Epistolary Reflections
'Come home,' you once said . . .
Today let me reminisce with you on a day simple in content, yet pleasure filled. I was forewarned of the cardinal rule of load-shedding. For someone who rarely gets to appreciate star-brights in the galaxy because of the disunity caused by contrived lights, this is a welcome change. I asked for a much forgotten hurrican, the oil lamp. I can see that the chimney has been untried for quite sometime and in spite of rubbing it with ashes it did not regain its original lustre. The light does not come through very clearly. This does not bother me. I am toying with my thoughts while staring at the dancing flame; it has a hypnotic effect. It dulls what exists around me, limits my peripheral vision and allows me to focus, to be with myself. And yes, I like the pale gold ambience. I wish you were here! It is quite enchanting. Now, time to tell you about my morning journey. I was quite apprehensive about getting down the slope by the riverbank. My legs are used to human-engineered measured steps, not the asperities of irregular slope. I kept on looking for anchors while coming down. Someone generously offered to hold my hand. Being my own person I vowed to try myself, and short of slipping once, indeed did quite well. Only after getting down the bank did I venture to look at the boat which was to transport me to the other side of Arial Khan river. By the good volition of local people the so-called river retained its tag; the riverbed is drying and it seems no more than an artificial water course. Perhaps during monsoons the banks will swell. I hear that till the early fifties steamers used to ply on this river, carrying away and bringing forth dreams of hundreds of passengers to this very bandar. I, for one, noticed that there was neither a bridge nor any other means to get across it other than the dingy nouka. Oh yes, there was an attempt made to construct a bridge. A large sum of money was sanctioned, but for want of patriotic contractors who had no qualms about using cheap materials, within six months the bridge had cracked in the middle, leaving a gap so huge that neither rickshaws nor people could go across it. It now stands as a perfect symbol of human encroachment, a symbol of corruption. You say why people don't protest? Well, here things are the way things are. Apathy built in cultural psyche? Perhaps. The public is held-in-check by fatalism. Oh yes, at the helm was the majhi holding the boat in place with the long choeer digging into the soft alluvial soil, the perfect anchor. I got on the boat with determined courage and belief that the center of gravitation pull would balance my standing posture! Well, I learned very quickly the boat did not exactly glide across the river. Finally I followed suit and sat down on the planks like others. Thus settled, I noticed a pair of eyes scrutinizing me. She held the saree anchal over her head by clenching it between her paan stained teeth. She was of mature age, obvious by the crow feet around the corners of her dark eyes. I longed to strike up a conversation with her about the days gone by; lessons I could gather from someone untouched by urban desires; someone who still wore the endangered nilambori saree. Instead we smiled at each other. Two men while inhaling biri and exhaling smoke debated the authenticity of printed news in the dailies; others were engrossed in discussing who would be the right candidate for the chairman position of their union. To my language conscious mind's chagrin, I discovered two women were also contesting for the chairman position. You smile, so be it! The mundane conversation blended with the noon warm air, silver ripples, sound of the paddles splashing in water, and it reminded me of that tune: nodi bhora dhawo / bojhona to kawo / keno tori nije baoo, baoo-re…bhorosha kori aeii bhobo kandari / halto dhoriye dao daore / ore pagol… On the receding shore I pictured a vibrant bandar, now a place of hat and bazaar. Before getting to the boat I had to walk through the open kacha bazaar. There were the eye pleasing fresh organic vegetables, the much-in-demand paan, lines of variety big-and-small silvery fish, elish, katol, shooul, puthi and many more; and the call of hawkers: ashen, ashen…bhalo daam debo. As I walked through in-between shops separated by slim pathways, I smelled the spices stacked in gunny bags, holud, morich, dhonia, zeera, gur, ada, kacha holud, and such. With it joined the delights of much familiar comments; daamta ektu komaye rakhen; aiije bhai ek cup cha duita porota aar charta garam roshogollah den to! The winding path took me by the stream that runs through one side of the market. The rice mills hummed; they had replaced the traditional dheki. True, this piece of modern element has brought some relief to those tied down to ever-long household chores, those hundreds of women. But with it came the collateral damage: it obliterated the tasty dheki-chata rough-husked rice for refined rice stripped of its nutrients. Well, something has to give! But the question remains: at what cost? The cement and iron rods shop was a sure sign of replacing tin-shed shops with brick built structures, another sign of constant progress adopted! A signboard by the pharmacy listed the visiting hours of a compounder relating the obvious that in this area the physicians were not in yet to serve the locals. While walking through the kamaar-kumar para my selective perceptions produced pure joy. The tall trees on the stream banks formed a canopy and hundreds of bats were hanging upside down. They seemed to be in perfect harmony with the steady sound of hammering on the smoldering iron somewhere close by, the chatter of women and men bathing, and the squeal of children making a run for the dive and swimming off with vibrant energy. The aroma of burnt clay, and here and there the stacks of earthen kolshi and hari simply completed the seductive vision. At the corner where the stream joined the river several goena noukas were lined up by the bank, waiting to haul big items to distant lands. The boatmen were cooking meals of elish machh and rice, the best tasting food on earth they say. Ah…if only a few visions could be held invariable! My mind's sojourn came to a halt as the boat bumped to a stop. The majhi jumped down and pulled the boat to dry land. From there I continued my journey on a van. No, not the four-wheeler kind you are thinking of. It is a wooden platform set on a tricycle, and ironically pulled by human beings, in this case, men! Can you imagine my discomfort? The trail on which it was to travel had been freshly laid. Apparently, this was the poth to my destination. I sat on the edge, my legs freely hanging on one side. Needless to say my balance was in precarious jeopardy. The sun was getting warmer, so I was advised to hold an umbrella over my head, which advice I complied with, looking for something to hold on to with the other hand. The van-puller suggested I gather my anchal and secure it around my waist so it wouldn't get caught in the spikes of the van-cycle wheel. Such accidents happen he said. Thus we started off. As I saw the verdant green paddy fields unfold on both sides of the path, marked by baris and their uthans surrounded by swaying narikel, supari, kathal, and mahagony trees my discomfort was no more. Every so often kola gach formed the curtains around the pukurs of almost all baris. Far off the lush green gave way to gorgeous yellow, the shorishaar khet. In spite of the vagaries of human dealings this earth has been sensitive to its self-expression - it can grow almost anything that is put in its soil! Right there I was draped in divinity's spectacular beauty. My mind, merging the vision and feelings, harvested a sense of peace. The authenticity of that very moment asserted the power of a shelter that houses deep affection - home. You understand this, don't you? Remember you once had said, 'Come home!' The night is almost coming to a close. I do not know when precisely in this cycle of 86,400 seconds the shift of night and day begins. But for now, I have to sign off by saying, O amaar desher mati tomaar porey thekaii matha. And to you, more later…
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