A rainy night road trip

 It was the month of March. In the fag end of the Indian winter . The sweaters have not yet been abandoned and summer hasn't fully arrived. 

Mornings were still cool with dewy grass and light breeze. 

We lived at our grandfather's home which was roughly 20 kms from our school . 

The last ten kilometres were on the highway and were easily crossed by vehicles of all sorts. The first ten involved crossing two small seasonal streams on  a bullock cart . 

My grandfather was a zamindar ( a landowner). Though we had a rented house close to school, where we stayed during our school days, we were enjoying our end of the session holidays and we all had packed up and moved to the ancestral home in the village. 

This day, 31 st of March 1979 was momentous for several reasons. My brother,my sister and I had all  been promoted to higher classes . My brother was to start classes in class eight, my sister in class six and me in class four. Dadu ( my grandpa) took us all to school , despite it being a holiday, for two reasons . 

We were supposed to collect our report cards and collect whole sets of new notebooks and books and other sundry stationery items.

My grandmother had also given a list of groceries to be bought from the town 

She had also given a brand new cotton bag , dyed with raw indigo , for carrying the new books and note books. 

The day started off bright and fruitful. We had all got distinctions in our respective classes and our sisters ( nuns from the convent school we attended) were mighty pleased with us . 

My brother, being the eldest amongst all three of us, gave a small , impromptu inspirational speech to all my classmates, me being the youngest in the family. My friends clapped and my heart swelled with pride . 

We also had to rush to the tailors , to give measurements for our new uniforms and then Dadu took us for a treat to the most famous sweetmeat shop in the town . We gorged on balushahis , boondi ladoos , piping hot spicy  samosas , washed down with cups of scalding sweet milk tea . Life was good. 

Dadu , being a respected citizen, always had dedicated rickshaw wallahs to ferry him around in the town. Today it was a person called Bilal . Bursting with all the purchases, good food and vibes , we four  squeezed into the thin reccine seat meant for two . We doubled up , a common practice those days , and Bilal got to work . 

It was late in the afternoon , and clouds had been gathering since morning . The entire day , in our excitement of getting new books and uniforms , we never noticed the weather .

Now we sat in the gathering darkness, noting glumly, the stuff breeze and the thunderstorm building up . 

Apprehension and worry lining his forehead, Dadu urged Bilal  to go " phataphat"( chop chop) . It was not an easy task . There were four of us , with load of books and sundry purchases and the poor cycle tubes groaned and squeaked on the tarmac. 

Dadu , being the Bengali patriarch, wore his dhoti and kurta, while my brother wore shorts and we sisters wore frocks . Needless to add , all these clothes were crinkly and new , ironed crisp for the occasion . 

Now , as the raindrops pelted us , we all could feel the damp soaking through and turning our clothes soggy. Dadus see through dhoti clung to his legs .

Bilal had rolled his dirty white pyjamas into a shorts of sorts, which was steadily getting wet.

Dadu had implied to Bilal, right at the beginning of the journey that , he is not to stop , at any cost, come rain and thunder. 

Now, as the rain beat mercilessly down , and thunder crackled,deafeningly rolling across the skies, the road turned into a shiny white , lonely rivulet . My sister, B , is just two years older to me, but every inch the fierce mother. We clung to each other, occasionally wiping rivulets of rainwater from our face with our palms . My brother huddled together. 

This section of the highway ran through the country side , and would be mostly bereft of traffic after dark. On a wet twilight like today's, there was scarcely anyone on the road. The trees lining the street swayed this way and that with the thrashing winds , like drunken giants . 

In addition to the havoc wreaked by the weather, this was the decade of 70s, when lonely stretches of roads could quickly become a scene of petty theft, robbery or worse . 

No way Dadu would let any danger befall  three children he loved more than anything else .

He urged Bilal on and on , shouting above thunderclaps  . On one occasion, the naive Bilal abandoned us on the side of the road and ran to take shelter under a date palm tree. Dadu shouted at him to return immediately. 

We were born in the countryside and we knew that it was a terrible idea . One, because lightning is more likely to strike you under a tree ( as it seeks the heights of tree tops ) , secondly the date palm offers no shelter and thirdly ( this is mildly debatable), date palms harbour  ghosts of road accident victims . 

Bilal ran back and we proceeded on , bravely in face of slashing rain and whipping wind . 

By now, we were all fully drenched and had given up the pretense of clinging to the rickety wooden frame of the overhead sunshade , a flimsy cover in rickshaws, mostly used to keep the sun out . 

At the village bus stop, we were greeted by umbrella wielding people from our village.  They had been waiting there since noon, as my grandmother had sent them to pick us up early . 

No one expected this delay . 

It was already eight PM and the bus stop mandir had closed for the night . Dripping wet, we waited for the bullock cart to come round to the front of the temple . 

All of us , wet and tired , were bundled into the bullock cart, which, though padded on the sides and bottom with rice straw and bags of husk , was still very uncomfortable . 

Every step taken by the bullocks , threw you in a new direction, against the Bamboo frames of the sides , or the roof . However, the downpour has reduced to a steady drizzle , and the roof being adequately airtight, we were protected against the elements. 

Twice, while crossing the rain fed  rivulets , the bullocks threw their yoke off and had to be put on by much whipping, cursing and cajoling by hardy workmen in wet dhotis and pugrees .

Eventually, we reached home , wet , shivering with achy bones at around 9: 30  pm. 

Our lunch that had been saved for us , was heated up. We were changed into dry, clean clothes and we tucked into hot home made food, with gratitude and thankfulness . All these years later, I still remember the menu  . We had broad bean curry, yellow dal and rice . We also had hot rotis . We were so famished . 

But Dadu had kept his cool and with his wisdom and persistence, brought three of us kids safely home. 

Although, my grandmother's indigo bag had run colour after getting wet and had coloured the edges of all our new books in a blue badge of honour. Anyone asking us about the strange colour on the book edge would be regaled with this amazing tale of survival. 

Fishmonger

 The road is just the front .

When you stop and peer into the shop , the bottom drops off, and so does your jaw .

The floor of the shop is a slanting slope , on the sides of which , gravity defying wicker baskets and white insulation boxes , are kept . White boxes of thermocol keep fish and other perishable items as advertised on the shop sign outside .

There is a chopping board , which is a large tree stump , bearing thousand knife cuts , but scrubbed clean and covered with a muslin cloth . An array of large sharp knives next to the chopping board , declare the wares of the shop , amply .

A covered dustbin is inadequate to disguise the odours from the offals and a sleepy , one eyed and one eared dog , at the doorway , gives me a mildly interested glance . As if he knew that more visitors mean more and fresh offals .

A couple of knowing crows sat on the high tension wire , high up , outside , keeping a watchful eye , while pretending to look elsewhere .

There is no one inside . I mean humans .

A cage full of poultry sitting quietly , occasionally letting out a piteous squawk of protest .

The walls comprise of old sarees hung to keep the breeze out , which , of course , makes its way in via billowing thin fabric . A reinforcement of beaten tin sheets pathetically rattling with each gust .

Another older sign inside the tin roofed hutment declared this to be a " Non vegetarian paradise " that specialised in selling you " chicken , mutton , eggs and fish " .

In the landlocked region we live in , white thermocol boxes herald the arrival of fish . Specially on the lookout are people raised in the coastal regions , like Bengal , whose ancestors have thrived on fish for generations .

Responding to a call older than myself probably , I found myself clearing my throat at the entrance to this unique shop , where the meagre act of selling your wares will entail a mountain climbing of sorts . I was wondering which muscular and long legged powerful being is about to emerge from behind those billowing saree curtains , when a tiny boy emerged .

Standing at the base , he looked puny , positively fragile .

Fair and clear skinned , he wore a striped white shirt , crumpled but clean , dark pants , a clean pair of chappals and his hair was oiled and slickly combed .He had obviously , dressed up for work . Like a proper adult shopkeeper .

"Kya chahiye ?" He asked , with proper respectful intonation , striding up the slope with ease and long strides .

Upon hearing my reply, he nimbly climbed down to the valley , and started displaying his wares .

Expecting some adult to emerge any moment from a slit in the saree , I kept looking right and left , as I negotiated the perilous path downhill . There were strategically placed pieces of brick to resemble crude steps , but they seemed too tiny for my broad , sneakered feet .

Out of sheer force of habit , I asked " Isn't there an anyone around ?"

I regretted the question immediately . The boy , possibly used to this question , didn't answer me . He just proceeded to show me his wares .

I chose a golden scaled rohu , a delicacy .

Climbing past me , he swiftly weighed it and declared the weight .

Then , proceeded to clean and chop it up in perfect pieces with what can only be described as professional finesse.

He had , obviously , been doing this for a long time .

A gentleman , standing behind me , reeking of bidi smoke, asked "How old are you ?"

"13" . He replied precisely .

The dog , lazily opened his remaining eye and stared at the bidi smoker , as if saying "Seriously ? You had to ask that ?"

Midway through processing the fish , he got up and sharpened his chopping knife , with a sharpening tool , secreted in the derelict tin wall .

As I carried my expertly double bagged fare , the gaze of the crows followed me .

I wondered what family exigency had transformed this kid into an adult .

Making him a bread winner at a time when boys his age are learning the spelling of bread . 

A visit to the beauty parlour

 "Blah, blah, blah."

I tried to shut out my hearing . I was sitting with hair slick with hair dye , slowly trickling down my earlobes and back of the neck into my brand new T shirt . The total lack of heating in the beauty parlour was not helping . My scalp was frozen shut . My brain was slowly following .

The new bride seemed in her late teens . Chubby and hirsute . The baby fat was still very much evident . The mother chaperoning her was more insistent and conscious of beauty treatments than the daughter .

"Full body waxing , facial , massage , manicure , pedicure ...."

Some words were familiar , others were just blah .

Then the mom leaned forward and whispered into my dye-applying lady's ear ,

"What about streaks ?"

"What about them ?" a generous splotch of dye landed on my shoulder . "Ooooh ! Sorry , sorry , sorry madam " Vigorous rubbing , rubbing , rubbing of my shoulder

"Kitna ?" The mother was insistent . How much ? She really wanted to export a shiny faced , fair , hairless , polished and streaked maiden to Canada , where the groom lived .

And she had money to fulfill all her desires , vicariously , through her daughter .

The beautician hummed and hawed , and ruminated as she continued to drop more gloops of dye on my body / attire .

I could hear the cogs and wheels of her brain turning this way and that through the superficial volley of sorrys , directed at me . Being a nice person , and less of a fleecer , she came up with a random number .

"2000 to 3000." She cocked her head thoughtfully , dye brush in gloved hand , and then nodded to herself , "Yes , 2000 to 3000"

"It can be either 2000 or 3000. How can it be both ?" The mother , now defensive ,had crossed her arms . A reactive swish of the brush , and the deep melanin of her hairy arm got a coat of black .

"Ooooooh , sorry , sorry , sorry , sooooorrrry !" An extra sorry for an extra zero . I was just paying 300.

"Madam !" With a definitive flourish , the beautician , placed the offending brush in a bowl , removed her gloves , placed her free hand on one hip , and gesticulated placatingly with the other hand . "It depends on the number of streaks you want your child to have . "

Before the mother could answer , a loud wail emanated from the inner chambers , the sanctum sanctorum , where you are laid prone on a bed and various parts of your body is beautified.

It was the daughter . Some liniment , being slathered on her face had entered her eyes .

"Aapka ho gaya madam , now keep sitting still for the next half an hour . " The beautician issued strict warning to me , before darting inside to save the would be bride's eyes , and therefore the day .

An assistant took the fall .
"Why can't you be more careful ?"

"But I ..."

"yes , why can't you ? You are charging me through the roof , still so careless " The Mother bear was in full form , protecting her cub . Lying vulnerably on the reccine bed , sobbing , She looked every inch the baby grizzly . How was she to transform into a kpop star in a months' time was my wonder and beautician's worry .

I peeked through rivulets of dye and dared to ask "How old is she ?"

Both, the beautician and mother turned around at this impertinent interlude , looking quite upset .

"Madam , please do not get up , you will splash dye everywhere . "

"She is old enough . " The mother pursed her lips . Not saying anything more .

"I am 15 . I didn't even want to marry . I have to give my exams next weeeeek " The sobs exploded into full scale wail fest . The beautician slapped her forehead in resignation , the mother went to placate her hysterical offspring , and I quietly got up , paid and left , after igniting world war three . 

The Mishras of the Shiva temple

 No one knew Mishrain's name .

Neither us , her confidantes . Nor my grandmother , who knew everyone's names in the village . I doubt if her demented husband , who laid beneath the peepul , talking to the birds , with his loose pyjama strings ,and drool trickling down his chin knew , in his heyday , that is .

I have serious doubts if that name ,  existed , ever . 

For she was Mishrain , the wife of Mishra , for all and sundry . 

Her identity , forever linked to a man , now a shell of a being , barking at the dogs , and howling in sync with them , at nightfall . 

He was tied to the tree trunk , from his wrists . His several , some successful ,attempts , at running away berserk , having been thwarted by friendly townspeople . He was rescued , on five different occasions , in various degrees of dishevelment and bewilderment . Always , he would be brought , or rather , dragged back , raggedy and filthy , looking totally confused  , shouting garbled curses . 

Mishrain did not have the resources to get him treated at a fancy hospital . 

She only knew that her husband was alive , and that he was her moon , and her stars , her morning , her night , her Shiva , her Krishna , the reason behind her fasts , the sindur in her scalp , the bindi on her forehead , and her general existence . 

Everytime he returned , Mishraji was greeted by a mohalla of wailing women , who silenced up immediately , broke off , patted Mishrain on the back and departed hastily .

 I remember many a gathering dark of  sudden rural nightfall , clinging fearfully to my grandmother's saree , as this man was brought in , howling and shrieking . In my kids' eyes , he was nothing short of a monster , who made Mishrain's life hell by being the thoughtless wretch he had become . 

Only later when education had opened our eyes somewhat , I began appreciating the difference medical help made to psychiatric patient's life . 

A few young men kept  him back , from the brink of mortal peril . 

One day  he was rescued , after he made himself comfortable on the bitterly cold of parallel railway tracks ; on another occasion , he was discovered begging for food in some unknown part of the city . Twice he was rescued from the police lock up . 

In short , he was a menace , when free . 

So , the youngsters kept an eye on him , and helped Mishrain , tie him up to the peepul tree during the day .

At nightfall , Mishrain untied him , while he stared at her , stranger fashion , with bloodshot eyes , muttering swear words .

Then she took him into their tiny two room house next to the tree , and locked the door behind her . 

Once away from the prying , and largely indifferent eyes of the world , she bathed him with well water drawn by her own hands , scrubbed him clean , applied liniments on his chafed wrists , combed his hair, clothed him  and fed him . 

How she achieved this , in a violent , madman , is a testimony to Mishrain's devotion to him and her unwavering faith in the Lord . 

Only then would Mishrain , who survived on few cups of tea throughout the day , would permit herself to eat . Only when her "Shiva " had been fed . In some grotesque twist of rituals , she put him , a demented , crazed person , before her own  needs . As luck would have it , Mishraji's first name was Mahadev , which is a synonym for Lord Shiva . True to his nature , as it were , Shiva , in this case , was both the maker , and destroyer of Mishrain's life , peace and well being . 

 His shrieks and abuses , plus his desire and ability to wreck Mishrain's immaculately kept household would necessitate the aforementioned tethering of Mishraji . 

Another important reason was the proximity of the village temple , the erstwhile workplace of Mishraji . The devotees came in a steady stream , and were scared of and by Mishraji . As the offerings were shared by the new Pundit , a successor of Mishraji , the temple was also a source of Mishrain's meagre income. Enough to keep the soul and body together .Hence it  was important that Mishraji doesn't interrupt the proceedings . 

The festival days were the worst . 

When the celebrations , extended into the nights , and Mishrain , would flutter helplessly , between the Shiva statue in the temple , and her Shiva tethered to the tree outside , nearly naked , filthy and hungry . 

One cold February night , when the cattle were still being covered in gunny sacks , and Lord Shiva was to be married at the stroke of midnight , Mishrain , sat huddled in the corner of her room , praying for Shiva to help her , getting steadily hypoglycemic , almost to the point of passing out . 

Around 1130 pm , a huge uproar from the outside woke up Mishrain , and sighing , she prayed to the Lord to save her and Himself . 

Mishrain peeked out into the now deserted road , to see the Peepul tree fallen . It was an old and dried up  tree , but for an emaciated madman to have pulled it down like that , it must have required superhuman energy . 

Next , there was a huge commotion from the temple premises . Peaceful lilting bhajans were replaced by shouts and screams. 

Mishrain rushed to the temple . Suddenly , everything seemed to be happening in slow motion . 

All else was blurred , just a naked madman , who had flung himself at the massive granite Shivling , his skull cracked , and a stream of blood gushing out onto the marigold and bel leaf strewn path . His arms held the Shivling in a bear hug . 

Mishrain let out a sigh like high pitched sound and crumpled at the gates .

Both of them passed away that fateful day . 

Mishraji due to severe head injury and Mishrain , due to prolonged hypoglycemia and shock . 

Both their photographs were procured from distant relatives and framed and hung inside the temple . An impromptu canonisation of sorts elevated the long suffering couple to the status of Gods. They were worshipped with garlands and tikkas of chandan applied on an ancient , sepia tinted likeness of their younger  selves . Both are smiling in the black and white photo. 

"Possibly taken at their wedding " , my grandmother would declare sagely .

Few years passed , and their home was put up on sale by the new Pundit . That was when a plastic folder of  old documents were dug up in the beaten earth floor . They were possibly , intentionally buried by Mishrain , to keep them from getting misplaced in a crazy household .

The most interesting find was Mishrain's first name . She was called "Uma".