Mitali

 Incense sticks and the the havan had filled the hall with its sickly aromatic smoke . Numerous ghee lamps burnt  smoky , sending lampblack soot  into the air. The devotees were tired and were just waiting for the Pooja to end . 

This being a Jain ceremony , was mildly different from Hindu rituals . The pundit uttered words which were mildly foreign . However , the Jai at the end of every unintelligible chant was well received and well known , even for ignoramuses like us . 

My neighbour , his wife , my hubby and me , belong to a pseudo modern group of people, who are neither here nor there . The encouraging thing is , there are lots like us .

Suddenly, a female voice  cheerfully piped up, alongside our sullen "Jai " . She was emaciated, wearing a red scarf on her head , despite 40 degrees outside . Her thin worn face bore the delight of a four year old. She jumped up with every chant and thanked the lord with all her might , raising her hands . 

She was , however, nowhere to be seen in the dining hall . 

I met her two days later , at my neighbours place . She was Mitali Sharma . The wife of a retired banker. She had two kids , one son and a daughter. Both grown up and working . 

Her smile was infectious , and rubbed off on us . It was like sunshine  on a cloudy morning . She smiled more than she spoke . Words chasing each other, clearly overwhelmed . 

She was also bald from chemotherapy . I too had become bald due to a sudden spate of bad illness , and we shared notes , comparing the length of our hairs and laughing at our troubles . 

She was naturally shy , but happy to be alive , and it was apparent . 

Over the next few years , we would become great friends , walking in the evenings , on the small tarmac road that ran through the colony . 

She would recount her troubles , I would reciprocate with mine . We shared songs , bhajans ( she was extremely devout ) , recipes and stories . She would tell of the time she stayed in Kolkata , as her husband was posted there . 

How she had learnt Bengali from her maid , and was sad that she had forgotten now . She would , everyday , accost me with Bengali bhajans and ask me to translate them for her . Baul geets use several archaic Bengali terms , not in use in general circulation , and she wouldn't hide her disappointment at my inabilities . In the end however , we would digress , tell each other humorous stories and laugh into the night . 

We would see exotic birds in the tiny garden , and name them . There was a tiny man made lake that drew lot of water birds , waterhens , lapwings and egrets . We would watch , and race . For she could really walk fast . Leaving me  breathless in her wake, if I slackened. 

Mitali was a yoga and fitness enthusiast. For some days we attended a dance class at the community hall . When the dance classes ended , she decided to host them at her home . It lasted for a week or so, and we had terrific fun . 

Then came swimming . During Summers , Mitali donned a costume and  entered the waters . She had , amazingly, taught herself swimming via YouTube . That was her level of dedication . 

Once she sent idlis over . They were the most softest , pillows of white perfection anyone could ever cook . 

Like a good friend , she always pointed out that my sweet tooth will be my undoing ( it is ) . And that morning walks are the best things one can do . ( No doubt) 

Sometime in 2020 , she suffered a relapse and underwent a radical surgery. Her para aortic lymph nodes were removed . That plummeted her immunity and stopped her walks. 

After that, once,  she was walking in her balcony and noticed me with a ponytail , as COVID had curtailed visits to the barber and my hair had grown . She was overjoyed to see my " choti " as she called it . 

We laughed . 

Few more balcony to ground conversations later , we heard , she had taken to bed . 

Her kids came several times to see her . Her daughter got married, became a mother . 

On women's day , March 2021 , Mitali  talked to me ,on phone, one last time.  I congratulated her on being a grandmother , and she laughed , as always . As always , she was full of nostalgia for her beloved Kolkata . 

Then , a few weeks later, she breathed her last . Finally , it was time to go, surrounded by all her loved ones .

I am sure , she is laughing away , whichever world she is in . 

Of riches and soft palms

 Recently  I read somewhere , if one has to know ( which one shouldn't actually) how hard a life one has led , one just needs to touch the hands . Palms to be precise . 

This is our homegrown "princess and the pea " test . 

If you are a princess , and are free of all the drudgery that a household entails , i.e., you have adequate help or resources thereof , your palms will be soft .

Otherwise , your hardened , calloused palms have an interesting tale to tell .

However , like all rules , it has exceptions . 

My grandmother was born with a silver spoon. Both the men in her life , i.e, her father and her husband, were landowners . Jobs like sweeping , mopping floors and milking the cows were tier three jobs . Meant for the lower caste women or men . The upper caste servants were given the cheerful task of washing clothes and cooking food . 

Procurement of Pooja materials also entailed a screening of the caste hierarchy . 

As she grew older , various shades and grades of daughters in law entered her home and hearth and managed the supervision of cooking , feeding of the babies etc . 

That left her free to do an equally challenging and time consuming job . Pooja . 

That left her hands were seriously calloused . 

One would ask why ? 

The Pooja room , a large cemented cavity roughly 15 foot * 10 foot in dimensions , had to be washed daily . Then mopped dry . All Gods and goddesses , their brass statues were immersed , washed , scrubbed . Fresh flowers were woven into garlands and fresh Bel and Tulsi leaves sorted . Fruits for offerings , washed , chopped etc . Ghee lamps were scrubbed with ash , daily , till they shone . When lit up, they reflected the flames in a thousand tongued splendour and bewitching aroma . 

This process was repeated twice. Once in the morning, when the deities awakened, and once at night , when they had to be put to sleep. 

All the water for this purpose was hand drawn by her . No one else could do this . Not even us , her numerous progenies or grand progenies .

Drawing of water for Pooja was a back breaking, soul crushing job of using a prickly coir or softer hemp rope ( no short cuts of contaminated pulleys here ) to dunk , fill and lift a small brass bucket , carrying roughly 1.5 litres at a time . Hundreds of this bucket of water were drawn , almost daily .

The Pooja room was a parallel household were Gods were bathed , fed and put to sleep . Daily . 

The sheer hard work put into this , and the colossal web of rules that governed it ,is unimaginable in today's day and time. All this had to be done by a fasting matriarch .

That pushed my grandmother's first decent meal of the day to 3 in the afternoon . 

When the world was napping after having twice filled their tummies . 

Having lived  a major portion of her life , governed by the pointless tyranny of religious rituals , she had realised the futility . 

Being  blessed with an extremely sharp intellect , she realised that only education can free us , womenfolk . She shielded us , her grandchildren , under the guise of "going to school' , 'pursuing studies " , and her own daughter in law ( my mom ) , by saying "she was just a kid " " needs to look after the children " , thereby swallowing the poison of centuries old tradition , herself , like a steadfast Shiva . 

No one , after her demise , has had the need or compulsion to go through this mindless rigmarole of Pooja Ghar . 

In her lifetime , we shifted to a town , then to a megapolis , and the number of her Gods dwindled . The multitude of leaves and flowers required for Pooja too , became scarce . Hence , when she passed away , she had to contend with just half an hour of hushed chanting in front of a drenched and bemused looking statue of a brass Shiva and couple of Durga photos . 

Quickly adapting , she was a living epitome of the wisdom laced words " Yatha Shakti , tatha Bhakti " ( loosely meaning , you have to worship as per your means )

Before she passed away , she stayed in an ICU for two weeks , hooked to ventilators . Having worked all her life , she gave up even  her breathing to machines . Another two weeks in a step down ICU , without the ventilatory support . During these four weeks , her skin moulted , and became smooth and callous free . For the first time in her life, the heels were crack free . 

When she passed away , she was adorned as a bride in Bengali custom , red alta on feet , hands , huge red bindi on her forehead , white and red saree . She went back to her creator , as she had been sent here . Callous free , petal soft hands and crack free heels . 

Train ride through rain drenched rural Bengal

 Ankle length soft green

Paddy fields , gentle sheen

 Laden boughs , grass and vine

Bathed , in a luxuriant shine 

Afar, some fields , are orange 

Sudden dots of  colour , splurge

No death, no brown , no age 

Verdant life's youthful visage 

Ponds are covered with sheets of round

Green has made them too , earthbound

The blue sky , dark earth the clear pond 

All seem to be somehow spellbound

Bewitched by the blade , the moss

The frond , the swaying  green gloss

The dominant colour of the slosh 

It is the emerald , glen and vale posh 

A flock of egrets take flight 

Against the green , dots of white

It is truly a heartstopping sight 

Open your eyes , shut tight 

See the paradise comes to you 

Outside a rattling train window 

It is Bengal, it is monsoon now 

Dazzling pretty , nature's brow .

Endless surprises

"In every walk with nature , one receives far more than he seeks . " 

                                                                         - John Muir 

For nature lovers , there is nothing called a mundane morning walk . There is always something to be excited about , specially , if you live in a densely wooded area , such as this . 

I discovered a tiny bird , no bigger than a palm , feasting on wild figs . It had a green body, red stripe on the head and red neck . Crimson headed barbet . 

I also discovered a tree called Arjun tree ( Terminalis Arjuna ) , the bark of which is known to cure diabetes and hypertension . 

Today, it was drizzling . Hence the embarrassingly brightly printed umbrella . I discovered a pond on the path that I usually take . It was right next to the road , fringed with reeds and tall grass , hence not visible from the road . A few days ago , in the pelting rain , the authorities got the reeds slashed by wet , disgruntled workers , who had done quite a messy job . The slashed reeds stood tall , still , swaying their bruised heads , some lay wilted on the ground , however , the net result was to make the pond 'apparate '( to borrow a term from Harry Potter )  hitherto invisible. 

The bank next to the road was higher than the other edges . So , one is not aware of the wildlife sitting in the shallow , grass filled edges . My footsteps disturbed a flock of twenty two (Yes , I counted ) grey herons . Alarmed , they stuck out their long necks and gracefully winged their way across , to sit on the low branches of the trees beyond . Following them , three waterhens skidded across the clear , dark waters . the last one , practically walking on water ( "Miracle ") with its long three toes , sleek black wet wings in sharp contrast with their white undersides . Raindrops kept falling creating tiny concentric circles on the water surface . Like an abstract painting .With jointed grass and reeds elbowing their way out , poking their green heads , beaten every now and then ,by the falling drops . 

Tall vines , as tall as trees covered almost every tree trunk , and horizontal ground , with their pale green heart shaped leaves . Entwined amongst themselves to end up as large masses of leaves swaying gently in the rain , held up ,tail end from a Goliath tree . Now you know where the legend of green swamp monsters originated from . 

Suddenly , the clouds part , like a reluctant crowd of onlookers , and lets the brilliant morning sun in . The drizzling is on .Each water drop on every blade of grass catches the sun and is transformed into a glittering gem . 

All at once , a drab wet pond is transformed into a shimmering field of priceless diamonds . 

Two tiny wagtails were doing their comical dance at the newly finished Kids park . Both had differently coloured plumage , one darker than the other . 

A flock of spotted doves flew away when I neared a tree , leaving a clumsy , wide eyed , largish , green bird behind . Lineated barbet . It stared at me with scared eyes , shuffling in the foliage . "Why didn't you fly away like the others ? How did you know that I was a friend ?" I asked the barbet . 

On the way back home , I discovered a large white mushroom growing by the roadside , in the grass. With a large fan like head , with a stout, conical brown stalk , broadening as it neared , and a  tough grey white lichen clinging to a rotting log. 

 

Relocating in the Indian Armed Forces

 “If we were meant to stay in one place , we would have roots instead of feet .” 

A wise person said the above words . But it is not entirely true . Roots do grow ,even in the two and a half , one year and eight months, and sometimes as short as eight months , of the Forces tenure . 

The process of uprooting sounds painful . I assure you , it is anything but that . In fact , the longer the tenure at a particular station , the greater the eagerness , and anticipation . For example , right now , the house we live in , is built on an ancient road . Rumours suggest that this was a part of the ancient runway . 

The runway that was used by the British , during the british raj , in the second world war . This station also has the dubious reputation of having refuelled and provided a landing pad for the American allied aircrafts , that flew from here , to bomb Nagasaki and Hiroshima . 

Anyway , we digress . The old , British era runway has now been covered with roughly six inches of soil, and lawns , trees and flowers planted on it . We discovered this,  while gardening , that some areas of the lawn have particularly poor soil and nothing on it actually grows or lives , for that matter . Including hardy periwinkle ( which will thrive anywhere else ) . Trees however , over the years , have penetrated the asphalt and have spread their roots in a wide , unforgiving swathe . The macadam on top of these giant roots , have swollen , heaved and cracked (Take that , Brits ) , leading to percolation of rainwater to deeper reaches . Nothing survives the power of the peepul and Banyan . They , together , succeeded in hiding entire city of  Angkor wat for centuries , so a foot or so of asphalt is not a problem . 

We digress again . The plants , transplanted (or uprooted ) from the aforementioned lawn , into tiny , but well nourished  flower pots , start thriving . Impossible , isn’t it ? 

Yes . It is true . Transplantation breathes new life into plants , vines , and people . 

We grow . Meet new people , breathe  a different air , hear a different language around us , and encounter different cuisine on the streets outside . The vehicle registrations have a different alphabet , your pincode and STD code changes ,there is a different guy sitting on the chief minister’s chair , and , in some cases , a different political party too .  Your airport and main railway station changes , and you get to see a newer part of the country . 

Roots , shallow , adventitious , grow numerously , fabulously . Everyone needs nourishment . Don’t we ? Hence roots . Albiet shallow , thin . Ready to move , at the drop of a hat . 

The template is already there . The home , when you are allotted one , has been recently vacated by an earlier family . It bears all the signs . 

Nails have been already startegically hammered into the walls , all you need is to hang your pictures , twine your fairy lights for diwali around the old nails . Sometimes the ‘welcome maintenance “( euphemism for whitewashing of walls and painting of the wood work ) guys will rip off the nails , fill the holes with putty and whitewash it over . Fear not , like a homing pigeon , you will find the tell tale hole shaped depressions in the walls , where your nails go. 

Whatever is despised , unwanted or plain forgotten , is yours to discover . 

We have , over the years , discovered beautiful , thick , calender paper lined cupboards , mosquito repellant refills , complete with machines in each room , still plugged , ready to use . In one house , we discovered neon , glow-in -the-dark stars , stuck to the ceiling of the kids’ room , bringing untold joy to both my daughters . 

Gardens are a storehouse of these leftover items , yours to embrace . The residual roots of the previous occupants , yours to splice with . 

Waste tyres upcycled into flower pots , plastic sprite bottles , cut up and painted , with soil still inside for your plants , garden embellishments like terracotta horses , and plastic hanging fake nests , chinese diwali string of lights , wound around the giant mango tree in your yard , and an abandoned badminton net , tethered to poles . Plasic pots , some cracked , some perfectly reusable , dog bowls , and ready made  open air hearth for backyard bonfires . Nylon ropes still tethered to your guava and neem trees , ready for your clothes . 

An unwritten rule means we always inherit toliet brushes , and several bottles of harpic in the washrooms . we also leave ours behind . I guess , everyone does that . 

In one station , we discovered a radha krishna fridge magnet ( it is still with us ) , and a large laxmi footprint floor sticker ( that store room automatically became the pooja room ) . 

It is not thieving , if you are inclined to think so . In most cases , you do not even know the name of the previous occupant , leave alone , his /her present abode . 

In any case , these items were left behind , so you might as well use it . Because one day , you will move too , leaving your roots , or impression thereof , in your beloved but transient  home . 

Packing is meticulous and so is loading of the truck , but there may be snags on the way . Delays , truck hold ups , and accidents are not uncommon . So is burglary and missing boxes . You may find your metal boxes caved in , crockery broken , potted plants smashed and wooden items scuffed / scratched .  But , that , as they say , comes with the territory . 

In many ways , a posting is like death . You are reborn , so is your household . As said in Bhagwad Gita , “ as a man changes attire .” 

Fall of a leaf

 Swivelling stalk downwards,

spiralling  gently earthwards 

The yellowed leaf falls 

Just like that, down it sails

 No noise , no sirens , no pain 

No reason to whine or complain 

No loud moans , no loathing the end 

No petty groans , Into the scene blend 

Gracefully , noiselessly , it accepts 

At matter of factedness , it is adept 

No wailing family , no unruled kingdom 

No fake drama , no abandoned fiefdom

Let us be like the leaves 

Behind us let's not leave 

Too much muck and stink 

Let the tree thrive pink 

Let our absence 

Lend peace 

Not remorse 

Endless farce 

Oh leaf ! Aged and Yellowed

From this life mellowed 

Please take me along 

To your noiseless world 

Bird behaviour

 The first time I was taken in by this strange and uncannily human behaviour by our avian neighbours , was on a walk in the small garden that exists in our colony . On one of the large , broad leafed tree , a number of babblers ( noisy , gregarious , ashy brown in colour ) were creating a ruckus . Nothing new . Except , it quietened down on my third round . Looking up, I saw six to seven good sized babblers , skewered on one branch , almost weighed down by their weight . Squeezing against each other , all fluffed up against the Punjab winter , sharing bodily warmth .

Next , was in Bengal , at one of the numerous ponds . There was quite a collections of ducks , mallards and geese swimming in the murky , muddy waters . All of them , comically , doing this funny thing . One moment , they are serenely sailing on the waters , next moment they dive , headlong , and thrash with their tails and legs , extracting nourishment from the mud , with their beak . To the uninitiated , it might appear , as if they are drowning , wilfully . Next moment they emerge , beak dripping , looking innocently around , sailing quietly . They keep doing this several times in a minute . So , at any given point of time , there are at least half the duck butts waving and thrashing in the air , with their heads submerged . It appears very disconcerting and comical at the same time .

When it comes to eating food , all have different personalities , just like humans. So , if you have extra rice grains , which you have scattered in your backyard , you will see babblers . Numerous , noisy , greedy and unafraid .

If you continue sprinkling , suddenly a crow will swoop down from the heavens and snatch the food ,mid air . Then it will disappear , waiting for more swooping opportunities . Like Amitabh Bachchan in Deewar , they do not pick up stuff scattered on the floor . Unless , they are very hungry .Crows too , if you create a habit of giving out food regularly , will perch on your window sill , and caw for their share . Demand , actually .

Mark Twain thought that crows are brilliant . So did R K Narayan . They were right.

The second circle of grain acceptors are mynahs . Proud , and wary , they treat babblers as their food tasters . Letting them eat the first round , watch and observe . Then move in .

The third circle consists of normally raucous tree pie and barbets . They watch from their great heights , almost invisible . They will come down and deign to accept your offering only when you , the benefactor , have bodily removed yourself from the scene . It is you they fear . It is a very humbling ,sad fact . The prettiest jungle birds , are the wariest of us . For very good reason . People imprison bulbuls and parrots , for their bright plumage and sweet songs .

Another baffling bird behaviour I had the fortune of noticing was the grey francolin , or the Teetar . It lives in the bush , and can fly very short distances like a hen . It will spot a predator kite circling in the skies and go nuts . Instead of taking cover , it screeches its heart out and runs in circles , imitating the kite . That makes it easy for the kite to spot it along with its vulnerable hatchlings .

Mynahs screeching in groups always heralds the presence of a nest -raider aka cat or snake . They will increase their volume of alarmed shrieks if a human passes close by , knowing very well ,that the human can chase away both of these egg eaters .

A bird bath is an excellent window to seeing bird behaviour . Mynas dip their beaks and daintily sip. Babblers toss a beakful of water down their throat and cluck gleefully . While sparrows and bulbul wont hesitate to take a bath , sprinkling and fluttering gleefully , shaking their feathers dry later , Golden orioles and Treepies keep a watchful eye all around . If they so much as hear a sound inside the house fifty metres away , they will take flight . Thirst may be damned !