A journey by train

 A few days ago , we went on a train trip .We were counselled against ( it is going to take a long time , they said ) , made to fear (You will be very tired at the end of it ) , and frankly paranoid ( you will fall sick due to the train food ) . People wishing well threw up their hands in exasperation . Who , in today's time and date travels by train ? People thought we were misers , or mad , or both . Possibly , they were right too . 

The dividends took some time to reveal themselves. At the boarding platform, the usual chaos ensued. The train is on time, and arrives half an hour early for the passengers to board . 

The noise and the crowd of the station melting away in the quiet, AC cooled comfort of the berths . Having shoved our luggage underneath our seats , we took a stock of the world outside our window. 

And that is when you see a panorama unfold which is never to be seen on a two hour flight .

As Dalai Lama said " Once a year , go someplace you have never been before . " 

We were crossing most of these places , ensconced in our comfort of a first class coupe , but we" saw" it nevertheless . 

In geographical sense , the train like a scalpel , sliced through the nation's tummy . lengthwise . We started at the nation's capital and traversed the distance of 2,731 kilometres and crossed 8 states , culminating at Krantiveera Sangoli Rayyana, a station whose name , besides being unfamiliar to most fliers , is as similar and as different in the same breath, as chalk and cheese.

Unlike visceral surgeries , we did not descend into some deep dark labyrinth of doom . We hooted across verdant fields , rattled through dense forests , certainly frightening some wild animals  , and swept through dusty scrublands . Numerous bridges beat a reassuring tattoo of wisdom , and tunnels filled our hearts with cold despair . Small stations wailed as we sped past , not stopping at their doorsteps . 

The soil colour , began at fertile khaki and brown at the Hindi belt  , changed into black igneous rocky soil of the deccan Plateau , then converted to red laterite of the valley , occasionally sandy of the near beach soil . 

The crop variety and abundance followed . We left the Haryana region in an abundance of paddy crops , lush green , just about changing to yellow straw and drooping ears of grain. 

That was on the first evening, and then after having hot food, we slept off and woke up to a totally different vista .

The fact that we were not moving in a straight line , or that the state borders were not strictly straight was  brought home by the fact that at night , we stopped at Agra Cantt , which is in UP . Next stoppage was at Gwalior , which is in MP . In the morning , we found ourselves at Jhansi , which is again UP !!!!

We were supposed to cross Jhansi at early morning , but luckily the train was an hour late , so we saw the station in its glory . 

At Jhansi , around mid morning , after our upma and bread omelette breakfast , we peered over our steaming paper cups of tea , his milky , mine black , and saw a huge bronze statue propped up on a platform on a hillside  . A quick google search revealed this to be a statue dedicated to Maj Dhyanchand , the legend , still poised to drive the hockey puck into a goal on the rustic slope . Apparently , he hailed from Jhansi . 

We had carried bread and tomatoes with us , a knife , and salt in a tiny plastic container . The ecstasy  of eating a freshly made tomato sandwich in a moving train is wholly underrated . For our further journeys with kids , I had bought some cheese slices along too , much to the joy of the dairy lovers . 

Huge black boulders sat like slumbering giants with ever so slight brushing of green on top . It seemed as if they would awaken with a shudder and a startle at the touch of a wand or utterance of a magic spell . 

After Jhansi , came the bustling station of  Bhopal , the state capital of MP!! After having played hide and seek with two states , the train finally decided not to confuse us any further and politely entered Maharashtra at Nagpur . Nagpur lies right next door to Madhya Pradesh and is famed for oranges . On cue , we crossed huge orange orchards , the leaves glistening in the late morning sun , the largish shrubs , in tidy rows , upon rows , the earth bald and baked and bereft of any weed around their trunks  . 

Between Nagpur and Balharshah , the only other stoppage at Maharashtra , we crossed several forested areas .Large leafed teak wood tree , also called sagwan , grow plentifully . The plantations , though maintained on either side of the train track , still gave out definite forest vibes .

There were places , where the trees had been felled and the timber laid in neat heaps for transportation .  Even the railway station boasted of a statue of a tiger pouncing on a deer and there were green jungle paintings on the walls . Wildlife peeking out from behind large leaves , Tinkle fashion . 

Next stop was Kazipet . 

Kazipet was in Telengana . It was a real eye opener . The entire facade of the station had been done up in shiny tiles .There were huge white marbled domes of some Masjid or Peer Baba Mazar , which overshadowed the stationed . Gleaming white in the sun , it provided a stunning backdrop. The floor was clean , with no littering anywhere . Neat benches , dustbins and general cleanliness of the place is striking . There are vendors , but they are not rushing around . In general , the place gives a vibe of quiet , understated prosperity and discipline . I had never heard of this place , and I am glad I was fortunate to see it , even if just the station . 

" It wasn't a strange place , it was a new one . " Paulo Coelho. 

Another quick search on the internet revealed the importance of this city in the state of Telengana , as a part of tricity ,alongwith Warangal and Hanmakonda .It is also a major junction for trains from North going southwards ( such as ourselves ) ,an educational and manufacturing hub . 

Besides , it has a has an interesting past . A Sufi Saint ( biabani ) did his penance in the caves of the place , during the reign of Asaf Jah II(early 19th century )  hence the name .  

Igneous rocks , formed millions of years ago , due to unrelenting volcanic activity, weathered into black soil , unfit for most crops except one . Green patches of cotton plants elbowed their way into the rocky landscape ,already bearing velvety white fluffs, where the fruit had burst through. 

A remarkable thing was rows upon rows of pigeon pea ( arhar) plants that grow in between the cotton. Apparently, pigeon pea fixes nitrogen into the mineral starved soil and the hardy stems of the legumes provide a windbreak of sorts to growing cotton crop. 

At places where the legume had been harvested , the stems were arranged into a conical heap , to be used later as stakes for fencing, as fuel or simply as a raw material for a skeleton of a thatch roof.

In Andhra Pradesh-  Karnataka , we saw fields upon fields of sunflower plants . Brilliant yellow orange flowers , praying in unison to that life giving golden orb we all venerate . Some twisting their thick necks to follow an ancient plant behaviour still bewildering the scientists . The bright yellow fields get a dark green border of either flax or sorghum . Flax plants are small , whereas Sorghum occasionally towers over the sunflowers , like aggressive bodyguards for pretty maidens . 

Then came Papaya orchards . This is the first time I saw papaya orchards . In such profusion as to take your breath away . The trees were too small , and not yet able to bear fruit , but looked promising . In six months time , I am sure , all of them will be laden with the green turning to yellow orange fruits , bunched beneath a canopy of leaves that look like bohemian fairy  skirts , scalloped and fringed . 

As we rattled past these , we saw coconut plantations . Incredibly tall , up to twenty feet of smooth trunk, covered in ringlets , topped with drooping hippy haired large fronds . The leaves , bunched up at dizzying heights , hide the bounty of round , yellow -green coconuts . Some villages had huge mounds of coconut husk , leaves and trunk . Every part of the coconut plant is utilised .

 It is amazing to see human enterprise at this scale , coaxing such wondrous crops out of a land that heaves , protrudes , and negates all efforts to tame it .

That said , there post monsoon carpet of greenery was evident everywhere . In and around black boulders even , threatening to drown them in places .

 The huge boulders grow into gargantuan outcroppings that have to be burrowed through , in order to build a railroad . So , the  Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka area have large numbers of electrified railway tunnels . Ours being a Rajdhani train , we thundered through the dimly lit cavernous stretches , screeching and rattling away . 

Next major stop was Secunderabad . 

Once again , it doesn't disappoint . Clean shiny tiled floors , newly built signages , huge dustbins and freshly whitewashed walls . Littering is minimal , but more crowded than Kazipet . Even Secunderabad falls in Telengana , which is a recently formed state , broken away from its parent Andhra Pradesh . 

Two of my college friends live here , but we weren't stopping here ,so it is futile to even think about them  . Another futile task which the heart indulges in ( and the brain balks at ) is to search for their likenesses in the crowds on the station. So foolish . 

Medu Vada is a favourite snack here . Dunked into piping hot sambar and served in thermocol bowls . Then you wage war on them , armed with a fragile wooden spoon . 

Despite having had the train lunch , we couldn't resist hot vadas . Who can ? 

Another important stoppage of Guntakal was missed in the darkness of the night.

 As a matter of  fact that it is very easy to fall of asleep in a train . The clackety clack lulls you into a stupor , the moment your head hits the pillow . The time of the day is immaterial . 

The train continued to play hide and seek with the state borders . we snaked to Karnataka at Raichur , entered Andhra Pradesh at Guntakal , and thundered back into Karnataka at4AM in the morning . 

We were regurgitated out by the long running tired train at KSR , and we joined the throngs leaving the platform for the Metro station . 

We disappeared into the vast ocean of humanity .

To quote " You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world " . 

Pooja's shop

On a sultry summer afternoon , I have to buy a gift . 

An invitation to a party , that cannot be refused . A rigorous two hours to be spent in forced laughter , silly party games and mind -numbing conversations about jewellery and pets .  They call it interaction . It is said to enrich the personality .

Anyway  ,  I am here to depict the shop . Let me not digress . 

This shop is one of the few shops in the small sleepy village / town that claims to be a "gift " shop .

It has a tin roof lean to , in addition to a concrete wall with painted letters , faded over  time , self -declaring oneself to be in possession of male and female lingerie , ( does anything called "male lingerie " exist , I wonder ) in addition to crockery , cutlery , toys and "gifts " . 

There are perforated plastic baskets with heaps of mismatched cups , some baskets are filled with plastic toys and there is stack of cricket bats with the paint peeling off , revealing their wooden interiors , bunched up , and leaning against the door . A few male and female mannequin busts , sitting upright in the dirt , wear , on their sun baked and paint peeling heads , a variety of fading caps and hats .  

The door is festooned with a blingy "toran " of last year's Deepavali , the shiny  bits having been robbed by the elements , so now we have few strands of white plastic pathetically waving in the warm breeze that hisses beneath the lean-to . The roof rattles when I open the door . 

A wave of airconditioned air , cooled to 18 degrees blasts into my face like an arctic breeze . Instant  teleportation, to the frigid climes . An elderly lady , with a woollen scarf around her face , in the month of scorching June , sits behind the counter .

 

She takes one look at me and yells "POOOJA" . 

I was about to shake my head and tell her that my name was not pooja , when a faint voice answered her from the un air conditioned depths of the store . The answer sounded like "ai mai ", though I cannot be too sure . 

A sheer wall of transparent shower curtains, now grimy with repeated human touches ,  separates the old lady and a longish glass counter from the rest of the shop , which extends , lengthwise , into the oblivion . 

The shelves behind the lady , were sleek and glitzy , quite unlike the shabbiness of the lean-to products.  Deodorants and perfumes , talcum and face washes , anti ageing products ( expensive , packaged lies ) line the shelves . 

The old lady follows my gaze , the shouts in panic again "POOOOJAAAA" .

Pooja , apparently , has gone in with another client into the warm sweaty  bowels , and is very reluctant to come to the arctic areas . Only a murmur of voices reveals her distant location . 

The walls on the opposite side have disappeared beneath the profusion of higgledy piggledy stacked plastic trays , the jockey pyjamas and t shirts stacked and pushed into the crevasses so hastily that the outer half remain slightly open , like barnacle shells on a ship's hull. There are kid's clothings , kitchen aprons . and boxes of ceramic  crockery . 

 

I have espied a perfume , and I ask the elderly lady about it . She gets up , Fetches for me in six slow , creaky  steps , a stretch that could be traversed in a single step .

Yet , the courage needs applauding . 

I compliment her , and she smiles , revealing her age in the same breath . 

"Sixty two " , she beams , and her muffler loosens  . 

In a flash , she loses her composure and shouts , softer this time  "Pooooojaaaa" 

Upon being asked the price of the perfume , she turns it in her knobbly , arthritic hand , then squints , fails to read and bellows , once again, almost pleading "Poooojjaaa" . The near apoplexy must have been audible to the hitherto invisible Pooja , for I can hear her scurrying through the narrow passageway in between the barnacled walls , the floor strewn with merchandise . She is picking her way through , gingerly .

Clad in a salwaar kameez . a frazzled Pooja makes her appearance , snatches the perfume bottle from my hand , ignores the old lady's lamentations of " kab se bula rahi hoon " , and barks 350 rupees at me , before disappearing into the nether ends  again . 

"But , I need a gift too . " I protest meekly , joining the old lady who calls out "Pooja " for the nth time , while wrapping her muffler back again . 

Pooja , pokes her hassled face and asks me to follow her into the hallowed unseen .

There is a large table in the centre of a tiny room , laden with boxes of motorcars , plastic tennis , badminton , cricket bats , variously sized batman , Spiderman , avengers etc piled into a mountain . 

A tiny fan whirred overhead , creaking dolefully  .

Something whined at my feet , then I realized I was about to step on a little boy of about three ,, clutching an orange plastic cricket bat to his heart .

 I almost backed into another loaded shelf , standing upright, behind my back , groaningly laden with crystal and glass items ( the famous "gift items ') . I turned my attention to this shelf and left the" bat man " writhing on the floor , while his Mom , a severe looking young lady argued and bargained with the boy and Pooja in turns . 

While rummaging this stand alone , and precarious shelf , for a suitable gift item , I heard the mother trying to convince the boy to buy a masked batman which was apparently less likely to give the boy ( and I suspect others around him too ) a black eye , where as the boy and Pooja both were in the camp cricket bat and ball . 

The poor Mom capitulated after a little while . A defeat  in which , I suspect the heat played a major role . Sweating profusely , the trio emerged with a sigh into the frigid airs of the front desk for billing .

The boy flashing an evil grin as he relishes the future prospect of whacking all the people around him into submission . 

 Pooja , in her attempts to tidy up the place , was again , interrupted by several" Pooja " shouts , of varying tenor .

I realized the old woman had been joined by her shorts wearing stubbled male offspring , the missing owner of the shop , who , displaying true genetic likeness , believed in shouting for Pooja from the counter , instead of lending her a hand . 

With remarkable adroitness , Pooja packs everything , collects money ,and sees us out . 

I can't help but remark to the shorts wearing male , who believes in giving patronising grins to all.

"You are short on staff here . "

 

"Oh no . He replies brazenly . " We have Pooja here ." 

Then he lowers his voice "But , she is a bit slow ." 

He smiles an evil grin ,echoed by the old lady , her muffler ends quivering,  almost like the boy clutching his new found weapon . 

The art of agreeing

 Haanji . ( Yes, sir / madam )

This might , on the surface , seem like a polite rejoinder to all statements / expostulations and pronouncement . An innocuous , infectious , perfectly acceptable answer to all theories . 

Only , it isn't .  

It is a weapon . A hiding -in -plain -sight kind . 

In most of North India it carries an undertone of respect bordered with sarcasm . It might mean " F^^^ off " to strangers or "Shut up " to known . pesky elders . People, with adequate EQ , get the inflection . Most don't . One is surprised at the abysmal lack of common sense in the populace one runs into , on a day to day basis .

I recently met a person who breaks into a hive of Haanjis , when she insists that she is very much in agreement with you  . 

"Is tomorrow a holiday ?" 

"Haanji , haanji , haanji , haanji ." She trills .

"Today is cloudy , it looks like it might rain ."

"haanji , haanji , haanji ." In a haste , she drops one of them . 

"Yesterday' s function was fun , wasn't it ? " 

"haanji , haanji , haanji , haanji , haanji ." Thrown one extra for good measure . 

After having several of these homegrown hand grenades of fake agreement thrown at me , I am wary . I go home with a basketful of these everyday , and sort them into , ripe and rotten , unripe and downright empty shells  , bereft of any ammo at all . 

The decoding is as follows 

First haanji is "okay I see you , but I do not care ."

Second Haanji is " stop accosting me , just because I am in the room , I don't wish to talk to you ." 

Third haanji is " I didn't even hear what you just said ." 

Fourth haanji is " Stop wasting my time ." 

Fifth haanji is " Shut up !!" 

In fact , I am so wary of being showered with a deluge of haanjis , if I so much breathe next to her , that I give her a wide berth every time we meet . 

So , yes , every time someone agrees with you , please note intonations , body language and other means of telling you that they are not at all in agreement with you , so please carry your sorry self elsewhere . 

The painting

 The room is blue , almost purplish blue and dark . 

It is raining outside and though the windows are closed , some invisible moisture has settled on the smooth concrete floor . As i settle down on the bare floor , I leave dark , caterpillar like squirm marks on the floor . I look down . My cloth mat seems moist . 

Well , what the heck . 

The room has one window , painted bright blue , and is totally bereft of any furniture or wall hangings .Except for one fluorescent light which , stuck to the roof , lights it up in the pale blue hue . The corners , conveniently for me , remain dark .  My sister was so distraught , when she visited me last time . What kind of a room is this ? You are becoming an ascetic now ?

I said no. I needed a spare room to interrogate my inner demons . I grinned . She fumed . As always . 

She left in a huff . I heaved a sigh of relief . 

I was glad the authorities could spare a room for me . 

It did entail the laborious task of removing everything that the room held , by way of meaning . Even the ceiling fan  , which I said distracted me . They rolled their eyes , uncomprehending , but removed it any way . There is no dearth of empty rooms in this place . Empty , clean , bereft of humans . The way I like it . Anyways , there are so very few people around . 

That it scares most . 

This is the most attractive feature of this place . 

You hardly meet anyone in the long, endless, chilly , corridors . Wet and glistening from the rain . 

Uncluttered because no one wants to be here . 

Except her . 

I have just propped the canvas I was carrying under my arm pit , slightly warm and moist from the journey from my room  till here . Sweat or rain ? or both . 

I splash lots of liquid blue from my multicoloured empty tin of rasagulla , which I had scavenged from an earlier revelry . Now it holds the colour that I fancy . One day it is black , other grey or purple or dark green . Today it is blue . It is darker than the colour of the walls , and lighter because it is lit from the buzzing tube light over my bald pate . 

She plonks herself behind me . I can hear her shuffle as she arranges the folds of her long skirt . I needn't look at her . I have positioned myself with my back to her . She knows that . And takes a long slurp out of her bloody smoothie bottle . 

It is a bottle which is the fad these days . A narrow glass that blossoms into a jug . It comes in pastel colours . Hers is pale pink . With a large white straw permanently poking out of the top . It is an abomination and encumbrance . Just like everything else . 

She slurps again . I hate it . But I cant say it out loud . Even the sound of her loud breath through the nasal prongs bothers me . Her tiny oxygen cylinder on the back , hisses every time she inhales . It is a torture . I fought tooth and nail the first few days . 

She fought back . She just wanted to see me paint , she said . 

I had to give in . Now , I realise the amount of preparations that must have gone into her coming here . The smoothie , bottle , the oxygen , the long skirt , phew . The fragrant perfume that invades my sanctuary . Eeeks . Like a demon body guard , it enters with her , sits throughout , then leaves with her . I sigh with relief . But sometimes I find myself sniffing the unlit corners for a whiff that the demon might have left behind . Traces of invasion . I defy and surprise myself . 

Human beings are strange . 

I have started painting large hibiscus shaped flower petals , light blue against a dark blue background . 

"Blue , huh ?" A loud and long slurp . 

I don't answer . Earlier , she had promised to sit quietly . She broke that promise , quite quickly . I have enough clout to have her bodily picked and thrown out . But I don't . Why ? 

As I said , humans are strange . Strange and contradictory . Promise breakers . 

"It needs gold border ." 

I ignored her. 

I continued to colour the central part of the flower , in  bluish white  squares. 

"Gold hairs emanating from the centre . Make it a face ." Another long slurp . The smoothie is probably finished . She is slurping air . I ignore her . 

"Me going now "

 Of course , now that your smoothie is finished and oxygen depleted , you human machine , surviving on external support , I thought to myself . I didn't speak . 

I rarely speak . I guess we deplete a lot of psychic energy through chatter . We were meant to harness our inner resources with economy . That includes economy of speech . So many words are being scattered everyday , like trash littering our innerscapes , and  invective spewing out of our mouths , like effluents from drains . 

We are strange creatures , 

She had left tiny snatches of her words in the corners of the room , and the wretched perfume lingered in the corners , sitting and watching me , intently , like tiny puppy demons . Just out of view. 

I left shortly . The painting unfinished . 

Returned the next day . She didn't . 

I didn't bother to find out . My flower was nearly complete . 

Then I met someone , in the corridor . Carrying her trademark pink smoothie bottle in one hand , and the tiny oxygen cylinder with a tube dangling in other hand . Her nasal prongs , slightly yellow from prolonged use. The person came and stood in front of me and looked at me . I raised my hand and he wordlessly handed me the two items . 

I dragged myself back to the blue room . Placed both the items next to me and restarted painting . The night became dark , swiftly . My room must have appeared like a firefly . an incandescent blue firefly in the dark . 

This time I did what she had asked me to . 

I painted golden hairs like mad , all around the blossoming calyx . I painted a tiny face with closed eyelids , a tiny nose with a nasal prong , a hint of a cylinder over her shoulder and a tiny pastel pink ugly bottle next to it . The periphery , I made into beautiful , bandhni , multicoloured long skirt or ghaghra . 

I painted  non stop .

I painted her . 

Humans are strange and contradictory . Promise breakers . 

 

Escape

 He ran, up the stairs , he  fled 

like a  tiny fluttering bird 

His gray oversized shirt ballooned 

Bare tiny feet , oh how they sped 

He thought it was a game 

he panted and he giggled 

As those who had trapped 

him , gave chase , in the face red .

For his spirit , he was to be broken 

For his ideas ,before being spoken 

In fact , all speech was banned 

You could only nod and bend 

He was born free , they said 

But  this day had come , sad

They put the small boy in chains 

His hands were tiny , handcuffed 

They forgot the leg irons 

And oh , how he fleed 

The dirt on the half finished 

stairs , kicked , stomped 

Heavy boots followed 

crooked beings . cant see 

a living thing fly free 

in the God's own sky 

He was born a bird , yeah 

He reached the parapet , poor thing , wrung 

Against the balustrades , his hands he flung 

Trying very hard to break the cuffs 

He just ended earning the scuffs 

He broke free , once again , though spent 

He held his hands to the sky , a scream rent 

To the Gods for mercy , Providence bent  

A speck faraway emerged , an eagle seen

The men laughed , cruel , mirthless , tired 

The boy kept running in circles , hands tied  

Beseeching , 

believing 

The strangest thing witnessed 

The eagle screeched , swooped 

Down and down , as if on an errand 

Holding the boy's handcuffs ,within seconds 

The boy was airborne 

the tiny frame gone 

dangling , swaying 

from the grip of the talon 

A delayed burst of kalashnikovs 

A curse , a medley of madness 

The boy had gone 

whooping , flown 

Whether he met a great end 

or a deadly one , still debated 

Or maybe some other world

where his songs were allowed 

where his ideas met applause

Maya Di , the water lady

 

( This is a fictional account of a lady who dispensed water in a suburban school in 80s decade . She may have been , however , inspired by real life characters )

 

Some heroes wear capes , most don’t .

The lady I am about to talk about was not rich , educated or powerful . She was just a kind soul full of such benevolence that she gave unconditional love to an entire generation of school children . She is still  talked about at every school reunion . Thirty years later , people still remember her soft heartedness and her simple ability to give .

She was the “water lady “ .

 In the days of yore , when electric coolers didn’t exist , or were prohibitively expensive , she just sat in a designated corner of the school verandah , offering colored plastic glasses of water to all and sundry .

She smiled at all , was infinitely patient and served everyone without fail . A budding entrepreneur or a kindergarten kid struggling with his  alphabets , both received the same degree of attention .

Then , she listened . She just sat weepy teenagers down , in her spare room , and listened to their angst ridden stories . No solutions , no backbiting, no relaying or replaying stories back and forth , just plain old  attention and  a  heart large enough . To her , everyone was important .

 Boy , had she opened up her heart , bestsellers could’ve been written , I am sure of that .

Clad in an off white saree , Mayadi sat in a shady corner of the school . All roads led to her . There must have been a magical charisma in her character . I don’t remember too many teachers , being showered with same degree of affection .

Every birthday child would rush to her to show off his or her new dress . She was offered the first toffee , first slice of cake , first potato puff .

She had a toothless grin of the elderly . A smile so charming , that even the principal would quote her “ you are getting an off tomorrow because Maya di requested “, rest of the speech would drown in a volley of screams .

 

When the Electricity operated water cooler was installed on each floor , teenagers raised money for Maya di . With the help of school authorities , a tiny room on the ground floor , next to the nursery , was assigned for  Maya Di . She became in charge of the “Lost and found “ .

With a memory so sharp and exact , Maya di knew which stationery or water bottle or tiffin  belonged to whom . There was no question of theft or wrong identity .

“Lost a ruler ?” Go ask Maya di .

“ Left your satchel at school ?” Don’t worry , Maya di has kept it safe.

“ So and so misplaced  an umbrella ?” Maya di certainly has it , kept safe for you .

Maya di had a tragic past . Like all great souls . She was married young to a village good-for-nothing , in a forgotten place and time . She lost her husband shortly after her marriage to a drunken brawl on the streets . Her in laws , not willing or unable  to feed another mouth , showed her the door . Her own family lived far off , ill informed , not bothered , hand to mouth existences .

Then , Maya di did something remarkable . As they say , our circumstances shape us . So she decided to work .

 She said” God had given me arms and a head , and hunger and thirst , I was sure He would provide for me too . “

In the places , she had lived earlier , a woman working for her living was considered a pariah . So , she set out . She walked for days on end , in scorching sun , under the rain filled monsoon sky , winds whistling in her ears .

Till ,one day ,  she was found by the Church door , burning with fever , dehydrated , malnourished . Father must have seen the spark in her , and employed her for cleaning the church . She earned a small pittance , “ enough to keep the body and soul together “ and stayed .

 For years , she would sweep the church cemetery . courtyard , gathered fallen leaves , Cleaned the brass artifacts till they shone , dusted cobwebs off the crucifixion , Climbed up the outer walls on a ladder , her saree bunched between her legs and dusted the Pieta , polishing it later with a wet cloth , till both Mother Mary and fallen Jesus gleamed in the evening sunshine .

She used to say later “ when all had forsaken me , Jesus took me under his wings . I am just repaying .”

When a new school was opened , years later , Maya Di of course , had to be roped in .

She loved us with all her heart , and the school reciprocated , right back .

Then one day , a case happened . In our collective memory , it was” The Case . “

A rich girl , as rich kids are wont to , carried a princely sum of money and lost it on the school premises . Weeping inconsolably , she went to staff room to complain .

The school was held back . Everyone’s bag was searched . That meant searching a roughly 1000 bags . No money was found . It had just disappeared .

 Till , Maya di stepped in .

The rich girl had been seen giving the said amount to some kind of shady person on the basketball court and the person had quickly disappeared .

The girl  was brought to the Father Matthew’s office and questioned . The answer rattled the authorities , and her parents were summoned .  The girl accepted her mistake and was penalized . She had to apologize to the school at the next morning assembly and  clarify matters .

Maya di got a nickname thereafter . She was called the School CCTV .

Nothing escaped her sharp eyes . She knew which child has been bunking classes , which child takes way too many bathroom breaks to sneak a smoke in the washroom  . She had an uncanny ability to detect liars in a roomful of innocent faces . Though this ability of hers made her more powerful and indispensable in the eyes of the authorities , it also made her fearsome and respected ,amongst the kids .

Everyone behaved in a crowded area , no pushing or shoving . Maya di knew exactly who shoved whom into the flowerbed of poppies , or who plucked the last of Father Mathew’s favorite black  roses .

Earlier she was the slaker of thirst and listener of problems , now she had become the nemesis of trouble makers and a power to reckon with .

But , time marched on , and Maya Di grew older . She walked with a stick , and  retired eventually.

There was a proper school ceremony held at her retirement . College going kids , businessmen , powerful politicians and  housewives , tiny kids whose lives she had touched years ago , turned up to bid her adieu .

A simple “water lady “ who had  conquered a mountain of hearts .

 

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On eating a mango

( This is a very controversial topic I have chosen to write upon . India , being home to one of the most delectable fruits ever , has been blessed with hundreds of varieties of mangoes . So , everyone has a favourite of their own . Mine is Langda . It may or may not sit well with another mango fanatic who loves , say , safeda . 

To each . his own , I must say . Lets bury hatchets and  praise our own mango sky high ) 

 Summer comes with blazing sun, sweaty people, flared tempers and sunburnt necks . Loo, the feared mid-day wind with baking properties , also downs shutters during daytime. 

It also comes with mango .

To any mango lover ,or for that matter, any Indian, all that was tolerable just for the yummy juicy deliciousness of mangoes .

Mangoes come in various shapes and sizes and colours. There are hundreds of varieties all over India. Some are so exclusive that they have foreign sounding names . Miyazaki, Alphonso . These conjure images of blonde beauties . 

Then there are the desi sounding ones .himsagar , bainganpalli ( safeda ) , dussheri , chausa , bijju , fajli , sindoori , totapulli and the long awaited boss of them all , langda . 

In my humble opinion, langda or malda is the best. Just the right amount of flesh, just the right amount of fibre and glorious taste . A taste that ( not unlike the food critic Anton Ego of Ratatouille) takes you tumbling across the years to a grass filled maidan of your childhood, where heaps of freshly harvested mangoes are piled up, adults are haggling over the price and you have already laid your evil eyes on the most rightly ripened , not too soft to touch , not too hard , just the right amount of yellow around the umbilical stump of the stalk . 

Then the sniff test . Every mango connoisseur swears by the sniff test . I swear,  every mango has its own signature fragrance . It not only identifies the correct mango for you , it also yields a lot of information regarding age , ripening status and of course the variety . 

Once , on  a long, summery, visit to the south of the nation brought about introduction of new names . Amaravati , Neelam and of course hapoos . Even there , the waxy filmed , green among the red -orange-yellow  coloured charlatans , was our reigning king . The superstar . Langda . 

Malda is a tiny hamlet / town in Bengal , mostly famous for dubious politics . However , the mango has made it a household name . 

Langda , its other , more popular name , specially in the north , is unfortunate to think how does a mango come to be named after a disability in a human is beyond me . The popular theory goes that a person , mango -besotted of course , climbed the said tree to fetch himself some ripe fruit , fell off the tree , broke his leg , and hence became Langda (lame ) . But it still leaves diehard fans like me scratching my head , as to when and how the moniker stuck to the poor produce , instead of the  greedy person . 

Long years ago , I think we were nearing Howrah railway station . We were driving on what maybe called a service road , underneath a flyover . A beggar was eating a mango . I have never ever seen any one relish a mango or any food that way . He shut his eyes against the heat , the sun , the dust and the honking , the pedestrians , the coolies , the chaos , and just focussed on licking the seed ( bone ) clean . The seed was already white from being scraped numerous times by bony teeth .It was akin to watching a dog gnaw a bone .  He would have cracked the hull open and eaten the dicot inside had it been edible

There are several ways of eating a mango  . People slice nowadays , and scrape off the flesh with a spoon . Wrong .They peel , dice and eat it daintily with a "fruit fork" or a toothpick. Sacrilege. They cut the beauty around its girth .(Aaargh. ) twist it and eat the two halves , the satan worshippers. 

Each of these is sin and veritable evil . 

A mango should be cut next to the stalk, wasting as little pulp as possible, then the hands and teeth should go to work . Even a single drop of mango juice dripping out through your forearm out via your elbow is a brownie point deducted . If you don't want Gryffindor to fail , you will slurp ,lick , do whatever you can, but every single bit of pulp , every fibre and every drop should be consumed. Inhaled, if possible 

That is how you will graduate out of the mango eating academy whose Dean was the beggar with shut eyes , devouring a single mango beneath the flyover in Howrah.