As the sun rises again....

The bus took her through long trails in the woods, by the undulated roads, passing by some rickety wooden houses. Innocent faces of the village children, with the sleep still stuck at the edge of the little eyes, looked at the bus curiously while some dust clad little bodies ran here and there.

In an hour, the bus halted by the ‘bus stand’, which was a structure made of four crooked wooden sticks roofed by a blue-painted shade. Village Daam, they said. She alighted from the bus and paused for a while to breathe the fresh air.

She was there, at last. After 12 hours of long journey, she had reached the little tribal village of Daam, nestled in the hills of Dalma.

Rehana was there to gather the broken pieces of her life. She did not want to repent later in life for not having tried enough. And what was the measure for ‘Enough”, she did not know.

She had found herself at the crossroads in her little life. Rehana was already about to be engaged to Rex. Her father was suffering from abdominal cancer. Since the past six long years, she had kept her parents waiting, along with herself, waiting for Aahaan to decide about their wedding. But in six years, things changed and they did not really take a direction which Rehana wished.

With her father in the death bed, she decided to put an end to the wait and decide for once and for all. And that is how she landed in the small little village of Daam.

While travelling to the place, her mind was cluttered but once she landed in the village the cold wind refreshed her mind and she was instantly at peace. Now she knew why Aahaan never wanted to leave this place and never intended to quit his work as a medical practitioner in the village. Aahaan had decided to spend his life at this place.

Rehana reached the terracotta coloured single storey building, the only brick one, in the neighborhood. A medium sized pathway lined with jackfruit trees led her to what was named, ‘Mariam kee aashish’: the hospital-cum-home-cum-guest house of Aahaan which housed one doctor, two nurses, some staff and million dreams and commitments.

No sooner did she knock the door, a young, merry lad came out to welcome her, “Aap Rehana didi hain naa?” So, this boy already knew about her. A ray of hope remotely shone in her heart. “So Aahaan has told them about me…is he…….well, decided about the marriage?” she thought.

The lad, who said his name was Shibu, led Rehana to a guest room which had a neatly made cot, a writing table, a prayer corner and enough drinking water. Then Rehana’s eyes fell on the small glass bowl with jasmine floating in water. Memories of past gushed in to fill the room with a familiar aroma. So Aahaan remembered how she loved jasmines and would always have the flowers in a glass bowl in the apartment she had in Kolkata, where the two of them had spent countless moments drowned in love, passion, dreams, smiles, sunshine and rainbows….Rehana was now sure that Aahaan still loved her intensely and could not let her go.
Shibu informed that Aahaan would return only by late afternoon since he had four faraway villages to visit. Aahaan had left very early with his team but had ensured that Rehana’s stay was comfortable. Her return journey was scheduled for early next morning.

Shibu supplied her hot water for a refreshing bath and by the time she was ready, her lunch was ready too. She took her meal in solitude at one edge of the big dining table in the large living room. Shibu had prepared some hot Chila (a dosa made of rice powder) and steaming chicken curry. While she enjoyed her refreshing hot meal in the winter afternoon, she looked around to observe the room which was an evident display of the neat taste which Aahaan had.

After lunch, she moved around the hospital and the neighbourhood. To Rehana’s surprise, she discovered that most of them knew her. It seemed Aahaan often talked about her.

By late afternoon, Rehana was actually beginning to imagine herself living in this secluded place; she mentally planned her future years, managing a comfortable home for two of them, raising children and she also planned that her Ammi would stay along with them, right here. Only if Aahaan agreed to all these, she thought and smiled to herself, mocking at her elusive thoughts.

Aahaan arrived at about 5 p.m. while Rehana was sipping some tea, sitting at the footsteps of the kitchen. The screeching sound of the wheels of the jeep Aahaan was driving sent untamed waves of excitement in her arms and down her spine. In another minute Aahaan was standing just in front of her.

Her Aahaan. Her tall, well groomed, neatly dressed Aahaan. Her Aahaan with million dreams in the deep black eyes. Her Aahaan with the most assuring smile in the world.

Rehana was holding tight, the reins of her wish to run into his arms. She had tanks of tears which would burst any time, she had questions more than her mind could hold, she had complains, she had doubts and more than anything else, she had love. Unending, unfathomable love for Aaahaan.

After tea, Aahaan found a calm solitude place for the two of them. To ‘talk’. They sat on a wooden bench near the hospital, overlooking the Dalma hills. Sitting at the lap of the mighty and beautiful Dalma, Rehana was ready with her questions. Strangely, her voice failed her when Aahaan took her hands into his…

“Look Rooh,” Aahaan started, “I know, I understand, why you are here. I also know what I am here for. My life belong to these people here..you know everything about this place, you also know about what I feel about the people, about my life’s commitment. I have done enough injustice to you. For six long years, I have led you…..to nowhere. I am your culprit. You know where this relation is headed to….to nowhere. It is time we come to a decision. Rex is a nice person, I am sure. He will shower you all the love, care, affection and wealth which I cannot. He will also care for Abbu and Ammi and will build a comfortable life for all of you. As for your Aahaan, you and I will be forever friends for life’’

Rehana looked up at the Dalma. The evening grey clouds were hanging low by the hill side, as if they were trying to concentrate and keenly witness, whatever was happening in Rehana’s life.

They did not have much to talk. Aahaan continued for some more time but the words did not fall into Rehana’s ears. The cloud was getting denser and bigger.
“Will you say SOMETHING at least?” Aahaan insisted.
“Hmm? Well…no, can I have a cup of tea?”

They had their dinner quietly at Aahaan’s co-worker’s house. A couple invited to dinner at a friend’s place? She thought and smiled once again. Her mind never failed to tickle her with deviant thoughts!

The wind was harsh as they returned after the dinner. Rehana spent the night in the guest room. There was a heavy storm followed by torrential rains which damaged the telephone and electric lines. So, as planned, she could not talk to her Ammi and Abbu nor watch her favourite , “Man versus Wild” on TV. In the candle-lit room, she was lying, in the cosy white bed. “What a gentleman Aahaan is, he let me sleep in a separate room!” the stray thoughts again smiled in her mind. It was raining very badly outside. She put off the candle and dived into a deep slumber.

The next morning, while they waited for the bus, Aahaan said, “You will be okay, happy and healthy, Rooh, promise me.” The cold foggy morning made her eyes so wet that she could hardly look up.

They could hardly spot the bus arriving in the dense fog. The bus driver and conductor took some time off to have a cup of steaming tea while Rehana and some other passengers boarded the bus. Aahaan’s voice was shaky and wet, “Goodbye Rooh, keep in touch please”. After she had placed her bag in the seat, she came down to shake hands. As she again boarded her bus, she turned her head to utter softly, “Aahaan, I can never be JUST FRIENDS with you. Goodbye.......!”

The bus left for the nearest town. As it moved through the u-turns in the valley, the sky became clearer. In another hour, the sun shone. After the storm during the previous night, the clouds had cleared and the sky was much much clearer today.

And Rehana headed homewards..

“Jiski aakhon mein katee thi sadiyaan
Usne sadiyon kee judaayi dee hai
Phir wohee laut ke jaanaa hogaa
Yaar ne aisi rihaayii dee hai”

Anindita Baidya

9 Dec 2010

(Photograph: From internet)

tell-a-tale

This post is on behalf of my daughter. Of many of the tales she spins out for me, this is the most recent and I find it very very interesting. She narrated this one, yesterday while I was bathing her.

She started, “एक Heart-महल में एक रानी अकेली रहती थी । एक दिन उसे बहुत पेट में दर्द हुआ । डॉक्टर ने कहा कि पेट में बेबी है । फिर उसका पेट काटना पड़ा...”

By then I was wondering if the neighbours (if anybody overhearing us from their respective bathrooms) would be thinking. Since we stay in flats and our bathroom songs and tales are audible to other flat inmates too, from their bathrooms, it is not impossible that we were having eager listeners. ‘दीवारों के भी कान होते हैं...!’

She continued, “ ....फिर रानी के पेट से एक बच्चा आया, फिर और एक....फिर और एक....फिर 4...फिर 5,6,7,8,9 और 10 बच्चें निकले...! पर इतने बच्चों का ख्याल रखेंगे?”

And now do not miss the ending.

“..इसीलिए तो कहते हैं एक बेबी हो....जैसे हमारी है...”




I wonder from where she got these ideas but I am sure these are her ORIGINAL words. We have not talked about any ‘two-kids family' concept nor is she advocating ‘one girl child family’. Here was my daughter, sounding like a tele-ad for ‘family planning..’, and I just found it hilarious and amazing.

If only she knew, if we could afford, we would actually have loved to have ten children, ...why not !

तोह्फ़ा

देते हैं तोहफ़े आपस में
जब भी बिछड़ते हैं लोग
तुम भी मुझे, जाने से पहले
कोई तोहफ़ा दे दो

मेरी मुट्ठियों में भरकर
ज़रा तुम्हारी कुछ सासें दे दो

कभी इसको शाखों पर बसाकर
आशियाना बना डालूँगी

कभी दिल से लगाकर अपने
धड़कन बना डालूँगी

कभी किताबों के सफ़ेद-काले पन्नों के बीच
उसको रख दूँगी

कभी कलम में डालकर
उसे तहरीर बना डालूँगी

दामन में कभी बसाकर उसे
खुशबू का नाम दूँगी

कभी सासों में घुलकर उसे
नशा बना डालूँगी

तकिए के नीचे रखकर कभी
उसको सपनों में बसायूंगी

कभे धूप बनाकर उसे
बालों में छुपा लूँगी

मखमली चादर में डालकर
उसको ओढ़ लूँगी

कभी ज़ेवर बना कर उसे
मैं पहन लूँगी

रहेगी बनकर एक हिस्सा तुम्हारी,
ये साँसें
दे दो, हाँ कुछ चन्द साँसें
उनसे ज़िन्दगी बना लूँगी

Anindita Baidya
(written on 08 Nov 1994)

Photograph source: The internet

'Matri roopen Samsthitha'....?????

आज दुर्गाष्टमी है
मैं बुलबुल..
दौड़ती, फिरती हूँ चाची, मामी, भाभियों के घर

कई घरों में आज कन्या पूजा रखा है
उमंगें उमड़ती है
मुझमें और मीना, रेखा, सीमा सब में

हर एक घर में
हमारी आरती उतारकर
तिलक करके
खूब भोग करा रही हैं सभी.....

कोई दे रही है हमें
कुछ शगुन के रूपए
तो कहीं पर मिल रही है
चूड़ियाँ, कपड़े या कई और तोहफे

हर साल मुझे इंतज़ार रहता है
दुर्गाष्टमी का
मैं कितनी खुश-नसीब हूँ
मैं कन्या हूँ
हमारे देश में कन्या को पूजा जाता है

आज दुर्गाष्टमी है
मैं ममता
सुबह से भूखी मैं
न सुझे कुछ मुझको
माँ ने आम के पेड़ के नीचे
बनाई थी कुछ रोटियाँ

माँ को जाना है
ईंट की भट्टी
बाबा भी जायेंगे

मैं खिला दूंगी रोटियाँ
मेरे चारों भाई-बहनों को
मैं बड़ी हूँ सबसे
मैं भूखी रह लूंगी
फिर ईँटा-भट्टी में कुछ काम भी कर लूंगी

काश दूर उन लड़किओं की तरह
मुझे भी कोई देता दुर्गाष्टमी के भोग
पर नहीं उन आराम तक फैलते नन्हे हाथ हमारे

माँ ने कहा, आज दुर्गाष्टमी है
कहीं पूजते हैं हमारी रूप को
तो कहीं ह्मारे देश में
बच्चें भूखे सो जाते हैं

आज दुर्गाष्टमी है
मेरा नाम नहीं है कोई
घर पर दादी, ताई और बुआ
कन्या भोज में लगी हैं


माँ को समय नहीं है
उनको जाना है

एक फैसला निभाने को
मुझे अपने बदन से निकाल फेकने को

उन्हें पता जो चला है
मेरी रूह एक लड़की बन कर
उनकी कोख में पल रही है

माँ की तो तीन लड़कियाँ और है
मेरी ज़रूरत कहाँ

जनेगी नहीं मेरी माँ मुझे

आज दुर्गाष्टमी है

मेरे देश में
कन्यायों की बली भी दी जाती है!

Images: From internet

The Robin by my window sill

I noticed it only on a cold windy afternoon during January. Sitting by the window of the living room, I watched the rain fall torrentially down my ground floor window. I had left the window open just to listen to the raindrops ploughing the soil and feel the biting cold. A robin, wet from the torrent, sat in a corner, shaking its feathers to dry itself up, once a while.

The torrent outside could only vaguely match up to the tempest going within me....

I had just lost Papa!

Sitting inside the cold room in Jalandhar, I was posed with the biggest question of my life: why did Papa have to leave! I had requested him to wait, wait until I earn enough to offer the best of treatments and the best of comforts.

Far away in the small hilly village of Tiloiya, in the borders of Assam, I had left my Papa and Ma to take care of themselves and I had taken the bus to the city and to this faraway land, to earn money, fame and a credential. I was out to prove to all my extended family members that I would prove to be The Caregiver of my parents, what if they had no son, what if I was the youngest of the five sisters, what if they had wished for a son while I was born!

I noticed the Robin again. It looked at me with a tilted head. I suddenly had goose pumps all over my body, why, I had no clue! As I shut the window to return to the cosy bed room, I could not help but look at the Robin again and again.

Next morning, I woke up startled from a dream; I could see Papa looking for me through the window of the living room. I brushed away the thought, only because I was still angry and hurt. My Papa had hurt me! I could not come into terms that he gave me no chance to fulfil my desire to offer him some kind of treatment for his lungs ailment. He had to be so conceited to leave me!

I invited the chilled gush of wind to fill me, only to quench my anger. The more the wind hurt, the more I felt a brutal contentment. I wanted a punishment, harsher, much harsh than this!

The Robin returned during the afternoon. It was the only time I smiled. The day was sunny and so was my mood. The Robin whistled a soft tune as if to call me by my name.

I had not visited my village after Papa’s demise. I did not want to. I could not see the triumphant Papa with those floral decorations on him and my Ma helplessly mourning over him. No, I could not be such a loser!

Papa arrived in my dreams that night, again, smiling and teasing me that I am the most stubborn and spoilt among his girls. And then he called me by my name just as the Robin had whistled that afternoon, in a sing song tone.

The college was closed for the winter so I could spend the entire day alone: oh! How I loved it! I did not want any company. The only company during the afternoons was the Robin by the window sill while I read pages from some books and occasionally looked at the Robin.

I sometimes wandered whether the Robin was waiting for its mate. I wandered why it was alone, just like me! And I wandered why it had to sit during that entire one hour by the window, while I read a book, before going off to have a nap. I had never seen any bird seated so calmly and continuously.

I would often place some rice grains and the Robin would take but one grain from it and the rest were often left behind, scornfully.

I started believing that the Robin was pretty much like me. As arrogant, as stubborn as I was!

That particular dawn I had a strange dream that my father was showering grains of rice all over me. He then picked up but one grain and disappeared.

My sleep was broken by the loud ring of the antique telephone. It was my eldest sister on the other side. She informed me that they were performing the 12th day rites for the peace of my Papa’s departed soul. She also said that although I did not seemingly bother, she thought it was her duty to inform me. Her scornful remark cut through my heart and I found an immense pleasure in the hurt! I had now graduated to another level of punishment for myself! I deserved worse!

I did not perform any rite on my part at my quarters. That afternoon, I waited for the Robin but it did not arrive. I waited for the entire afternoon, until the dusk but in vain.

My Papa no more arrived in my dreams after that day.

All the afternoons during that cold long winter vacation, I would wait, stand, sit by the window, also look everywhere in my garden but the Robin never turned up. Never again.

I believe my Robin must have soared high above in the skies in search of light. My rose garden and my grain of rice did not allure my Robin anymore.

Till we meet again, my Robin, May God Bless You!


Photograph: from internet

CHUMKI.......

Chumki:
The name has a tinkle in it, sounds like little rays of light reflecting on some shining little beads...

Her life is not as shining though...!

Chumki, she worked as a domestic help at my cousin’s place. Chumki, all of 12, she was the sole bread-earner for a family of six.

I met her for the first time during my visit to my cousin's place at Rajabajaar, in Kolkata. I had thrown up temper and staged protests saying that my cousin has no right to employ a child. Chumki should go to school and secure her future. To all that, my cousin only replied that my altercation does not really change Chumki’s reality. So, if my conviction is not real, what is?

Chukmki was the eldest of the siblings. She had four sisters and her mother was pregnant with her eigth child. Five children had survived; two had died one-two months after their birth. Chumki’s parents had owned a small piece of land in a village in Purulia. Her father reportedly was an alcoholic who spent most of the time under some tree shed in the village while his wife toiled in her own and other villagers’ land to earn a wage. They lost their little land in debt and that is when the entire family migrated to Kolkata. Chumki’s father was not in a position to toil, he suffered from a chronic lung infection and was often irritated and bit up his wife and daughters. The other siblings were quite small and Chumki’s mother waited for them to grow up enough to get themselves employed as domestic workers as well.

Chumki’s mother, hoping to have a son, went on with her eighth pregnancy and when I met Chumki, her mother was in the seventh month of pregnancy and so had stopped working at the flats; Chumki compensated for her mother’s absence too.
She worked day-long, obediently listening to all the orders her employers had for her; at times she looked at my books with hunger and a tinge of sadness in her eyes. Whenever there was a delicacy cooked in the house, my cousin would give some to her. Chumki never had any. She took her serving to be shared among all her sisters and if possible her ma.

Chumki had made me feel so helpless. Her presence challenged and laughed at my theoretical convictions which I had no clue to transform into action. There I was sitting, looking at her eyes and my heart bleeding and watching her mopping the floor and narrating her mother’s experiences at the small village of Purulia. She had no tale to tell of her own!

That was about five years back. After my cousin left Kolkata, we had no clue as to what happened to Chumki.

Her memory has not faded wih time. I wander where is Chumki now? Is she still working in those flats, is her mother satisfied with a son or is still trying for one? Or has Chumki been married off to start her job of procreation while still working as domestic help?

I have no answer! There are questions but no answers...

Will her fate change ever? For that matter, will the fate of the any of the Chumkis change.......do we have an answer?


Photograph: From internet

The ten headed Demon......

One day the demon was at its strongest prowess and worst of intentions. All the ten heads of the demon were gleaming with flashy lust and it carried the most powerful weapons capable of destroying hundreds of universes at one go.
The storm was on and the skies were burning with the fire rising from deep within the hell. The demon with ten heads was all set to destroy it all, it had conquered all!
The Angel felt weak. The Angel had no weapon except for few verses from the wise; the Angel had a wand but no sword. And Angel had but one head. The Demon had ten.
But the Angel had the wings, the wings of desire which could take it to a different plane of strength, reason and wisdom. And after hours of battle, the demon was defeated.
But it will return......!
The ten heads of demon will never perish. The wings of Angel will not disappear either.
The Demon always has ten heads and the angel, but one, right on its shoulders!

So, who won the battle today?

The Grey....Matters..?

.....not sure, though. I have heard from somewhere that the human mind has shades of white and grey. But how much does it matter? Let me share an experience...

That evening I was having coffee with Hrishabh, my close buddy. He was my colleague but we worked at different locations. On tour to our office for a meeting, Hrishabh and I had decided to catch up after office hours and so hit our favourite joint ‘Aroma’ for coffee and chat.

Curious that I was, one of the first questions were, “When are you and Shelly getting married, Hrishabh?”. And then there was a pause, a loaded silence between us. Hrishabh cleared his throat and clarified, “We are not marrying, buddy!”. That was the most shocking statement I had heard. Not marrying? Hrishabh and Shelly not marrying?

Hrishabh and Shelly, both my colleagues, were the perfect couple, we thought. We vouched by them. How could, anything, for Heaven’s sake, go wrong between these two? For as much as I knew, Shelly was a perfect person. Shelly was a strong woman, Shelly was the University topper, Shelly was rewarded the best employee, Shelly was the one everyone dreamt of wooing. Shelly was a disciplinarian, Shelly was the greatest cook we knew, Shelly was an icon on housekeeping skills, Shelly was this, Shelly was that, Shelly was perfect.

“But…Hrishabh, Shelly is perfect…!” I still had not regained my senses after hearing the cruel truth.

“Yes, buddy, Shelly is perfect. She is too perfect” and the river had started flowing and I listened, “Buddy, she is too perfect to be true, I am not. She is pristine, white, she is angelic, I am a poor human. She is like a banyan tree, I am a small shrub growing by her roots. Buddy, I can no more behold the blue sky, the grey clouds. She covers me. I need my air and sunshine….”

Those were his words and after that I did not have any! We said those ‘Goodnight’ and ‘God Bless’ and left for the day with Hrishabh’s last emphatic words, “I cannot partner her!” I have met him a number of times after that but have not hinted on the subject again.

I met Shelly just three months after they had parted. In full smiles and glow in her eyes during the meeting, she seemed to be in full control when she was introduced to us as our new Regional Manager. I did not fail to see the upsurge of pain which she hid deep within her heart. I was her friend after all!

Hrishabh had his turn to explain but what about Shelly? The lady with very few words never revealed to me what she felt, never narrated her feelings of betrayal, hurt, bitterness. She has not sketched any philosophical contour between the ‘heavenly perfect’ or ‘humanly faltering’. She is just like that, perfect, pristine, angelic! Long ago, I had written these following words, keeping Shelly in my mind:


Inn Deewaaron par
Unn Kathgharon par

Aasmaan kee oonchaayee par
Saagar ke darpan par

Rakha apne aks ko
Tolaa apne hunar ko

Hoon har kamzori se pare
To aye aasmaan
Itni duaa de do

Main insaan banana chaahtee hoo
Mujhmein kuch khaamiyaan de do!!


Photograph source: Internet

जैसे सुबह का ओस
जैसी मरमरी धूप
कोई मासूम दर्द सा
कोई हल्का सा लम्हा जैसा

आकर रूक गया है
आखों के दर पर
तुमने जो बहार लाने का इरादा किया है,
खुशी लेकर दुनिया भर की
नए मौसम का पैगाम ले’के
आ गई मेरी आखोँ में
आज ये पहली बारीश

My bed time story

I am Tehani, which, in Hindi, means ‘branch’. My ma, poetic ma named me Tehani while my papa was all set to name me Marushika, which means ‘born out of blessings of Lord Shiva’. Ma argued that Marushika seems to be a twin sibling of Hiroshima and so Papa dropped his idea.

I am eighteen now; an ardent reader and net surfer. Those are my favourite extracurricular activities.

This hunger for books, I inherited from Papa. He is a voracious reader while ma…! Oh what a story teller she is!

I remember, as a child, I would never sleep until ma and papa read to me from my story books. I had a huge collection of books. Animals, fairy tales, mythology, alphabets, rhymes, I had the full range.

And I had built my own world of imagination around them.

But my favourite bed time story is not from any of my books but from the lips of my ma.

She has been always narrating me the tale of my homecoming; since when, I do not even recall. But I remember every night the last and most awaited story would be this. I knew every detail of the story but I just loved listening to this, again and again. Ma would rest on the bed with the support of her left hand, her right hand affectionately fondling with my hair, in an effort to put me to sleep. I played with her mangalsutra, entangling it between my little fingers while papa stroked me on my back. Her managalsutra, papa’s stroke, her fingers and sound of her metallic bangles and the story would all conspire and put me into a deep sleep.

Ma told me that I was not born out of her tummy. Like a fairytale, she narrated how there lived a couple who wished to be parents by adopting a baby from orphanage. And how this couple brought home a two month baby girl and named her Tehani.

Since very early age, I knew that my ma had not given birth to me but then, I did not understand the whole process of birth, at all. My ma tells me today that I had developed an understanding that all babies come from orphanage!

With my age, this bed time story did not change. Only the intricacies changed and I demanded more details. Whose tummy did I come from? Ma and Papa said they did not know. But they explained that whoever my biological mother was or parents were, they must have been good. They said that my biological parents must have found it very difficult to raise me and so handed me to the orphanage, requesting them to find a family for me, someone to nurture me with love, shelter, protection, education as well as provide material sufficiency.

As years passed by, my questions grew from ‘intricacies’ to ‘confrontation’. Was I an unwanted baby? Was my birth unwelcome? Ma and Papa said my homecoming has been the most welcoming event in their life.

There have been nights when, during the story-time, I cried and lamented that I was not born out of the body of the woman I so much loved. Ma did not try to render any philosophical reply. She simply cried along with me, we shed tears together and went to sleep, all three of us cuddled together.

It has never been, nor will be easy to wish away the one month of my life before I came home. I will forever wonder what my biological parents look like. I wonder if I have brothers and sisters related by birth! I will never get over the strange feeling at my fingers to touch the tummy of my biological mother. Sometimes a crazy wish maddens me that I want to see the inside of the womb of my ma. I sometimes wish to be inside it once and change my birth story forever!

I will live with it, only because I love my ma and papa. Only because I know they are there with me.

One day I wish I meet my birth mother and father, I wish to I see them once for just knowing who they are. For quenching the thirst of mine for knowing the reason why they relinquished me. And after meeting them, I wish to come back to my home, to my adoptive parents and listen to my favourite bed time story again!!!

From an old man’s diary!

The lamp in the night dims out....only to usher the sunlight of the dawn. And if God wills, we behold the sunlight, if we do not see the light anymore, it is God’s will, anyway.....

I am Poritosh Banerjee, a retired high official from the Indian railways. All my life I have earned wealth more than I could have imagined and I have earned it the honest way. I have earned fame more than my wealth. I have earned the affection of my friends more than the fame.

And I retired as a proud man.

I have spent most of my wealth and energy in raising my only child; a son. After he was born, we were very clear that we did not want a second child. We wanted to provide the best of schooling and materialistic comforts and undivided attention to him. Dhruv, my wife named our son.

During my job, I was transferred throughout the length and breadth of India. So, my parents never stayed with us. They were confined to the small sleepy village in Bardhaman in West Bengal.

Throughout my job-life, my rewards brought pride to my family. Added to this family pride were the trophies my child earned for academics, sports, extra-curricular activities. He was a brilliant student and a winner all through.

Before we knew it, Dhruv grew up and we sent him to London for his further career pursuits. All that I had earned belonged to him. He was my only child, after all.

Dhruv never came back to stay in India. He and Meghan, his wife settled forever in London and now they have a daughter, whom I have not yet seen!

He would visit us once a year. Dhruv was busy, very busy. He would often have to go for some official commitments in India even during his visit to us.

My wife, Mitali, the quintessential ‘Ma’, never had any complain against her son. She instead would try day and night to make Meghan’s stay comfortable at our house while Dhruv was away.

Mitali passed away four years back. Though I had secretly wished to migrate to London, Dhruv was not very keen. Meghan was not keen either. Their child did not know who I was!

For me, the last four years passed as if I lived through four long lives. Life never seemed so long and unwelcome! My credentials and Dhruv’s trophies gathered dust day after day now that I had no more energy to clean them. The big bungalow I had built screamed in silence. Many a times I had thought of returning to Bardhaman but my parents are no more, so there is no one to receive me or even want me!

I lost the eyesight in my right eye after a stroke last year. Dhruv did not know this. Mitali had ordered me that we should never bother our child and never come in way of his career pursuits.

I have more than enough money. I have a bungalow built for housing ten people! I have the kitchen set up for feeding a dozen people at a time. Such magnanimous was Mital’s heart and intentions but now I stay here alone. I don’t need more than a cot and an arm chair. My diet is reduced to some insipid monotonous food which my hired cook makes.

If I could see God, I would enquire, how long do I have to live?

But last month, I met Tapan, a young lad from Katihar with dreams in his eyes and hole in the pocket! I rented out a room to him, not for money but in search of some companion.

He is here to earn some living, he says. He works for a small Government health project.

I had no idea that my life would change after meeting young Tapan. Over the last month Tapan and I have schemed out a wonderful proposition.

I was almost ready to spend most of my wealth to buy a place for me in the ‘Nirvana-House for the aged’. They demanded some 10 lacs for a two room space for me and other facilities which the aged need.

I talked it over with Tapan and some of my aged and frail friends whom I meet every evening in the park.

But now I have this brilliant idea in my mind, courtesy Tapan. I am not spending my wealth in paying to an old age home but I am actually turning my villa to a home for the aged!!!

Tapan will spend some time for managing the home, he says. He will infact live with all of us, for the time being. We have also got Dr. Vashisht, our neighbour to offer his voluntary service to us. In one month, five people have already contacted me. There is no dearth of money for any one of them, they have all earned wealth and fame but that is a forgotten era. They all have their children but they are busy, as I was or as Dhruv is. All they look for is a companion. All they want is not to sleep in an empty house. All they want is that if suddenly one morning, any one of them does not wake up anymore, somebody else is there to take charge of the final rites and to send a casual message to the children.

So, I know, I will be not alone anymore. I will turn my haunted house into a home. I will have friends living with me.

It is a new beginning. Even if the end is near, the path does not have to be dark.... I deserve moonlight till the last hours of the night!

My culinary crimes!

I am a well read lady. Or so thinks my mother! My parents hardly inducted us into kitchen skills earlier in our life. My mother especially believed that we needed no culinary coaching (as we were supposed to be busy studying!). “Jokhon dorkaar hobey, nijei sheekhe jaabe”. She meant that we will learn when the time (and need) would arrive!

And I did learn. The hard way!

During my hostel days I had discovered the royal Indian recipe of preparing the Horlicks. And my experiment begun and ended with that! And not that I did extremely well in studies! I was ultimately ‘na ghar kaa, na ghaat ka!’

Of the various skilled culinary culminations (read crime!) I can recall, the first one was during my first posting at Hazaribagh. The time (and need) had arrived, finally!

My brother had arrived on the occasion of Rakhi. We were five colleagues staying together, maintaining a common ‘mess’. And what a mess that was! Four of my colleagues were great cooks, we also had a very skilled hired cook and that left me alone; being the only one who had very little clue about the cooking secrets!

With the arrival of my brother, the affectionate sister within me woke up in a pursuit of dishing up something special for my ‘Bhaiya mere bhaiya’. Till then, my skill had reached to ‘anda curry’. So, I ordered “Takhliya...” or “You leave” and out went our cook. My colleagues were in for a surprise that day!

So the onion, garlic, garam masaala, tomato, ginger, chilli, and whatever, were perfectly done on the pan and the already fried eggs and boiled and peeled potatoes were waiting for their fortune to be dipped into the gravy. I already could smell the food and boy! Did it smell good! So the andas and aloos were in the gravy at last. I wandered if the gravy would be enough to feed seven hungry mouths. So I added some water and then little more and then more. My cook was by then vehemently pleading, “Bass Didi Bass” but I knew the appetite of my giants! So more water and more went into the curry.

The onions were now floating and the curry had lost its aroma. But there were so many famished skeletons I had to supply food to!

So dinner was announced and I requested them to bear with the anda “jhol” (soupy liquid curry). And then this proud me had all the famished skeletons pouring out their heart in disgust at the very sight of the curry. One of them, the lesser famished one played with the soup by dipping a ladle into it and pouring it into the same pan, over and over again and laughing her heart out! I was not the one to be hurt so easily! I said well, we could have the eggs and ignore the rest. In a moment the army of the great cooks were inside the kitchen, trying to prepare some edible stuff for my Bhaiya.

Our cook at Hazaribagh made the best Parathas in the world. One day all the other colleagues (the accomplished cooks) were out on tour and our cook had to be at the head office for the entire day. My colleague’s sister and I decided to prepare some parathas. We fought with the wheat, oil, girdle and all the other paraphernalia until we could finish making those edible maps made of wheat! Even at the end we were not sure whether the oil should be put at the centre of the paratha or from the edge. “End taq pata nahin chala!”

After the cooking was done, we sorted out the best of the (okay, comparatively better) parathas and separately stored them for our cook, to spare ourselves from his stark remarks. The two of us satiated ourselves with the rest of the black elastic carbon parathas!

Well, I have come a long way from that point in life! My mother was correct, everyone has to learn, some learn fast and some has a pace of one’s own but the roads are not always easy..

Iss Mod se jaate hain
Kuch sust kadam rastein
Kuch tez kadam raahein...

So we all cross this lane, some are slow and some are quick. Gulzaar saab, maaf karnaa mujhe!


Photograph source: Web

My Minz Chaachaa

He was a little more than 5 feet 3 inches or so, dark, with radiant oily complexion, hair generously oiled too. In the scorching heat, in withering cold and during the torrential rain, Minz Chaachaa, in his Khakhi uniform, would un-failingly arrive, walk few stairs up and few stairs down and on his big black Hercules, move from lane to lane, street to street......

Minz Chaachaa. That’s how we children knew him. He was our postman.

As very young children, we watched him delivering yellow postcards from beneath our closed apartment door. At times we would duck at this side of the closed door, watching the letters being slowly pushed in by Minz Chaachaa. At times we would politely pick up the letters and at other times, we would pull a letter so as to let him know of our presence. Minz Chaachaa, in turn, would playfully pull back the letter and this fun would continue for a few moments.

At times, when he had something important to deliver, like a registered post or parcel, he would bang the door loudly. Worthwhile to mention here is that though we had a door-bell, Minz Chaachaa never could use it since at that part of India where my father was posted, there was no electricity for a brief duration during the day, say, for about 20 hours!

The other neighbours called him with a ‘generic’ name, ‘Aye..postman..!” That’s how Minz Chaachaa was addressed most of the time. My mother said that no one addresses my father as ‘Aye....Supervisor’ or for that instance my mother did not have to hear ‘Aye..housewife!’...so why call anyone by his/ her occupation! And that’s how we knew him as Minz Chaachaa; Albert Minz, being his name.


We saw him delivering the acknowledgement of the money-orders, which our father would regularly send to our grandparents and at times, during the Christmas season, he would bring a lot of Christmas joy and money orders from our uncles. He would meticulously count the notes and ask my mother to repeat it before accepting her signature. My mother would always shy away from checking the notes and the amount in his presence. She said that would mean she did not trust him!

I would often wander how on earth Minz Chaachaa could travel to all the faraway places where our grandparents and uncles lived to bring us those letters and money orders!

During those days, most of the letters arriving were in yellow postcards. Mother and father would go through them, turn by turn and the important ones would find a place on the wall, get pinned to a hook, along with other paper bills, grocery bills, wedding invitations, etc. etc.

Sometimes we would receive inland letters. The more sophisticated relatives would always send inland letters, my mother explained. It was Minz Chaachaa from whom we learnt the art of folding an inland letter.

During the school days, we received our annual report cards via post. And thus, once a year, for ten long years, I would have to bear the tearing anxiety when from my balcony, I could see Minz Chaachaa, carrying along with other letters, my yellow report card! He sure did not have a clue as to how my heart beat increased at that sight! He would wait till the result was opened and each time my father wished to gift him some money on the occasion, Minz Chaachaa denied, saying , “Uss paise se baby ke liye kitaab khariid leejiye, dada!”

He accepted gift only on one occasion, Christmas! Each year, the gift he would receive from the neighbourhood would go to the orphanage.

Times changed, days gave way to months and months to years...but I saw the same Minz Chaachaa, walking up and down the apartments, across the lanes and streets, tirelessly and never missing a smile.


By the time I was 20, the postcards and inland letters had given way to more numbers of yellow envelops with stamps on them. Those were from Nike.

I was studying in the neighbouring city during those years and as my holidays would begin, a permanent seat by the window of our apartment would be booked for me for the lazy afternoons. With voluminous books on my lap, I would have my eyes across the window, waiting for Minz Chaachaa.

His arrival would mean a gush of expectation for Nike’s letters. Never in my life was the ring of the bi-cycle bell so melodious and never before in life the loud thump on the door during the sleepy afternoons, was so very welcome. Days would pass like this, waiting for Nike’s letters; some days would bring in disappointment while there were days when my heart fell out to Nike’s letter, lying beneath the door where Minz Chaachaa would have pushed it through.


Years of courtship passed with Minz Chaachaa playing the messenger for our love, fights, tears, complains and forgiveness’s... only that Minz Chaachaa had no idea of what he had been delivering....!

Even after Nike left for his further studies and I returned to my home town for my career pursuit, Minz Chaachaa continued to be the harbinger of my blooms and glooms...

Suddenly Nike’s letters stopped arriving! Day after day Minz Chaachaa arrived and returned without slipping in from beneath my door, any letter from my Nike. With his arrival, my expectation would soar high and with his return, would start another day of wait, hoping that next day, Nike’s letter would arrive! And months passed by...


And one day, finally, Minz Chaachaa, as usual, pushed in a pink envelop, this time an Archie’s Greeting Card. This one was from Nike! Months of anguish broke into a dam of tears as I picked up the card.

Nike had proposed. And not only was that, inside that cover, there a letter from Nike’s father, proposing a visit to our town soon, for engagement. He did not want to wait, he said.

I wanted to run across the lanes, fly across to Minz Chaachaa and tell him that for me, he was the messenger from Paradise!

While I walked down the aisle on my special day, I looked at Minz Chaachaa sitting among the guests. He raised his hands in blessing.

Today, when I am at the other corner of the world, I have no clue of my Minz Chaachaa. I wander how he must have been during the past few years, I wander about his health and I often picture a frail Minz Chaachaa, hoping his sons are taking good care of him.

My messenger from Paradise, the harbinger of my happiness; May God bless Minz Chaachaa with great health and abundant happiness!

The Valediction

That was the last time I saw you. Standing at the balcony of your apartment, you waved your hands in adieu while I walked away, via the small red gravelled path, out of your campus. And your life.

That was the day when the harsh reality was finally condensed in your dew laden words. You told me that no tree ever could hold back a wandering bird. The sky was home to your wings, you had said and you were on your way to fly across lanes, meadows, shores and oceans, but all alone.

With the utterance of your decisive words, I heard a glass castle break. The castle had belonged to me. I had joined pieces of pristine glass, one by one and had held out towards you to put your piece, in the same castle, for the two of us..

But the castle was broken and with it ended my trance. It had given way to a conscious pledge which you did not have to reciprocate. I did not need that. I was too proud to need but anything from you.

Decades have passed and today as I prepare for my eternal journey beyond the confines of my breadth, I have nothing to demand from you, I have nothing to offer you.



If my silence reaches to you across the horizons, tell me, could I once see you? Could I once behold those eyes and the smile and could those hands liberate me by waving an adieu, once? This time, for the last time, for the last time, ever?

Daddy cool!!

Dear friends, I want to dedicate this piece of writing to the four men I have in my life! Not a regular testimonial though but this one is a heartfelt stream of appreciation and thankfulness for these men without whom I would not have been what I am, today.

My father was the first person who taught me that as a girl child, I did not have to feel inferior to any boy. He planted his faith within me, guarded like a knight when I needed to be protected and let me fly when I spread my wings! I remember my mother advising my father, “Meye boley kotha…kichu taakaa jomaa kortei hobe, biyetey taakaa dite hobe!” This means, “She is a girl, we have to save enough for her dowry!” My father believed that one day I will be independent enough to fend for myself and in addition take a stand not to support dowry. “Je baaritey pon nebe, she baaritey amaar meye biye korbe na (my daughter will not marry into a household which demands dowry).” In his life, my father taught me the science of balancing the goods and odds of life and in his death, he rendered to me, the art of detachment. Now he is no more within his mortal body, but resting in eternal peace ‘somewhere up in star land, where the corner is cosy and blue’. He is as far as beyond the unending skies and as close as deep within my heart, like a lamp lit for the rest of my life!

My brother, whom I have always known as a little boy, is a hero now! Before I knew it, he grew up to be a very responsible, upright and a successful individual. And friends! Is he a woman’s man! I remember the lazy afternoons when his wife and I would wake up to find steaming hot grilled cutlets waiting for us, along with the chai! And by the way, he cooks better than me. My mom has trained both of us equally and he happens to have led the way in culinary skills, as also in all other skills, be it art, music, academics, whatever. To this quintessential gentleman, here is 'three cheers' and all good(est) wishes!

Since I am a foodie, most of my testimonials will bear references to my delightful experiences with food, lovingly dished out by these men! So friends, read on…

I am married to a Tamil household; to a family that carries many legacies of social changes that the previous generations have tried to bring about during a British ruled India. My father-in-law, reared in that milieu, is the epitome of social and gender equality. I have found no bias within him, neither social, nor gender bias. The law makes him a father-‘in-law’ but to me, he is like a doting mother and the dearest friend. Between him and his children (includes me too), there is no generation gap! Actually there is no generation gap between him and his grandchildren either! I am in total awe of this person who is a cheerful playmate to my child, a rock for me, emotionally and also in the mundane duties of life. He is a chat-room partner (not virtual please!) for his sons, nephews, daughters-in-law, neighbors (young and old)…list goes on…and arena varies from politics to craft to Urdu shayari to Naushad to Saigal to Dinkar..and on and on and on. Well, and how well we sing the old classic duets…provided you do not judge us by your ears, our duets are timeless!

And now, meet my hubby, the man I went ‘round and round’ the fire, taking vows for being partner throughout cheer and gloom. He reinforced what I had learnt from my father. He planted his belief within me and here we are, together in the journey called life, in a caravan called comradeship… And friends, no one cooks a better rasam than he does, either! And pakodas..and sambhar…and cookies…Wow! What a great cook he is and he is a better cook than me, a very stylish at that, too. My Mr Dependable, he is the earth for my roots as well as the wind beneath my wings. I leave it to my daughter to write a longer testimonial for her dad and save my further words about him for my personal diary! :) :)

And to all of them,

“Jeet hee lenge baazi hum-tum
Khel adhooraa chootey naa
Pyar ka bandhan, janmon kaa bandhan
Janmon kaa bandhan tootey na…
Pyar kaa bandhan tootey na”

Therefore, friends….let us join together for three cheers for the men in our lives, your, mine, everybody’s lives! There are not enough words for their testimony; but in the words of the generation which my child belongs to, these men, across the generations, are just TOO COOL!!!

From this moment forward.........

It was a warm and humid afternoon during the month of May. The sun shone outside like a fireball and it seemed as if every living being was deep into a spell and refused to move! But the interiors of the church offered all the tranquility and sanity one would need.

Gracy prayed, in quiet solitude, eyes shut and mind as calm as a quiet lake at dawn. Gracy, in her late 30s, would be stepping into a new role, soon. This was a moment she has been waiting for, since the past two long years; this was the moment towards which her hands were stretched in dire desire, her lips never stopped praying and her belief never ever swayed.

Gracy was bearing in her womb, the image of her love for her man. In her womb was the bloom of crimson hopes, with the wings for her dream. A dream, which defined into her crave for a complete family, her crave to be called a mother; her desire for a souvenir she would present to her man, wrapped in all her aspiration and worship.

Gracy was the wife of Thomas, a wealthy businessman who had everything he could ever want: name, fame and heritage. But everything in life is not bestowed just by wanting and reaching out! Thomas was clueless as to who would carry forward the heritage which his forefathers had built and which he had meticulously preserved and added. In other words, Thomas wanted to be a father!

Gracy was the second wife of Thomas. Thomas was previously married to the beautiful, charming and cheerful Stella. Together, Thomas and Stella had once weaved the dream of a nest which would be built high among the branches of aspiration, rooted deep in faith and stretching its hands towards the boundless sky of delight, contentment and benevolence.


Providence had other plans for the young birds, which were still busy gathering twigs and grasses for their dream nest! Stella died during the childbirth and just after an hour, the newborn was also on its way to join its mother!

With them, died the soul of Thomas, leaving behind a body, moving around, aimlessly, with the remains of the scattered nest in his shivering palm, wandering why the storm was so violent! How could he put them together again!

Time is the best healer, the wise say! In another five years, Thomas picked up the pieces of his broken and scattered life, one by one and gathered courage, to gather twigs and leaves for a nest, yet again! And that is how Gracy came into his life.

Not that Thomas was new to Gracy. Being part of the same commune, Thomas was not a stranger. Gracy had, from a distance, been a silent spectator of whatever was happening in Thomas’s life, all these years, since Thomas was a University student. So, it goes on to say that Gracy always loved him but never had the courage to speak up.

After their wedding, it did not take Gracy long to realize that Thomas searched for Stella in her. Gracy knew, that for Thomas, she was nowhere like the Stella whom Thomas has carried like a crown! Stella lived in his heart and dreams and he was in an effort to find a living Stella in the mortal Gracy!

Thomas wanted to be father, craved to be a father, although he did not say a word about it. Even though no words came from him, Gracy was not oblivion of this. After all, she knew him since years and all these years she had always waited for one single careless glance from this man and now the man was hers! All hers! This would often strike a melody in her thoughts and body although she knew that when Thomas looked at her eyes, he looked at Stella!

Gracy had, thus, started believing that once she is the mother of his child, he would start noticing her as a different woman. She herself yearend to bear the child of the man she loved. She would not let anything bar her from being a mother.

She carried the belief, all alone, in her heart and as if her prayers were heard, with powerful recommendation from the soul of the beautiful, benevolent Stella, at God’s doorstep, Gracy found herself on her way to having her first baby!

Thomas, though very caring, could not often accompany her to the doctor. However, he had employed a fleet of chauffer, attendants, full-time nurse and care-giver to take care of Gracy and pamper her during the special nine months. Gracy could see a happy Thomas, for the first time, like this, in the past two years of togetherness. She could see a change in Thomas’s eyes, the way she smiled at her, the way she took her fingers in his hands and the way he brushed aside her playful locks from her face. This Thomas was her man, and she was his, for the first time!

Sometimes, she would wake up in nightmare, fearing if anything would go wrong! She clutched her hopes and happiness, all in a bundle, near to her heart and could not afford anything to snatch it away!

So, on this sunlit afternoon, Gracy rested in the cool milieu of the church, like a tired child on the lap of her mother!

Just two days prior to the due date, her blood pressure was abnormally high. What she had hidden from Thomas and all others was that she was, before pregnancy, warned against bearing a child at that instance, due to her low weight and anaemic condition. She did not pay any heed to it, did not ever talk to Thomas about it. She was head-on her path to bear the child, bear the child for Thomas and in return, demand what she was waiting for, always! A small niche in his heart! Together, they would make a ‘family’ and how she savored the very thought of it!

Her blood pressure was not normal and she ran into many complications. On her way to the labour room, she managed to whisper into the doctor’s ears, “Doctor, even if something happens to me, even if I do not survive, let this baby see the light, let it survive; his father awaits him…..”

A frenzied Thomas walked up and down the lobby, with fingers clutched in prayer! The moment had arrived!

The doctor rushed out of the labour room and explained to him that there was serious complication and a threat to the life of the mother as well as the baby. Though she would try the best of the best, the doctor announced the cruel truth that only one of them could survive and not only that, after this delivery, for sure, Gracy could never be a mother again!

The cruel fate looked up with a crooked smile once again, at Thomas! Time froze again and his feet were like heavy stones and he felt hollowness in his entire body. The fate’s finger marked an icy line down his spine. There was Thomas, a lost man, all set to lose again….

The doctor added that Gracy had wished for the life for the baby but as ethically….

Thomas did not wait to hear her explanation.

The suddenly composed man, in his decisive voice, told the doctor, “Doctor, I want my Gracy to live….I want my Gracy….!”




Anindita Baidya

मासूम

पापा! फिर सुलाओ मुझे
कहानियों के तकिए पर
फिर गुनगुनाओ कानों में
परियों की कहानी कोई

खिड़्की से हाथ बढाकर
भरो चाँद को मुट्ठी में
और मेरे कमरे की कीलों से
लगा दो उसे

फिर सपने दिखायो
सात घोड़ों पर सवार राजकुवरों का

मेरी गुड़ियों का नाम सोचो
करो तैयारी उन्हें विदा करने की
किसी मासूम शरारत पे तुम डाँटो फिर
मैं मुँह फुला लूँ तो
तुम मनायो टौफियों से मुझे

जो बड़ी हो गई
ज़माने ने दर्द भी बड़े दिये
खिलौने टूटने का वो हसीन दर्द
लौटा दो मुझे

मैं चलूँ ज़िन्दगी
नन्हें कदमों से
तुम्हारी ऊँगलियाँ पकड़के
तुम सँभालो मुझे
डर लगता है बड़ों की दुनिया में

अपनी पनाह में
पापा! छुपालो मुझे

अनिन्दिता 31.03.1996

Photograph source: internet

अर्ज़ किया है...

ये पहाड़, ये वादियाँ
ये फूल, ये पत्ते

पहाड़ों के गले से लगकर
मचलती ये नदी

रंगों का ये हसीन खेल
ये पंछी, ये तितलियाँ,
ये बरगद, ये बेल

सब देखना चाह्ती हूँ,
पर तुम्हारे साथ..

देख रही हूँ, महसूस कर रही हूँ
ये सब बसे हैं
जैसे तुम्हारे नस-नस में
छेड़ रहे हैं ये तुम्हारे मन के सुर-तान को..
जब देख रहे हो इनको तुम,


मुझे भी दिखाओ,
क्या देख रहे हो तुम
क्या महसूस कर रहे हो,
मुझे भी महसूस करने दो

खोए-खोए से, इन नज़ारों को सुन रहे हो तुम
और हलचल सी हो रही है मेरे मन में..

कहाँ हू मैं, तुम्हारे ख्यालों में?
इन फूलों के साथ, हवाओं के साथ
इन नज़ारों के साथ,
मुझे भी तो शामिल करो अपनी ज़िन्दगी में !


अनिन्दिता 16.12.2002

Photograph source: Internet

The Guardian Angel

The small pilgrimage town of Deogarh in Jharkhand, 2010. Pallavi, the professor of organic chemistry in a sub-urban Women’s college has a lot to reminisce about. She has a fulfilling life, a happy family, a caring husband, doting in-laws and two beautiful twin daughters.

Looking out of the window of the small but well ventilated staff room, she feels a maddening familiarity in the air. The climate, the sunshine, the spring leaves and the fragrance of the air are all very familiar and brings nostalgia and madness to the otherwise calm and composed Pallavi. This, she has been experiencing since years.

The familiarity of such days of spring, time and again, takes her to her teenage years, spent at the posh three-storey bungalow of her grandfather in Daltonganj, the headquarters of Palamau district. She has always been in love with the beauty of that place. She loved her Palamau. Her forefathers have been aristocrats in the district since the British regime. Her grandfather once told her that Pa-la-mau stands for the three blessings, which nature has bestowed to the place: Pa for Palash, La for Lac and Mau for Mahua. And thus the intoxicating, beautiful Palamau. And in this backdrop, bloomed the love of a coy, quiet and introvert teenager.

Good in academics though, physics and chemistry were the subjects she needed help in. So her father hired Dilip, a young lad, belonging to the neighboring Chhatra district, as her tutor. Dilip was a student at the Science College, staying at a nearby hostel.

Dilip was just her opposite. A very cheerful person, he was an outright extrovert and loved to talk, although he maintained a composed persona whenever he visited Pallavi’s mansion. He hardly talked to Pallavi’s mother, grandmother or aunt; he would rather nod in a tamed way to offer ‘thanks’ when one of the ladies of the house would place a cup of tea and two thin-arrowroot biscuits before him while he helped Pallavi in solving the chemistry or physics problems. He would look so embarrassed while accepting the monthly tuition fee from Pallavi’s wealthy father that Pallavi wondered whether accepting wage for one’s labour was a sin!

Time flew during those years. Pallavi was a student of Std VII when she made Dilip her mentor for chemistry and physics. As years passed by, Dilip became her mentor not only for these two subjects, but for practically all the aspects in her tiny life. Dilip was the toughest critic of her literature works, the essays, short stories which she wrote and Dilip was the most lenient guardian when she came home with a hopelessly low score in chemistry.

He showed her different ways of looking at the world; he explained to her why her mother was so very vigilant about her during her teenage years. Sociology suddenly meant a new interesting subject to her and she was awakened to the terribly hard life which the peasants in her Palamau, faced. Dilip showed her that the world was totally different across the high walls of her grandfather’s bungalow. Now and then Dilip would also talk about some uprisings by some people, here and there, aimed at, according to him, a better livelihood and opportunity for them. But Pallavi hardly could make out anything out of these incidents. Her life was restricted to the high school, her three or four girl friends and her family. Apart from the men in her joint family, Dilip was the only man she knew and interacted with.

During her first year in the Government college, Pallavi met Subhash and fell in love with him but the relation was destined to break in a year’s time, when Subhash’s father was transferred and the family left the place. Subhash bid good bye without any promise for future.

Pallavi was left heartbroken and lost. It was then that Dilip narrated the tale of his own love affair with a girl from Chhatra and how she was married off to someone else and how Dilip coped and life moved on. Dilip explained that life has to move on and it is okay to carry on with one’s life even when someone leaves you mid-way. ‘Good girls’ can break their relation too, it is okay. There is no point in lingering the relation at one side only. Therefore, Pallavi regained herself slowly. She knew, if her mentor could have had a relation which did not materialize and still carry on with life so cheerfully, it is not wrong for anybody to leave behind the past. Later, she learnt that Dilip had only cooked up the story of a girl from Chhatra, just to help her out of the dilemma!

By the time she was in the third year of Chemistry honours, she had developed an affinity for Dilip. She did not know whether she wanted to spend her life with him; but she knew that Dilip was a perfect person. She unknowingly imitated him and unconsciously picked up his mannerisms. Whatever his thoughts were, to her, those were the ultimate truth. For her, Dilip was the best philosopher she ever knew.

Gradually, Pallavi realised that she loved him and also believed that one day he would ask her to marry him. When, she did not know; but she knew that it would happen. She never spoke it out before anyone, not even mentioned it in her daily diary but she was his, she knew.

During a trip to her cousin’s, at Bokaro, she collected some dozen Archies’ greeting cards for him, thinking, one day she will hand them over to him. While at a college trip to Puri beach, she bought a delicate decorative peacock made of sea-shells, knowing that one day it would be her gift of love to Dilip. And her collection grew as her love grew and the wait grew longer. She did not know whether Dilip even had one iota of knowledge about her feeling.

During the spring seasons, Dilip would insist that they sit at the balcony of the second floor to have the feel of the fresh air and listen to the cuckoo while solving the chemistry equations and sums. Those special moments made a permanent place in her mind.

During her third year, as the final exams were approaching, Dilip’s visit became erratic. He would be absent from Daltonganj at a stretch and then arrive for a day or two. The family wondered why this person, now in his early 30s, having helped Pallavi in tiding over all these years of academics, now was being so infrequent when Pallavi was to just finish her graduation.

Her university exams finished and she all the more longed for Dilip. Throughout her examination, he was absent. Now that she was almost a graduate, her family already had started searching for a suitable groom for her. Pallavi did not know what her stand should be. If only her guardian angel was near her to help her solve her dilemma.

On a similar spring afternoon, as Pallavi was seated at that same balcony, she heard the panicked voices of the ladies of the house. She rushed down to the ground floor, only to find her aunt beating her chest and mourning. Pallavi’s brother, with a pale and frightened face told her that there was a landmine burst at the police station where her uncle had been recently posted and that her uncle along with most of the persons in the station had lost their lives.

Pallavi’s uncle, a respected high official in the police, was recently posted at a station near Betla as a member of a special force, in an effort to combat the attacks on the police and government offices, which had in some past years become rampant. Pallavi doubted if these incidents had anything to do with the uprisings Dilip would, at times, passionately talk about some years back. In past two years Dilip did not mention anything about those.

The grief of death covered the house like a shroud. Her uncle’s body was identified only with the help of the gold chained Allwyn watch he had been wearing. Her family was struck with a mixture of grief, anger and feeling of revenge. They wanted the worst of punishments for the persons who had committed the crime and this aristocratic, influential family would use all its power to ensure it. Pallavi again yearned for Dilip. How much she wished he was by her side!

Just two days later the grim silence of the mourning mansion was yet again torn by the panicked voices of the men of the house. Two of the persons who were apparently involved in the landmine blast were killed in a combat. The newspaper had published the pictures of the dead. Pallavi waited for her turn to look at the newspaper.

Like a sudden landslide, the news article cruelly snatched the piece of earth from beneath her feet! She saw the photograph of Dilip, an injured and dead Dilip, with eyes shut and blood oozing out from the head. Whatever she could gather from the print in the newspaper, before losing her consciousness, read like this: “Dilip Kumar, the area commander of the warfare group from Chhatra and his companion, who were apparently involved in the landmine blast two days back, have been killed in a combat, near Hazaribagh, last night……”


Anindita Baidya
08 April 2010

The Choice Mantra

Life always offers us choices, they say. We need to choose the best or at least the most appropriate one for us.

While employing our best reason in making our choice, we sometimes need a guide or may be a Mantra.

My child has one.

In making choices, the Mantra goes like, “Akkad Bakkad Bombai bo…assi nabbai poore sau…” the next few lines you know!

Her life’s dilemma is solved by this potent Mantra. Be it for choosing the book she wants me to read to her at bedtime, be it for deciding on the chronology of all the books she wants me read to her one by one or for negotiating which one she will read and which are the ones her dad has to; the "Akkad bakkad….” has the potential to facilitate a nuclear deal!

The other day she was romanticizing whether the world would be an all-princess one or an all-spider-man one. She employed the "Akkad Bakkad....". The Mantra’s forecast was that the world will be an all-princess one. Yes, ours is!

The Mantra has the flexibility for negotiation too. If you have a particular decision already made in mind, you can decide where to start the count from. The age old practice has proved that there is nothing wrong in manipulation! Also, you can, if you want to, count again and again until serendipity brings forth the right choice.

So, as our child continues to decide between ‘dosa’ and ‘sandwich’, ‘shoe’ or ‘sandal’, ‘frock’ or ‘capri’, I ask my hubby if she would choose the man in her life with equal ease and make our life as easy!

After all, she is so liberal in offering us choices. Beat it: while playing the chess, she offers, “Kaun se colour ke sikke logey? Kyunki main toh white loongee”




Anindita
24 March 2010
(Photos from internet)

For the soul, which is all ready to leave the mortal body and soar towards eternity; which is all set to be one with the infinity, it is not enough that it itself unfastens from the shackles of earthly bondages....

The ones who have been family, friend and relative to the body, with whom the stage of the drama called life was set up, have also to let go off this soul.

And not from the pages of religious texts, not from the voices of Guru that I have learnt it. My realisation occurred, when I was sitting by the bed of my father, who had been hospitalized in the medical college in Ranchi, following a severe brain hemorrhage and coma. My brother accompanied me throughout that night, taking turns to sleep on the floor on a thin bed-sheet. Neuro-surgical departments do not have any preferential ICU, since all the cases are critical. So there were about ten patients in that room, all in serious condition.

My brother would go out for some time, to have a stroll and at times he had to rush to the medicine counter to fetch some medicines to be added to the intra-venous drip. We had forced mother to go home and have some rest since she had stayed during the entire previous night and day, before we siblings could fly to Ranchi.

During that one night, sitting near my father, I had nothing else to do except watch all the other patients. There were newborns who awaited brain surgery, there was a patient, seemingly awake with no sense at all; his wife reported that he was there since past four months and their children had returned to their respective work places.

I did not know if my father was fighting for life or was trying to break away from the shackles of life. His breath was so loud and seemingly difficult yet he seemed totally unaware of the pain. The nurse would check the oxygen and drip frequently. I could not explain to myself whether he was unconscious or was under coma; I did not understand why he took so much time to come back to consciousness. I urged him to wake up but he did not hear anything. Once I had this idea too, that when he comes back, I will ask him to narrate his experience of the coma!

The nurse stayed awake overnight to monitor my father. Today I have a great regard for this noble profession of nursing. This nurse, knowing that her patient would not anyway survive, could have been relaxed; but no, she was so vigilant. Just like a soldier guarding her post, she guarded through the last night of my father. The unknown nurse, whose name I do not even know, carried on her responsibilities unfalteringly. How thankful I am to her today!

That was the single night, in my entire life that past or future did not, for once, matter to me. I had no worries, no thoughts except that I was living the hours, one by one. For the first time in life, that night, I experienced the clock striking 2,3,4, and so on....! That night rendered to me the life’s biggest lesson of living for the moment.

Next morning, during the visit of the doctor, it was confirmed that no medicine or surgery could help. While our world was all set to be shattered, the doctor was explaining the academics of my father’s condition to his young aspiring interns.

Before taking the flight to Ranchi, I had actually mentally planned my actions, in case father would continue to be in coma for long. After all, no one can say for sure, how long a coma can last. He had been suffering from diabetes and some kidney problems too and earlier that year I had been talking to my brother about the substantial saving we need to do in case we need to start dialysis, in future. We know, once dialysis starts, no one can have an account of the time and money.

All these thoughts did not occur that night. The night turned to dawn and then sunlight poured through the bright room. We siblings cleaned and powdered dad. After the arrival of my mother and some other neighbors, we were to return home when a friend asked my brother to stay back....I do not know whether it was destiny’s queer arrangement or just a practical plan.

That morning I had no clue as to what my prayer should be! Whether I should pray for my dad’s revival from coma, which would bring in other doubts regarding ability of the entire physical and mental faculty or whether I should pray for the emancipation of the soul! So I did not engage in any further analysis. I only could surrender to the will of the Almighty.

Back home, I had a good sleep after the meal and around sometime at three in the afternoon, I woke up with a very uncomfortable feeling only to doze off again after few seconds. But after few minutes or so, my sister-in-law woke me up to say that I had to rush to the hospital. I knew it. The finality was written all over her face. I asked her, “It’s finished?” almost knowing her answer. She nodded her head in affirmation.

So Baba was gone. In other words, the soul within the body whom we called Baba, had liberated itself to be one with the eternal whole from which it had come. We, the family had to let him go; neither our money, our savings, the insurances nor our positions and power could allure the soul to stay back. We had to let him go, we could not stop his journey, we knew no place where we could hide him from the all-permeating vision of providence, the way we, as children, would hide chocolates from father.

From that very moment onwards, no enemy, no friend, no passion, no hatred could bind the soul. The soul was a part of the one unending, perpetual, ever-lasting stream of light that has always been there and always will be.....

I and all others will be one with it one day!

This is the only reality I know of now; nothing else is, neither our earthly possession, nor our passion or hatred, nor achievements and triumphs...

Gatey, Gatey, Paragatey, Para Sam gatey
Bodhi svaha! Bodhi svaha!Bodhi svaha!

Gone, Gone, gone across to the other shore,
Gone utterly beyond..
Oh! What an awakening...

(The Heart Sutra)

The Homecoming

26 September, 2005, around 12 noon. We were in the midst of witnessing the breaking of many families, one by one. Two, three, four...the judge would quickly go through the cases one by one, and pronounce the couples as ‘no more-man and wife’. The divorce cases were done with ease, one after the other, quickly, in the family court in Bhopal.

Nikhil and I were also among the ‘family court cases’ that day, awaiting our turn for the judge to complete the ‘hearing’ for us. In the one or two hours that we had been sitting there, we witnessed breaking of many families.

My heart was beating loud. This was the first time I was visiting any court and was earnestly wishing and hoping that things are finalised at the first hearing itself! I did not want to wait longer. Neither did Nikhil. We had decided and that was it; we wanted things to be settled fast.

The tension was mounting and the buzzing courtroom was getting more and more noisy. The ambience of the courtroom was a far cry from the filmy courtroom we have watched on the television soaps or cinema screens.

We were sitting at the witness box, along with some other couples. The judge was seated on a high platform on her coveted chair and was flanked by more than four-five advocates in their shinning black coats and some couples were standing near the table. In short, the space near the table looked so crowded that I wandered if the judge could concentrate on individual cases. After sometime we could also see our advocate entering the courtroom and walking straight towards the judge’s table, to join the crowd. His gait was one that of a proud conqueror, with his pot-belly leading the way.

The judge would ask each of the couples if they had decided that they wanted to separate. And she would announce the closure of the case. That was it! I am sure the formalities and ‘balance sheet’ must have been decided earlier, out of the court and the event here was only a formality.

At the door of the courtroom, Baby Rakhi was cuddling comfortably in the arms of her care-taker. Rakhi was a seven month baby, staying at the Matri Chhaya –Adoption institution in Bhopal. She was visibly bored at being in the arms of the caretaker since so long and not being able to crawl around. To avoid any disturbance, whenever she opened her mouth, her caretaker would hurriedly move out of the court room lest she starts howling and disturbs the court proceedings. I could not help but laugh at the scene.

Rakhi looked so fresh and pretty, in a bright, crispy violet cotton frock. The caretaker was carrying an extra pair of knickers in a small thin yellow polythene bag. I could not take my eyes off Rakhi. I took her in my lap for sometime and filled my lungs with the lingering fragrance of Johnson’s baby soap and powder. But she again opened her mouth and before her sound would shake the courtroom, she was outside the room, howling, in the arms of the agile caretaker.

Suddenly we were summoned by the judge. My heart was pounding in a way that I could not hear anything else and a fear gripped my arms and feet and I was cold. I mentally allowed Nikhil to do all the answering. But at that very moment, I suddenly let go off my anxiety telling to myself, what will be, will be.

So the hearing session started and I expected it to be very long. ‘Who is Nikhilesh?’ she enquired; ‘Myself..’ Nikhil raised his hands. ‘Who is Anindita?’ I was still trying to get to the judge’s table and gosh! the ‘hearing session’ had already started. Short in height that I am, I had to raise my heels to make an eye-contact with the judge, raising my hand. Her next question was, ‘Who is Baby Rakhi?’ and the caretaker and the father figure of the Matri Chhaya known as Baba, pointed at the baby, now blissfully sleeping on the shoulders. To my utter surprise, the strict looking judge, Ms Indrani smiled affectionately and said, ‘She is asleep....take her back, don’t disturb her sleep’ and before we knew, she announced that our case was finalised and pronounced us the parents of Baby Rakhi! She instructed us to collect the Adoption deed the next day.

So, before we knew it, before we could even realise it, we were parents of this little baby, staying at the Matri Chhayaa, whom I have been meeting every Sunday, spending time with her, with a prayer that we develop familiarity before she comes home. The entire adoption process was initiated six months back and about a month back, we had filed the affidavit for adopting her and it was the Almighty’s mercy towards the expectant parents that adoption was finalised at the first hearing itself, very unusual as it is.

I asked the advocate again and again if it was really done, if we could take our baby home.

So, on 26th September 2005, while many couples were there at the court to break the relation, we were the only couple waiting for our chance for the judge’s hearing to build a family; a family, which was decided by destiny and soul, if not biology.

After an affectionate godh bhadai at Matri Chhayaa, our daughter came home, seated on the lap of her father, dozing off, with her head comfortably leaning on his chest. And as the clock struck midnight on 27th, our little haven was lighted up with the arrival of our child whom we had borne in our heart, mind, thoughts and prayers, all these years.......