Kakima

( Kakima is the name given to the younger uncle's wife . Or the wife of the younger brother of one's father . Subsequently , over the years , it is a generic term meant for elderly neighbours  and relatives too far removed to defy any nomenclature ) 

 " She is a recluse . How much trouble can she be ?" 

That is what we were told . Like all fake reassurances before an ensuing storm , this too proved as much of a falsification , as it could . 

Kakima apparated  one fine afternoon , when the kids returned from the school . 

The astha channel had usurped the TV and the study room was occupied . The kids had to study on their beds or on the dining table . It was a no brainer . Geometrical instruments do not work on the 'electromagnetic magical 'surface of the kids beds , which is cushy enough to send most conscientious kids into the realm of sleep , in the midst of toughest trignometric sums . Horrors ! Un homeworked kids march like little criminals into the penitentiary of the school . 

Never happened before .

Lot of things never happened before . 

Fish curry was banished to a small shy side table , where the flesh eaters had to depart to season their mounds of rice , while Kakima ate sparingly on the table , a hanky on her nose , of vegetarian food , certainly "contaminated " in the kitchen by fishy utensils . 

Next day , a small bucket with terracotta mounds was bought , from a forgotten bazaar . A tidy heap of twigs was burnt for Kakima to brew her "satvic "(Pure ) Khichdi on  "pure "terracotta utensils . 

Maa rolled her eyes more frequently , and Baba took semi permanent residence in his office . 

As gullible youngsters salivated at  the delicious aroma of the ghee laced khichdi ( elder sister said, with dramatically dilated pupils for good effect ) in rhymes " A witches brew , to entice you ."

A parallel kitchen grew outside the wire mesh door of our kitchen , and the outside wall blackened with the rising soot . Baba sighed , and departed to the "Office " quickly . 

No one can say for sure , how we were related to her . Except that , like monsoon , Kakima arrived with unfailing regularity , once in a year , unannounced , to turn our household , topsy turvy. 

More fruits , than necessary , were bought , and  eaten . Apples and bananas wormed their way into our tiffin boxes as Maa would be busy participating  the elaborate puja rituals that came along with kakima . The smoky fragrance of incense emanated along with tinkle of bells and muttered mantras . Kids tip toed their way past the erstwhile study rooms , in their school socks , carrying their uniform shoes ("contaminated " ) in their hands . 

Baba was called to school office as complaints against aberrant children piled up in "unfinished homework " category . Baba sighed and reassured the teachers that , "It was just a matter of one more week " . 

Sometimes kakima would perceive the disaster brought upon by her arrival and pack up her bags early . 

Everyone would heave a sigh of relief and the study room would be repopulated by Godless kids , tramping about in shoes on holy surface . 

Chairs , tables would be dragged back in , backyard walls would be whitewashed and the tiny fish curry table would disappear . Terracotta pots , pans , along with twigs and the bucket stove would disappear into the shed , and remain there for a year . 

Amazingly , the fragrance of incense sticks would linger on in the passageway , for a long time , and astha channel would unerringly pop up , while looking for AXN . 

Time

Time is the only God 

The only cattle prod 

The one true master 

The  eternal  blaster 

Nothing else 

Comes close 

They, You and I 

Will close our eye(s) 

Time shall keep a watch 

Ironical, what a catch !! 

It will tell the universe 

Of our follies and worse 

Our weak knees , our foibles

Our undoing , barren crucibles 

How we ruined the span 

Granted to us , Oh man !! 

We were so dumb 

Hearts so very numb 

What heights we were 

Given ? We walked mere

Plains , earth , the sea

What you could see !! 

What you chose to be 

What sorrow, land bare 

Like a fallow land in meadows

Barren dead tree in dense woods 

Lost the chance, missed the goods

Time stands tall , as it should 

Judging me / our lives 

Petty , piffles , hives 

Aimless ,pointless 

Alas we,wee wasted isles. 

Goras , goats and itchy throats

 ( Foreword: Elephant foot yam or Suran or Ole is a large rhizome which is grown and eaten in West Bengal and Bihar . It is peeled , sliced ,salted and kept in the sun for leaching and drying of the juices. Thereafter , it is boiled, deep fried , cooked in a gravy heavily laced with either tamarind paste or lemon juice . Suffice to say, this extensive process is performed in order to kill one terrible property of the Yam . It itches , and how!! Hence, though it might have the pink and juicy appearance of a sweet fruit , it is to be never, never eaten raw. The reaction of the buccal mucosa is to precipitate an itchiness of ungodly proportions . It might be even called mild  anaphylaxis ) 

"Aeeeeyyaaah "  Someone screamed in the far distance . 

In a village , distance is measured in terms of visibility . If you are not visible, you are very far off . Simple .

The screamer , however , turned round the corner of a hut , holding a tiny goat kid , writhing and bleating , in his arms . 

This was serious .

The goat parent, an elderly farmer , well into his fifties , worry , care and hard work etched into each of his wrinkles and lines on the face , trying very hard to keep the squirming  kid above ground. The bleats were fast turning into moans .

It was the farmer who screamed.  

The goat kid was guilty of eating raw elephant foot yam pieces , which sliced and salted, were kept in the sun to leach out the moisture .

The goat kid had been seen munching on the freshly cut juicy pieces by mischievous members of the family who made no attempt to stop him . Rather catching the sides of their tummies, were seen rolling in the dust, with laughter at the apparent agony of the goat kid 

A pet is a member of the family . It's agony was palpable on the face of the farmer . 

A stern look from my grandfather  stopped all jolliness even in our mirth prone home , as the misery was well audible . A goat's incessant bleats can be heart rending , almost sounding like a human cry . A helpless , non stop sobbing for help. 

My grandfather was a homeopathic doctor. He had none of the verve and instant cures of allopathy . All he could offer by means of treatment was a large bag of sugary granules to be dissolved in water and fed to the goat ,along with a mild sleeping agent to tide over the agony filled hours , till the effect of yam or ole wore off. 

The goat recovered. Next morning , the farmer brought a great jute bag of freshly harvested corn cobs as a token of gratitude and payment . 

It was accepted . 

For the rest of the days , and so long as the corn lasted , " the goat who ate ole", sparked several similar stories , but mostly with human players . Equally riveting. One of the stories, recounted by my grandfather stood out. 

A gullible British officer was passing by the village . Some sixty years ago. Clad in a stiff red and black uniform , with an unbending spine , a tall red hat,  astride a majestic horse .

It was noon time. Approaching lunch time. Numerous housewives had taken the advantage of the autumnal harvest of ole and had sliced , salted their rhizomes , spreading them out to dry in the sun .

The "Tommy" was thirsty and possibly a bit hungry . 

And he stopped at the sight of this wondrous and unfamiliar fruit / vegetable. 

He asked a passing group of teenagers. "Is it good to eat ?".

The teenagers , being teenagers , replied in unison . 

"Yes, yes , very good to eat. Very sweet and juicy." 

," Yeah . It definitely looks juicy and pink." 

He alighted , ordered a homeowner to pack him a kilo in a clean cloth bundle. 

In the British times , if a "gora sahib" asked you for something, you gave it . No questions asked. 

The homeowner , with a conscience and fear , said  meekly "It is raw ."

"Never mind" . Laughed the gora. "I believe it is sweet. It looks sweet alright. And juicy. I am really thirsty." The Tommy pointed at his open mouth "Bhooka hai " . ( thinking , all the while, "bloody dumb Indians ")

And the teenagers thought "Bloody dumb Angrez" 

At this , the peasant had no choice but to pack it . The teenagers , held their breath and giggles , waiting to take a flight at a moments notice .

At the same time, the spectacle was going to be too good to miss. 

After the payment was made , the homeowner repaired quickly in , locked his gates and was heard shouting at his womenfolk " Jaldi , bhago ."

A confusion of alarmed shouts and suppressed giggles ensued from the farmer's home. 

The Tommy , took a bite of one juicy pink square and stuffed the rest into the horse's frothing mouth .

The teenagers' collective mouth fell open . They had no time to wait  or guffaw. Pell mell they ran to the fields , where the slippery , narrow paths would be impossible for either the Brit or the horse to give chase . 

The agonised screams and curses of the Brit and incessant neighing of the afflicted horse could be heard all over the terror stricken village. 

It is learnt later that the homeowner who sold him the ole was brave enough to feed large quantities of nimbu Paani to the human and salted water to the horse to kill the after effects of the raw yam . 

The teenagers retired to the safety and anonymity of rooftops to watch "tamasha" .

The incident  quietly entered the legion of " legendary stories to be told to the grandchildren" .