The Deaf Mute Autistic and Mad (till she can't be labelled any further) girl

She ran with 
the wind,
hair streaming
behind
a
cascade of 
silk
her heart beating
fast
for no known reason
dashing
against 
walls
colliding
with
pillars

life's
energy 
exploding
forth
in
a glorious
random 
outburst
of exuberance

She 
was 
also known 
to smile
at 
strangers
(a dangerous
thing 
to do - she 
was  cautioned)

Laughing
her head  
off
at every 
sentence
she would
brush
caution 
away

pat 
a stray dog
and 
walk 
about 
barefoot

Frowning
people
shake
their heads
in collective
consternation

Wagging
fingers
and
tongues
never
deterred her
and 
she smiled
sweetly
for 
all 
to see

her 
insanity.

A Night of Terror

It was a hot , humid , summer night. Power supply had played truant and the entire village was plunged into the darkness.One odd kerosene lamp, braving the dark, would flit like a firefly from some window some where. It was still , not a leaf moved.
Vaasudev, the night watchman, hunched on the terrace, with his back  to the cool low wall, was tired of swatting flies and mopping his brow with his sodden gamcha , when he gave a start. What he saw beyond the dark, endless stretch of the paddyfield, brought his heart to his mouth.
Bare footed, he bounded down the  narrow stairs, three at a time, breathless, his heart bumping against his chest.
'Maalik!Maalik!" the sheer urgency in Vaasu's voice, brought the Grand old man to the door in an instant.
Leaning forward,he whispered something into his master's ears.
'Are you sure?'.He replied, panic building up.
Vaasu nodded, panting and mopping his brow.
The Grand Old woman was summoned up quietly and the situation explained.
She nodded, totally in the loop, quick comprehension dawning on her wrinkled face.
Vaasudev disappeared to bring reinforcements. The Grand old man rummaged in the back of his wooden almirah  till his hand touched the reassuring coolness of the metal pipe.

A steady stream of villagers entered the hallowed portals of the landlords house, silently emerging with a small sleeping form in their arms.The womenfolk of the house hold were roused, and jewelleries removed from the person,quietly tied into small cloth bundles. These were quickly, noiselessly, buried in freshly dug holes, in the warm moist corners of the vast and dark cowshed. Some startled cows stopped chewing cud, and gave an enquiring mooo. All lamps were extinguished, and the sole lantern had its wick lowered to minimum.


Women and children ensconsed in safe houses, the old man sat on his watch, on the porch, on a rickety chair, his trusted hunting rifle across his knees. Other trust worthy villagers sat around, hunched in the darkness, armed with lathis, spades, and some with sickles.It was pitch dark, and night was thick with fear . No one even dared to think of chewing khaini(tobacco).


The entire night was spent in the watch. No one yawned, or moved. As the first light of the dawn fell on the village, the old man was sent by his men to catch up on his sleep. Vaasudev and few others kept a wary lookout till mid morning from the shade of the granary on the terrace.Others retired.Few ferried back the kids(still fast asleep, and wholly unaware of last nights' goings-on), women trudging in wearily, gratefully back. The old woman promised the Goddess of war of special offerings. A days wages and new clothing to all those involved in the rescue effort.

What Vaasudev saw on the fateful night was a steady stream of 'chorbattis'(torchlight)on the path to the house, via the paddyfields. In the dim light of distant' chorbattis', he also saw something which made his hair stand on end. He saw the unmistakable glint of polished metal. It was an year of bad crops and the crops standing in the fields were not ready for harvesting, yet. Thievery and dacoity were rampant. Hence the watch. Plus the news of arrival of old man's family from the town, with wads of cash(or so it was percieved) and jewellery -laden females(another over-rated rumour)

The thwarted robbery attempt would soon earn Vaasudev the rude epithet of a person who 'imagines things'(though he would vehemently deny this)and the watch on the roof would be replaced by his son-Keshudev(another name for lord krishna).

Pishimaa

Pitter-patter, the first raindrops fell from a rapidly darkening sky.
"Pishimaa, brishti podchche"(it is raining, auntie) someone's panic stricken voice called out.
At the coast of the mighty Ganges, weather could be as fickle as the mood of an elephant in' musth'.
Within matter of minutes, a sunny weather was replaced by thundering clouds,a gray sky cover and stiff breeze which threatened to blow away Pishimaa's billowing saree.
We had come to the Kali-temple at the coast , with its mammoth statue of the fearsome Goddess, crimson tongue hanging out of a shiny black face, body covered with full length, gigantic garlands of red and gold.
Now we had to get back home.
The breeze , hitherto pleasant, swiftly turned into a raging, roaring wind, swirling dust-leaves-pooja flowers-raindrops into a spiralling vortex.
The' panda'(priest) swiftly placed his stool, box of offerings and plate of frankinscence inside,said three namoahs(salutations)in quick succession ,locked the temple door, and beat a hasty retreat, gathering his dhoti folds in one hand and fumbling with a rebellious umbrella in the other.
'Ebaar ki?'(what now?)
We all turned to face Pishimaa.
'Bojjat kothakar'(the b*****d). Pishimaa thought nothing of swearing at a holy man on the holy grounds.Rapidly falling raindrops had already soaked her thin saree. We had one umbrella between five of us, four of us kids, and Pishimaa."He has locked us out , or we could have taken shelter in the temple."
'Dont worry. Together, we will make it. Haath dhoro(hold hands),everybody.'
'Now, dont look up, bend your head down, shut your eyes, and walk straight ahead.'
She smiled a reassuring smile, revealing paan-stained dentures, rivulets of rainfall coursing down her swarthy face.Plus the firm determination in her eyes, and we could be staring at the Goddess herself.
'Joi Maa Kaali'
Some one shrieked in pure ecstacy,and the rest quickly followed suit .
'Joi Maa kali'
So a pathetic group of stragglers emerged from the green canopy of the temple , holding hands, plastered wet,ploughing through in a V -formation(like migrating geese) braving sleet, and occasional burst of fierce wind slapping against them. Pishimaa led the way, being the adult, we kids clinging to her bangled hands like limpets.
The lone umbrella had freed itself from the grasp of one of us, after a brief and futile struggle, and was now merrily floating above the churning, grey ,frothy Ganges , serenading the trumpeting clouds .
With occasional chants of' Joi Joggonnnath' and 'joi maa kali' the group winded its way, through the concrete path lining the  wooden floored, British-made bungalows; Past the stately Officer's Club (dating back to 1910), the newly made three floored presidential suites,past the rusting wrought-iron gates of a massive , mysterious, creeper choked Railway godown(the gates jangled noisily, numerous ghost stories about this place filled our hearts with dread, )We held Pishimaa's wet slippery hands a bit tighter.Past the fresh water tap,a scene of daily commotion amongst servants, to finally reaching 13C, our seven storied block,where Pishimaa lived on 3rd floor and we on the 2nd. Things became trickier here as the banging, abandoned windows of the passageways constantly rained shards of broken glass on the passersby downbelow.Now aided with the rain, thunder and gusty wind, added to tightly shut eyes,there was no other way than to make a dash for it.
Which we did and landed home, soaked to skin, having had a time of our lives; to a rousing welcome from worried sick parents; fussing over with towels and tea.
Onu Pishimaa was our neighbour, and a confidante` to everyone. She would be there with sound advise and  sweet as rosogolla smile when my brother's bulk broke the master bed, when we had scarily high fever, when someone had teenage angst, when my mother was hospitalised.Practically, in every difficult moment of our lives.
She was also the Chief Matron of the Railway hospital, and a gazzetted officer.
She hailed from Medinipore district of West Bengal. Braving ridicule at her humble origins, she made it to the very top of the ladder through grit,hard work and wisdom.
She never married, didnot ever have a family of her own(so to speak); but her spacious flat would be bursting at seams with relatives from her village, her widowed sister, her elder brother's four kids, her youngest brother,their pots of crabs (from the village ponds) , pet ducks, all lived in her home and heart.
Her real beauty lay in her generosity. In the later years, so we heard, she even called her aged and ailing mother to live with her.
Two of these kids were married off from her home, the two sons were employed in the railways and her siblings continued to stay with her, even when she retired.
She was one of the first to own a TV in the building , and all were welcome to see Chitrahaar, hear news, watch movies while being generously plied with hot snacks from her kitchen.One of the memories is of watching "I love lucy" at seven in the morning, and sharing pishimaa's toast and egg breakfast as she got ready for work in a small, agarbatti- scented room full of sai-baba photographs.
She had to work harder in a private nursing home , after retirement, to keep up with the spiralling expenses of her' family'. The night shift duties(something she had not done during her administrative years in the Railways) finally took their toll. Battling with persistent cough, she was found to have cardiac-failure.
Finally, it was time to bid goodbye to a very full and busy life.
When the priest at the crematorium asked, Who is the son?,( for the last rites)
There were four-five contenders.
They all had tears in their eyes, and they all looked like her, short, dark, with glistening, determined eyes.
None of them was her' son' or probably all were.
 The smoke billowed heavenward, on huge gathering,a Kalighat temple full of people.
'Vaasudhaiv kutumbakam'(the universe is my kin)

What I overheard in a hotel restroom.

Shuffling of feet , followed by a sharp blowing of the nose.
A muffled whimper tells  that the person is weeping.
The door opens with a bang and someone charges in, riding on a Chanel-scented wave. "Bittu!!!'You are ruining your makeup. woh bhi us khadoos ki baat par?(that too on a remark by an a*****e)".
Frank wailing from the other end.
'Mammaaa!! what to do? Anuj will never love me, he will nevvver forgive me(emphatic shaking of  bling covered head/body;noisy rustling of crisp silk)ooohhh, hai!!!!"
More frantic nose-blowing.
Copious amounts of tissue hastily pulled from the dispenser.
'Oh god! your makeup!".
Handbags are hurriedly opened,shut, reopened and re-shut.
"So what, everyone has a past. The old bag chose this moment to open his besharam mouth"
More swinging of the doors, more rustling of silk.All sorts of fragrances make their way in, mingle and sit heavy on the hysterically charged air.
More sympathizers have poured in , to comfort the person crying.
'All are asking for you.'
'The wedding has stalled. Papa has vowed never to talk to bade mamaji.'
'What was the need to talk about pappu,everyone knows he has failed B.Com twice'
'That too in such loud whispers'.
The wail reaches a shrieking crescendo.
'Chup ho ja. people will hear.'
'Here, let me help with the mascara'.
' He Bhagwaan sab thik kar dena'
'Mame ki toh...'.
'Leave it Bitto. Anuj is cool, he is smiling. Sitting there , waiting for you'.
'Ab toh aaja'
The overworked door swings and hits the wall with a loud thud.
Someone heavy and male enters.
Total silence, except a broken Paaapa from the crier.Others rustle away silently.
'Why are you crying?'
Sniff
'Did Anuj say anything to mamjis remark?'
Sniff sniff
'Come, come. Dont be a baby,no one is to say anything'.
'Chal beta.'
Slow rustle and heavy footfall gradually fade away.

Ode to the Ladies Club

"Beijing"
"No, that is the new name, you have to say the old name of chinese capital"
"Shanghai"!! This from the nattily-dressed Mrs- thigh -high -leather -boots -from-agra.
"Nope' The MC was fast descending into throes of despair
"Ooh,Ooh,Ooh, I remember"Mrs-pudgy-violet-pochampalli-with-shimmering gold -border piped up.
"Yes?"MC turned to face her with a faint glimmer of hope.
"It is Taiwan"So said the lady -in bengali-handloom-sari, who till now was so absorbed in her play store app on her samsung galaxy 4, that she thought nothing of interrupting her CO's wife (the pochampalli). Heaven forbid.The moment play-store- induced -fog clears from her mind,she realizes her unforgivable mistake, bites her tongue and reluctantly half-lifts her ample, taant-clad posterior, peers in the direction of mrs,pochampalli and mouths a silent "I am sorry".
The glaring look softens immediately, with a magnanimous wave of bejewelled fingers, mrs.p forgave her protege, straightened her saree, fixing the MC with a iconic-kajal-lined stare 'sahi kaha na usne?' (wasn't she right?)Lips glistening with oodles of gloss, mrs.p continued to pout.
The MC 'No, Maam.' The air in the ante-room of the mess was thick with an assortment of imported perfumes, and was under the threat of being overrun by the odour of severe disappointment.
'It is Hong-Kong' Mrs-prettiest lady-in-town-clad -in-backless-choli said with a sense of finality.
The MC mutely shook the head. "Toh King Kong hoga!!" cackled an old hag,wearing a cowboy hat; with traces of dust sitting on the hastily cleaned rim.And the room dissolves into sneers and girly giggles.
The AOC's wife(the first lady of the station) tries to salvage the situation'Give us some hints"she says testily.
"Yes,yes Hints" everyone echoes instantaneously.
'Give us the first alphabet of the word"said the bespectacled- english-teacher-from-air -force-school.
Quizmaster scans the silent last benchers, the newly weds, "the junior lot".Her hope lies there. She scans the faces, some lost, some scared, mostly indifferent. Very unlike the ladies in the front. Heavily made up faces(hours and hundreds spent at beauticians),bursting with bling and importance, sitting in their cushioned comfort(while the 'junior lot' sat on plain plastic chairs), fanning their rapidly mildewing make up with monogrammed hankies.
"P".Patna, Pithoragarh("You know what happened when I was posted to pithoragarh, listen to me na," a furiously whispered private conversation began in the middle row)
"Hai kitni garmi hai na"!!A front bencher thinks nothing of interrupting the rapidly dwindling -into-chaos quiz session, with her take on the weather, despite a multitude of AC's humming in unison, and a small plattoon of bearers, bent double with refreshments and cool drinks, silently slithering in and out of the room.
The quiz is terminated, summarily. One of the organizers comes up and announces a dance session by a nubile lady wife,to the 'authentic chinese song"ini mini ching chong". The crowd awakens to thunderous claps and wolf-whistles. The quietly sipping her -nimboo-paani-in -the -corner quizmaster is accosted by her CO's wife whispering loudly,'should have thought of easier questions, no?'raising a carefully plucked eyebrow. The quiz master opened and closed her mouth like an agonised fish.The thigh-high -boots sneaks up behind and pats her shoulder, kindly,'next time'.A sad smile. More slurping of nimbu-paani.
Today, the theme is 'chinese'. That explains the inanely 'mentally-challenging' quiz session being conducted by yours' truly.
Many of the enterprising members have gone to great lengths and "bazaars" in hunt for the perfectly chinese outfit.Like all incredible things, the hosts have turned up actually dressed as' geishas', with knitting needles sticking out of hairs, and silky , embroidered blue gowns, slit till the knee.Matching danglers completing the pretty picture, which cost a packet to put together.
The other members of the motley crowd have arrived, dressed as per their personal interpretations of chinese theme. Some wear clothes that are newly acquired, others have come because theirCO's wife is coming( an erroneous belief in the armed forces , that being in the good books of the CO's wife some how influences the ACR of the husband). Some others have come to see a good spectacle, have some gossip/ bitching session and go back feeling contended having ruined the evening for their normally-golfer-and-drinker-in-the-evening husbands, compelled to babysit spoilt fauji brats.Still others have come for the food on the menu,chaat and such delicacies.
The evening ends with an inane competition in which people try and eat noodles by chopsticks, solve su-do-ku puzzles, and try and make complete fool of themselves by carefully devised means.
The concept of Ladies'Club dates back to the days of our British rulers, where, security concerns forced 'memsaahibs ' to live in heavily fortified garrisons , in the lacklustre isolation of  rustic cantonements, while the husband was busy with' official matters'. To relieve the collective boredom, the ladies got together and played cards, silly party games, drank coolers, fanned themselves, complained about the weather , were rude to the native servant, and had a blast, in general. The scene has changed. With more and more working women marrying the officers' of armed services, these clubs become more of albatrosses around the necks.
In a world which is increasingly individualistic, these kind of forced gatherings tend to erode goodwill and patience of the hapless participants, who in true army style,are"forced to volunteer".
As I alighted from the car of our CO, which dropped each one of us home, the street lamp glinted on someone's newly acquired diamond studs, and I was reminded of my class 8 teacher(a nun)'s words-'remember, the real wealth lies in between the ears, not on them.'

Prodhan da(the chief brother!!)

"Taarpor?''Then, what happened then?' eager heads crowded around, listening in rapt attention.
He leant back, "kichchu holo na"(nothing happened), rakishly chewing tobacco in reflective silence.
We all held our silence, we knew more was to come . "We all followed, on tip toes. "He imitated the movement, with feline grace. "It was dark, the van slowed down when it reached an alleyway for offloading.We swiftly moved in and picked up the box closest to the door.Big box it was. Thiiiiis big."He gestured with his hands . A collective gasp arose from his captive audience. Prodhan da and his accomplices had just stolen a box of frozen imported tuna from a van in the dockyard.Now they were fleeing, undetected,with their loot.
"Then police came?"whispered a kid, quivering in mock fear.
"Police?"He shot a disgusted look in her direction. Promptly, she recieved seven more disgusted looks."Never"Kokhonno na."
Then he took a huge noisy yawn, cracked his knuckles,straightened his back, and with a decisive,' Nah, ebaar choli kaaje',(let me get down to work) left us all open -mouthed, and made off to the kitchen to finish his chores.
That was Prodhan da , quintessential. He knew when to call it quits,like the legendary princess of the Arabian Nights, leaving you tantalising, tetteering on the edge.
Now in retrospect, it seems he made all those stories up, to keep us enthralled and occupied during long boring, summer afternoons.Even that calls for creativity , which he had in abundance.
 He was from Orissa.He could speak and read, bengali, oriya and hindi, could manage a passable smatter of english. Was a great cook. His retinue of abilities didnot end here. He was the best operating room assisstant in whole of the railway hospital, could rustle up delicious meals out of thin air and his bag packing skills were legendary.He would wind up or down an entire household within a matter of minutes.
His entire name was" Ontoryami Prodhan"(the psychic chief).Ontoryami he was, no doubt.A  bad affliction of small pox,in his childhood, had left his face scarred with small , circular trademark pits.
One of several siblings in an impoverished household, he was brought to kolkata, by a kind matron, who took him under her wings, and brought him up like her own child.Most of Prodhanda's 'stories' happened in the aegeis of the diamond harbour home of the matron.
One flick of a glance in our direction and he knew what was ailing us. Leaking fountain pens, blocked  toilets,burnt toasts, fungating experiments of homemade face packs, picnic hampers, holes in the socks, there was nothing he couldn't fix. In fact, those days,' ask prodhan' was somewhat like todays'look it up on google'.
He was in our household from the time we could remember.He was the cook, the errand boy, the housekeeper, the story teller, the guardian-in -absentia,( when my parents were away) and manager of my father's chaotic paperwork/phonecalls/laundry bills etc.
Disaster struck in the year 1988. My father retired from the Railways, and we had to shift house, 20 kms downstream, far from Prodhanda's beloved Dockyard and the Railway Hospital,where he was still employed. He was very clear, he couldn't leave his job.So we left.Alone.
With a vast collection of memories.Prodhanda's memories.

The learned one

First time I saw him, he was standing on the foot board of a still-moving train; sporting a light blue turban , and a gracious smile hidden beneath a large handlebar moustache, mostly white in colour with streaks of gold.A lanky frame , tall , regal and impatient. The door of the slowing train had been recklessly opened and he was plainly itching to land on  terra firma.
He waved at us and we waved back, besides ourselves with excitement.As soon as the the train whipped him past us;he nimbly disembarked and walked towards us, hands outstretched for a welcoming hug.
I had just met the 'learned one'; or' gianiji '(as he was popularly known);a.k.a my father-in-law.
Throughout his short visit, he never let me once feel like an outsider.That was his trump card, total and complete acceptance of all whom he met. His acquaintances were numerous, friends and family,of course swore by him. He left an indelible impression on whomever he came in contact with. Probably because he paid attention to and tried to fulfill all the needs of the person, before they were even felt.
'Sewa paramo dharma'( service is the greatest religion) was not just a saying for him; he lived and breathed the very words.His day would begin early,with a bath and a recitaton of the scriptures, after which his day would be dedicated to his family.From managing bank accounts of his sons, to chopping onions in the kitchen, attending condolence meetings, to changing the nappy pads of his grandchildren, booking gas cylinders, to dropping  kids to school ;there was not a single duty he shirked from.Like a superhuman, he was here, there, everywhere, for everyone.And this was his routine after his retirement.When a person begins taking things easy!!
He gave of himself with a capital' G'. I am yet to meet a more giving person.
When he was the principal of a steel city school; the school-bus driver fell ill and the information arrived a tad bit late. It was already time for school assembly. What happened next was beyond anyone's imagination. Yes, Gianiji drove the bus, collected the astonished kids,and shocked grumbling parents into revered silence. He became the talk of the town. He still is. A few years ago, we paid a visit to the self same school,the entire faculty and the administrative staff turned up to look at us; the offsprings of their"hero".
An old mali(gardener),turned up smiling at the porch, handing us a bunch of his carefully tended roses, tears coursing down his wrinkled cheeks, talking of how Gianiji was kind enough to take him (then a boyish lout)  under his wings.
For years, he would tend to his paralysed mother(biji), without a whimper. Day in and out, he would lift her , take her to the washroom, feed her, bathe her; till his own ageing heart gave way.
Even when having to reside in different abodes, his mother would look for him; as if under a spell, her breath rose and fell with the chant of 'Giani!Giani!'
When she was severely ill, it became essential to dress her bedsore wounds. I was a novice at bedside nursing, and I was being assisted by this great man and his brothers,all grey beards and turbans of pastel shade,  while all the daughters in law watched from the ringside.This totally threw askew all my bookish knowledge of nursing, wherein a female patient is to be accompanied by females only, respecting her privacy.
That is a poignant sight which I shall probably carry with me forever,of  a crowd of old sardars trying to help me dress the wounds of this bird like woman, lying half-dressed  on the bed, chanting' Giani!Giani'!
'Parmarath ke karne sadhun dhara shareer'(It is for the betterment of others' lives that the holy men are born).So said kabir.So he lived, and so he died.
'Khudi ko kar bulund itna ki khuda bande se khud poochche ; bata teri raza kya hai'
When he died, it was as if the Gods had  his express permission to take him away, doing what he loved doing all his life; caring for his loved ones.
At his funeral ceremony, it rained torrentially,as if The Powers that be, were weeping in sync with the surging crowds at the gurudwara.

An avian love story

'Thud'!!  In the dense dark chill of the wee hours of the morning, it sounded discordant and  loud. I just walked into the deserted enclosure of the abandoned auditorium to hear another muffled :thud" followed by a faint screech of an owl.The sounds emanated from the far end of the deserted building.
It looked eerie in the pre-dawn darkness , with one very tired looking yellow sodium vapour lamp throwing a small pool of pale yellow light on the entrance gate.The same sound again, a long drawn out screech, as if a call of distress,followed by a 'thud'.This time I had swivelled my head just in time to catch a glimpse of a furry brown ball flying across the lawn, screeching all the while, before hitting one of the glass windows high up in the attic.
 What I saw when I reached closer was enough to render me speechless.
An owl was trapped behind the tall glass windows of the attic,presumably the female , fluttering helplessly,her furried body pressed close to the glass . Even in the semidarkness of the wee morning, her fear and anxiety was palpable. While our Sir Galahad made repeated trips to a deodar bordering the lawns , launching himself like a missile, trying to dash open the window. Judging by the tired efforts of the male, this crusade had been carried on well through the night.
It was so humane and compassionate a sight that I can still recall it in all its vividness.
Saving a damsel in distress, as age old a theme as ever, the theme for countless movies, stories, battles was being enacted in front of me in all its gut wrenching, awe inspiring,passion-filled earthiness.
This scene was enacted for the next two nights too.
 The third night was the movie evening, and the doors of the auditorium was thrown open for its human occupants. I presume, that is when the pair made good their escape. For the drama-on-the-auditorium-lawns stopped and I think I saw a peaceful couple of owls hunting at the base of the street lamp for moths.

Sweetmeats are prepared

"Whaaaat"? My grandmother would shout , above the din of rain drumming on the asbestos roof of the ancient, mud walled kitchen."Kya chahiye?" "Chinni, maaalkin",I want sugar,o mistress' the  halwai(confectioner)would yell back from across a wall of water thundering down on the concrete courtyard.The reason why the pantry was accorded a place of pride amid the bedrooms, on the left side of the immense' aangan', was probably to curtail pilferage.
To the right lay the kitchen and dining rooms , asbestos roofed; from where the halwai' was screaming himself hoarse trying to keep his long nose and grease- stained dhoti as dry as possible.The oil was hot, emanating fragrant fumes into the cloud-filled sky , and he had just discovered that a crucial ingredient in his sweetmeats preparation was missing.
The stormy winds that evening had flung a stray tin drum into the kitchen garden behind, and raindrops battering the drum added to the din.
The halwai  would make sweetmeats throughout the night.We would have been put to bed, and drifting in and out of sleep, we would catch whiff of laddoos, boondis and other delectable sweets being manufactured, as the rain too would eventually cease , making things easier.
Bright sunshine would greet us, next morning. Large aluminium drums full of delicacies would be ferried across the recently flooded, but rapidly drying courtyard,to disappear into the cavernous and mysterious pantry(out of bounds for us kids),and a very tired halwai would be sipping hot tea from a large , steel tumbler, grinning at us , as he awaited his ample rewards for his services.
All wages were paid in kind. A vast amount of grain was measured out, packed into gunny sacks, sealed, heaved onto shoulders and taken away with a salutation.
"Parnaam" the halwai would huff, out of breath, as he lugged the heavy sack home, some two kilometres away.
No sweets were doled out,not even on the pretext of tasting.It was presumed, and correctly so, that the' halwai' had done his job well.We would recieve them only in the afternoon, after the pooja was over, and the goddess had been offered the 'prasad'.

The Band -master

One would wrinkle the nose in his presence. Not only did he reek of unwashed clothes, he also smelt of stale bidis( home made cigarettes)  and cheap country liquor.
All of his boorish personal habits(he once wore the same bandage on his cut foot for ten days-ugh!!) could not dim his brilliance on the parade ground.
 He wore many hats.
The son of a Santhal  nomad; ran away from home at the age of ten; took shelter in a convent nearby; got converted to christianity(that explains the civilised sounding name);studied till class ten under the strict supervision of "fathers" and "sisters" ;enrolled in the army at the age of seventeen; left the army with a sharpnel wound to his right shin( recieved during the 1971 indo -pak war) and joined our school in 1977.
Hugely talented, he turned all his energies to making a school -band out of scratch.This, in a town where children going to school itself was deemed a kind of luxury only the ultra-rich would indulge in.
His immense persuasive abilities were put to test, as he coaxed and persuaded FatherThomas'(our principal)to cough up money for purchase of brass flutes in large numbers; bass drums; cymbals and other sundry requirements. Then came the onerous task of coaxing mellifluous rhythms out of reluctant, rebellious and plainly mocking teenagers. This is when he hit upon the idea of taking only girls. Not only were the girls more compliant, they were totally sold out to his six foot something of rugged, rougish charm. Some boys would sheepishly follow later; to be given the heavier drums to play .
Days before the Republic Day ; when we were slated to debut at the district parade ground ; were the most hectic. Hours of practice ,while marching in the blazing sun followed. Every step, every nod of the beret-ed head had to be synchronised,to the newly acquired tunes of National Anthem, an english marching tune for march past and a slow marching tune for the slow-march. Hindi filmi tunes would follow much later, so would' our father who art in heaven'.
Girls' fainted at an alarmingly regular rate.Weak ones were provided nimboo paani by the school and we were expected to have a full breakfast before marching.Defaulters would be bundled off to the convent kitchen for snacks, much to their embarrassment and fear,as they had to cross the fearsome alsatian guarding the convent gates.
Then came the highly bright blue band uniforms with red berets. The berets had white plastic bon-bons which seemed exceedingly comical.In short, it was a garish and loudly colourful statement our school made in the centre of the huge maidan(field) on the said republic day.
Stiff with importance, his back ramrod straight, our drum major(benjamin sir himself, dressed in oversized version of our own comical getups) clicked his heels in attention at the command given by the head of District Police Plattoon and thus began our debut march.
 A small band of nervous school girls had the temerity to take on the entire parade ground  full of BSF, CRPF and other school plattoons . We being the' drum-beaters'(dhol-bajaiyaa as we had been sarcastically dubbed by the townsfolk) had to march ahead of all the others. Avoiding mocking glances from various school boys and pitiful ones from hirsute and scary looking policemen, we played the march -past when a round of the ground was taken, slow march during inspection of the parade by the DM and the National Anthem when the flag was unfurled.
As the last tune played, the drum major's tasselled silver stick  twirled high above our heads, swivelling down to a flourish of drum roll.A final drum beat and the absolute silence. An audience of hundreds of spectators, took a moment to digest it all, before breaking into thunderous applause.We were made to stand-at -ease and gave each other sheepish grins. From our vantage point(we were made to stand in the centre) , we were painfully visible to scrutiny. That also gave us the oppurtunity to see unbelievable sights. Our proud parents waving from the stands and pointing us out to neighbours, friends;The Mother Superior('The Titanic') wiping her eyes on her habit; Father Thomas' given a chair(of honour) next to the DM , shaking hands with him , and above all the complimentary grin from Benjamin Sir himself .
The school band became famous. Not only were we the toast of the town, we were invited to out of town schools' annual functions, inaugurations, Tea party on DM's lawns etc.In short, we made waves, and Benjamin sir was swamped with offers from eager parents.

Mother is on fire!!

"Maaa!!!Fire!!!"A warm orange glow blew into her face as she dropped the tumbler of complan .Her mother's sari was on fire. Almost on cue, the older siblings screamed, some one ran out of the room. Younger ones, confused and shocked, kept screaming their lungs out. Maa swivelled around and the flames leapt up.In the blinking of an eye, she became a huge yellow red flame, the tongues trying to lick the ceiling.The screams reached a crescendo;alerting neighbors and alarming the servant and grandmother on roof, putting out the laundry.
Sobbing,the youngest kid stood her ground, trying to find her mother inside the blazing figure.Mother began running, in sheer panic, fanning the flames further. The kid ran after her, soot from the flames stinging her eyes,half whispering,half sobbing-'Maa,Maa'.
Granny and the help bounded down the stairs. The neighbours rushed in, armed with lathis(sticks), thinking of burglars or snakes.The servant boy risked burns and hugged Mother , arresting her devastating run. The elder daughter produced a pair of scissors to cut the cord of the blazing cotton petticoat. Grandmother peeled off the rest of the smouldering clothes ,and pushed the naked, sobbing screaming Mother into the bathroom as the neighborhood poured into the courtyard.
Finally finding something to attack, the multitude of lathis rained on the blackened ,smoking heap of burnt clothing lying in a small,pathetic heap in the centre.
That fire, started by an innocuously accidental kick to a' sigri'(a coal stove kept indoors for warmth during winters); burnt a lot of things. It burnt the larger part of Mother's lower back;which made her lie on her stomach, in a state of nakedness, for the better part of a month. It also burnt her new polyester sari with matching petticoat and blouse.It burnt Grandmother's hands,and charred the servant boy's shirt.
It also singed the hair on the fore head of the kid, who doggedly followed her hysterical mother ,room to room.
That kid was me.
This was 1975, LPG was yet to arrive on Indian shores(or had not made inroads into the rural india yet) and polyster saris were the rage. Mother's back and grandmother's hands would be scarred for ever . Sigris were , henceforth,always  kept outside and cotton handloom saris replaced polyester saris in the family.