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" . 

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.