seemed angry and just said "Will you stop talking nonsense? When I said it is not possible, its not. I do not want to hear anything about this again". Even though her voice was not loud but it sounded firm and the one that conveyed the decision had been made. The girl said nothing - she knew it would be useless to argue. As she came out she saw that the boy was no longer there on the charpoy. Her eyes scanned the surroundings and she saw him getting ready for work in the belly of the building. He was gone without a word leaving the blanket and her sweater right there. So much for her kindness - not a word from the boy and all that anger from her mother. That's life....thinking this she went back again to her book. When she raised her head the next time, Mrs Sharma was still wandering around in her nightie and her 2 younger ones roaming behind her without sweaters or a morsel of food in their stomachs. The other children were still playing in the park, the women still gossiping and the boy lost somewhere in the multitude of construction workers, just another face....as if nothing extraordinary had happened on that morning.Except....
Of course there were exceptions. Mrs Sharma and her children had just woken up. As the children rushed out to play with toothbrushes still in their mouths - Mrs Sharma also ran after, to bundle them back. As always she was in her super favourite flimsy supposedly sexy cream coloured nightie- which had grown ugly with overuse, with a black petticoat- the edges of which trailed underneath, longer than the nightie itself. Two of the youngest ones - she managed to catch in the lawn -she slapped the nearest child saying "after the breakfast". But the eldest one had managed to get away to the park, 3 houses away. She told him in loud tone "not to enter the house or else she will break his legs". He did not seem to care for this was a every day scenario. By the time he would get home his mother would be so busy with chit chat and TV that she would not even notice. He was not worried about the breakfast - he knew that if he went to Chintu's or Monu's place for a game of ludo or chess he was for sure to get a bowl full of aaloo bhujiya or some other tasty namkeen. Even right now he could see from the corner of his eyes that his mother was already talking to Nirmala aunty, even as his siblings watched him with jealousy. Right opposite the park, another group of aunties were also looking at his mother, talking in low tones and laughing aloud. At some remote corner of his young mind he knew that they were discussing how his lazy mother let her husband go hungry in the morning, how she romped the colony right in front of the men-folk in that flimsy nightie of hers.......But he did not care....his "caring would hardly change anything" and then wasn't he too young to care? Ok ok enough of that...all attention on the game please!
In another house, not so far off, a girl of about 10 stood swinging on the gate all alone. She, her house and the family who stayed there seemed to be another exception in the colony. For one, she seemed clean and bathed, with her pigtails neatly tied unlike the other kids. Her lawn never seemed to be treaded by other children or the ladies - it was an island of quietness in the noisy, happy ocean. The cooker was already whistling in the kitchen and from the look of it - that must be the lunch that was getting ready. Ahead of schedule. Nothing out of ordinary- that was normal for them.
On most of the days, the girl sat reading in the sunshine, but once in a while her eyes would look longingly at the children playing in the park. Probably her parents did not want her to play the dirty gully games or make a mess out of herself in her life by listening to all kinds of janani-gossip.So she remained to herself drawing or playing with a ball or swinging on the gate, but almost always alone. Even the other children ignored her...she did not exist for them.
Today she sat watching the construction that was happening in front of her house. Not a super exciting thing for a kid of 10 to watch but she seemed mesmerized by the women folk who were carrying about 6-8 red bricks on their head to the men folk who were doing the actual construction work. After a while she went back to her book - it was them when the accident happened. Not actually an accident, just that one of the boys who was loading the bricks fell unconscious. The other workers quickly brought his in front of the girl's house (that was the nearest sunny spot). They called her out to get some water. She quickly ran to get some and then stood right next to the boy, who refused to open his eyes. Sensing that he might be cold in his thin shirt and half pant, she took off her own sweater and covered him even as the workmen insisted that he would be ok. She then asked as to what had happened to him. An elderly workman told her that he had gone unconscious probably because of the cold but somewhere in the background she heard about Ramesh staying with his drunkard uncle since the death of his parents. The uncle used to beat him daily, make him work on hard jobs unfit for a 12 year old, took away all his wages and even starved him.
She looked again at the boy...sorry at Ramesh. Even in his unconscious state he looked tired and sad. His skin was dry, broken and cut at places- unlike her own which glowed with health in the winter sunshine. She remembered the CRY ad on TV which showed a kid her age being scooped out of bed on a winter morning to be in his mother's arm and another child who had nothing but tattered jute bags to call his blankets. How often had she wished that she would be the kid whose mother took him in her arms each day......all her mother did was to shout out her name endlessly as she carried with the house work and her repeating "haanji, uth gai" (I am awake) even as she stole the last few minutes in the comfort of the warm bed in between the shouts.
Looking at Ramesh she knew she was asking for something so useless. He was the one who needed love and comfort. She instantly said sorry to God and a small prayer to set everything right for Ramesh. In the meantime, Ramesh's uncle also appeared on the scene. One look at him and she knew that all that she had heard about him was truth. He just stood there like a mute spectator eyeing her sweater and not even once did he caress the boy's head - like her mother did when she was sick or hurt. At that instant, as an answer to her own prayers, she had a bright idea.
She ran indoors and breathlessly recited the whole story to her mother. Her mother listened and praised her for giving away the sweater. The girl's eyes gleamed with hope - maybe her mother would say yes to her plan. As she followed her mother onto the scene she phased out the question "Can we keep him? His uncle does not love him...I will teach him and maybe he can also come to school with me.....Please mummy?" The please at the end of the sentence sounded desperate. Her mother took one look at her and then looking not into her eyes said..."we cannot". "But why?". The desperateness was much more pronounced. "Everyone and all books say that we should help fellow humans...then why?" Her mother ignored her question, instead she asked the crowd of workmen at her gate "Kya hua bhaiya?" (What happened brother?). The workmen repeated the story even as the mother sat down beside the boy and ruffled his hair. Almost by magic, he opened his eyes and looked longingly at her. She checked his forehead for temperature and then commented almost to herself "He seems to have high fever....take him to the hospital". The uncle complained that they did not have any money and even started asking for money, right away. The woman knew that the money would go for hard drinks, so she offered medicines even as her daughter whispered in her ears "Let's keep him...otherwise he will die". She consoled the girl saying "He will not... that's a promise" but not a word about keeping him. She asked the workmen to move the boy to the charpoi in the lawn so that he would not have to lie on the cold cement. They did that. Seeing that her mother was helping but unwilling to keep the boy the girl tried another tactic, "Lets keep him till he has fever...the day he is ok we can let him go"
The mother again was quiet. She offered the boy something to eat and some milk to drink so that he could take medicine. She gave him a blanket and caressed him again (this time the girl looked jealously) and then as if nothing had happened went inside to her work. So did the workmen and so did the ladies who were viewing the spectacle - back to their gossip and sweaters. Only the girl and the boy remained. They did not talk to each other...the boy lay staring without sight at the sky and the girl staring at him. She was not sure if she wanted the boy in her private space any more. He did not talk to her and he seemed to have earned two caresses from her mother for no reason. But still she liked him. She imagined what her friends would say and what she would teach him first? Would it be algebra or would it be geography?
The thoughts carried her back to the book and the boy went off to sleep as his fever subsided. When she went inside to get a glass of water for herself she put forward her request again. This time her mother seemed angry and just said "Will you stop talking nonsense? When I said it is not possible, its not. I do not want to hear anything about this again". Even though her voice was not loud but it sounded firm and the one that conveyed the decision had been made. The girl said nothing - she knew it would be useless to argue. As she came out she saw that the boy was no longer there on the charpoy. Her eyes scanned the surroundings and she saw him getting ready for work in the belly of the building. He was gone without a word leaving the blanket and her sweater right there. So much for her kindness - not a word from the boy and all that anger from her mother. That's life....thinking this she went back again to her book. When she raised her head the next time, Mrs Sharma was still wandering around in her nightie and her 2 younger ones roaming behind her without sweaters or a morsel of food in their stomachs. The other children were still playing in the park, the women still gossiping and the boy lost somewhere in the multitude of construction workers, just another face....as if nothing extraordinary had happened on that morning.Except....
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