My Clay Dolls...

When you broke my clay dolls, I cried. I cried and cried till you made me new ones and then two of us coloured those in orange and blue. We spent the sunny afternoons in the shade of the banyan tree, with you teaching me the art of playing marbles.

You trained me in riding the bicycle and nursed me when I injured myself after falling from the towering big black Hercules. You carried my school bag and gave me your water bottle when I distributed my water among friends.


You held me in your arms when I cried for Ma while she was admitted in the hospital, while having our little twin brothers and when Ma got busy with the twins, you suddenly became my world and sky.


And I grew up, with you and like you. Everyone says I look, behave and think like you.

But years and space, like a broadening canal, have made you and me so far away from each other.

I long for you yet cannot see you. I want you to witness my new life, yet you are not around.

I still have, close to my heart, held my clay dolls and want you to see the changed colour.

Who will help me if I break my clay dolls again?

Big brother, come back...please come back in my life once again!

JHUGGI......

When he was being born, his mother faced complications; there was no medical assistance and despite everyone’s apprehensions and fear, he took birth, on his own, as they say. Therefore, he was named ‘Doctor’.

Doctor was one of the few children I met in one of the ‘Palnaghars’ (crèches) run by a local NGO. Doctor was a four year old child, whose mother worked at the nearby brick kilns and other construction sites. Doctor had never seen his father. In fact after his mother was two months pregnant, she never saw her husband. Some said that he had fled to the faraway Middle east, others said that he had died in some accident, yet some said that he had re-married and settled in Mumbai. Whatever the explanations were, Doctor’s mother had to keep the wheels rolling and the hearth, burning; so she moved on.

Many children, living in the Adarsh nagar slum were not as lucky as Doctor to spend the daytime at a crèche. Doctor’s neighbour, 10 year old, Pikloo did not go to the crèche. He spent the mornings at a local school and during the afternoons, he was on his own, sometimes playing with his mates near the railway track with marbles or sometimes peeping into Usha aunty’s shack , to watch the programmes in the portable black and white TV.

Unlike Pikloo’s elder two sisters, he did not go for daily wage. He went to school. His parents worked hard and dreamed that one day Pikloo will earn enough to have a better house and a decent life. They, however, did not have any dreams for their two daughters. They are much too afraid to entertain any dream for the girls.

Doctor’s mother, Pikloo’s parents, Usha aunty and her husband had all arrived from the neighbouring villages with the hope that a city life will give them all that their small land in the villages did not give. In return, they lost their peace, privacy and security. Usha aunty remembers, in the village they lived, she never had to worry about carrying her husband to the hospital; whenever he was sick, there were neighbours or relatives taking turns to be with her husband.

Usha aunty reached the city in search of a better earning, after selling off the little land to pay for her perpetually ill husband’s treatment.

And what have Pikloo and his sisters lost? Much more than just their childhood! The ten year old Pikloo is a witness to the drama of a cruel life being staged at the Adarsh Nagar Slum. In the one room hut that the entire family shares, Pikloo has witnessed the daily quarrels between his parents, he has overheard his parents blaming the Government, cursing the school-teacher, hating the municipality and above all, cursing God!

Pikloo knows that Mahee maasi in one of the huts is seriously ill and bedridden. He also knows that her entire family was very ashamed of her illness and so had left her suffering here, alone. Mahee maasi’s husband also abused her; beat her up before he left the slum. Pikloo has witnessed where from Usha aunty earns the money for her husband’s treatment. He knows what happens when, in the dark vigil of night, heavy trucks stop at the highway far away and he knows why Usha aunty goes out of her hut then.

Pikloo’s mother sometimes says that they will place him for adoption. About that, Pikloo has big dreams and small hopes! He visualises himself, being adopted by some affluent businessman and his wife, whom he will un-reluctantly accept as ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’; he visualises that one day he will return to the slum, just to meet his family, wearing red-black striped shirt and knee-length denim with six pockets. He will arrive in a car and while his Mummy and Daddy will wait near the car, he will slowly approach his ‘old’ house and meet his family. His old friends and neighbours will gather to see the affluent businessman’s son as he will take out little gifts for everybody; wrist watches for his sisters, a sari for mother and a nice white shirt for father.

And what do Pikloo’s sisters dream? They often, in their dreams, travel to their village, in the shelter of the unending blue sky and the banyan tree where they have left their clay dolls. They long to return to that land to complete the unfinished play....


Photographs: fron internet

Shubho Nababorsho

A very happy new year to all my friends.

As we enter into the 1418th Bangla year, my memory takes me to my childhood days spent at Ranchi. Memories of those days linger even today and trigger a nostalgic vein......!

Nababarsha usually would also arrive with the worries of terminal exams. Nevertheless, the joy of New Year surpassed all worries, pain and trouble.

Those days, I vividly remember, as the eyes would open on the New Year morning, the mind would sing to itself, “Aajke poila boishaakh” or ‘Today is 1st Baisakh”. This phrase, in subconscious mind, I would keep repeating throughout the day. Parents and elder cousins had taught us that 1 Boishaakh is “Poila Boishaakh” and not “Aeklaa boishaakh”.

Those days, we did not splurge on dresses like we do now. We would have new dresses thrice a year: during the New Year, Birthday and Durga Puja and so the occasions were very special. And for the New Year, Ma and Baba would buy me the summery, light cotton frocks, usually the embroidered pastel coloured ones. My parents would also, sometimes, end up buying only the necessary new school shirt or may be a night suit. So, we would get what was needed not what we fancied and we were okay with it.

We went to school on New Year day and throughout the day the mood would be in the highest spirit. During the evenings, we would gather at the humble Bijoya Sammelaan and fulfill it with pranam to the elders, some music, recitation (aabriti) and yummy snacks.

I also spent a couple of New Years at Kolkata where we visited our friendly jewellers for ‘Haal-khaataa’ or the opening of new books of accounts. We would return home with packets of mishti (sweets) and a brand new calendar, neatly rolled and tied with coloured rubber bands. I remember how crazy mother was about New Bangla Calendars and Ponjika (Panchaang).

On returning home, we would retire to bed only after writing the letters to our relatives, “Shubho Naboborsher Pronaam jeno”. The habit of writing these letters on New Year and Viajaya Dashami kept alive the practice of Bangla.

Times have changed and celebrations have changed. My senses still long for the feel and scent of a new crisp cotton dress, the spring air, the exam fever and to top it all, the aroma of special delicacies prepared by Ma on New Year.

Memories remain, years roll by...!

In memory and in celebration, Shubho Nababarsha to all my friends...

Aaloo ka chaaloo beta!

Aaloo ka chaaloo beta Kaha gaye the Bandar kee jhopdi mein So rahe the

So, the humble Aaloo finds a place even in the child’s nursery rhymes. The aaloo, king of vegetables has secured a place in the palate for itself which no other vegetable has.

The well-read will argue that potato is no vegetable. Solanum tuberosum is a tuber, a (subterranean) stem modification. To that, okay, I agree. But that does not lessen the Aloo’s importance one inch.

Be it aloo-gobi, aloo-paneer, aaloo-baigaan, aaloo-karela, aloo-palak, aaloo-methi, Aaloo is like the quintessential Naapit (barber) who is present at every occasion, be it a mundan, sacred thread, a marriage, a shradhh or a pind-daan! We Bengalis will even never miss putting large pieces of Aaloos in chicken, mutton, eggs and biryani.

And Aaloo can thrive on its own too; which soul in the world does not relish jhooro-jhooro aaloo bhaja to go with dal on a Bengali dining table to Aaloo kee sabji for the pooris to sirf aaloo for Upvaas to the French Fry at Mc Donalds?

However, friends, Aaloo also has also witnessed some regional preferences. While my trainees from the Southern part of the Vindyas complain about the (over)usage of Aaloo in the canteen, “Madam, too much Aaloo, Gas...” , those arriving from the Northern side look for Aaloo in every recipe.

Nevertheless, aloo is here, they say from the Western World and is here to stay. If the list of curries is not enough, look for the aaloo in all the delectable morning breakfast items to snacks to dinner preparations. From Aloo-paratha to samosa, vada paav, gol gappa, aloo-kaabli...what could we have done without aaloo!

A Ghost in a bowl..!

Ever since childhood, my curiosity about ghosts has never been satiated. As I grew, my search also grew and I devoured ghost stories and mystery TV serials.

I never had known that I would have a personal experience of a ghost until I reached a small hamlet in the Yavatmal district in Maharashtra, for my Summer placement.

My story will not do justice to my friend if I do not offer him the credit for all the experience I had!

Two of us, the aspiring Rural Development professionals reached Wardha and from there, to this hamlet. We mingled with the community and instantly struck a rapport with the staff at a training centre in the village.

One day, one of the staff, whom I will refer to as Didi, in the rest of this note, narrated to me her experience of Planchet, or inviting the spirit of a deceased person. I was immediately interested and my friend had glow in his eyes, thinking of the experience we would have.

So one sunny, sleepy afternoon, after we had finished the day’s work, we found a quiet room and a corner for the needful. We shut the door and except for a small opening (the ventilator), we shut all other openings.

In the now dark room, Didi wrote the alphabets A to Z and the numbers 1 to 10, on a small low wooden rectangular stool. Then in the centre, she placed a small steel bowl and asked us to put our index fingers on it. Having done that, she asked us whom we would like to invite. Our minds wandered from grandparents to National heroes to filmy personalities and at the end, she decided about a local lady, who, Didi said, was a very good person, which meant, that she would not be aggressive during the planchet!

So, she started inviting her, speaking in Marathi but even after a few minutes, nothing happened.

I could already feel a cold finger down my spine and was completely frozen but when nothing happened, I joked, “The lady must have been a fat person and therefore, her spirit is unable to enter through that small ventilator”, to which, Didi took huge offense and ordered me to shut up.

It took so much time that I almost lost my interest and was no more afraid.

And then, suddenly, the bowl moved!

Three of us were aghast, surprised and for the first few seconds, could not speak anything. My throat was parched by then, with fear. Didi asked a few questions and my friend followed. Then it was my turn.

The first question I asked was which year would I get a job and the bowl moved from 2to 1 to 4 to 5 which meant 2145. Now considering that this was happening in 1995, I was very upset about my job prospects as foretold by the noble soul! Then I asked, “What will be my life partner’s name?” And the bowl moved from y to x to z and I do not remember anything after that.

By then our fear had vanished and after thanking the spirit, we ended the planchet.

The story does not end here, dear friends!

Long after Didi had left, a doubt kept lingering in my mind. I asked my friend, how it all happened! He said, he knew and understood it. I asked him several times, “Bolna, kaise huaa, kya huaa” but he refused to let the cat out!

The bowl was placed at one side of a long stool in the room and seeing it, my fear returned. Looking apprehensively at the ‘possessed’ bowl, I continued pleading for knowing the secret. I kept sitting at one edge of a cot with my eyes stuck on the bowl.

In between, our friendly Kakkaji, the caretaker of the training centre came with the evening snacks, poha. Looking at the bowl lying there, he went to pick it up when I shrieked at the top of my voice, crying, “Kakkaji, mat uthhayiye kotare ko...!”

And he left, surprised. I continued pleading. “Bolna..”. My friend assured that after we had the poha, he would let out the secret. Poha was finished and I started requesting again. Now my patience was wearing out!

One more time, he said he would not tell and I picked up some of his survey schedules and threw them out, out of rage!

Till this day, he makes fun saying he just loved the way his survey schedules were made into roses, by me!

At last, with much pleading, requesting, threatening, he let out the secret, telling me, how the bowl had moved.

And dear readers, you will kill me for this... . . . . . ..
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My friend, with a little extra pressure had moved the bowl while Didi and I kept our fingers lightly on the bowl, thus, manipulating the entire act!

I must admit that I was, at the end, relieved that there was no spirit at all!

Our Didi at Yavatmal still does not know the secret!

A twilight song....

As I sail away,
With the sun setting behind me
I wonder, whether every bird
Could find its nest
Back on the branches,
where they had left it

I wonder,
Tomorrow, will the lost song
Of the shephard’s flute
Find a melody once again

Will tomorrow, once again, the sun
Wipe away the cloud of doubt

Will the shore
Again call for me

Will the morning tide
In its silence
Again wait for me


Tomorrow, as the sun rises again
Will I return home
To sing my song once more
To sing my song once more......

Nigahebaan

Apne jazbaat mein nagmaat rachaane ke liye
Maine dhadkan kee tarah dil mein basaayaa hai tujhe
Main tasavoor bhi judaai ka bhala kaise karoo
Maine kismat kee lakiron se churaayaa hai tujhe


How could he let Nausheen go! Fighting a terminal illness, Afroz would have already been a dead man, had it not been for Nausheen! Nausheen kept him smiling, Nausheen showed him the blossom of spring, Nausheen saw to it that he never failed to pray. Nausheen fed him, cleaned him and Nausheen nursed him.

Saint Anne’s Nursing Home, Gul Marg. Anybody, in the small town, knew, what it meant being admitted to this hospital. It had two implications, one, that the patient had to be a very rich person and two, the patient would not live for long to return home. The Hospital was specialised for treatment and care for most of the dreaded terminal illnesses.

Afroz was not the only patient in the department. He was not the only one Nausheen nursed, either. But Nausheen was the only one Afroz laid his hope on.
Nausheen, a very able and skilled nurse, worked through the hours, tireless and never missing a smile and never missing a schedule. In the chart she held in her hand, she had all the information about all the patients she attended to. She cared for all of them equally, in a very affectionate and a very professional manner, at that.

But Afroz was no professional! He was a poet, a SHAYAR with a melting heart. And confined to the campus of the Nursing Home since six long months, Afroz took comfort in weaving little and big dreams and painting them with imagination and putting them in words.

Nausheen entered his life when the rest of the world walked away. Nausheen received him when others gave him away. It was Nausheen who held his hand tight when the Doctor announced the seriousness of his illness. The time had stopped for Afroz. In utter depression, he confined himself inside his room, leading himself to darkness.

One sunny morning, Nausheen, brought in the light! To the dying Afroz, she said, “You are fortunate enough to know how your life will end. Do you know, each one of us, including that doctor, those attendants, often wonder, how our life will end. We do not know what we have for store, but you know. End will come to all of us, that is the reality but today, God has let you wake up; today you are alive, as I am, and as those little flowers and the bees are. Come, we will go out and have a stroll and thank God for the wonderful life and pray for the ones who did not see the light today’.

From the little life he was left with, Afroz continued stealing the moments with Nausheen and arranging them neatly in his memory.

But Nausheen had to go. She had to lead a team to the tremor struck towns far away. Hundreds of suffering people needed Nausheen. Afroz had never, in the worst of nightmares, imagined a life without Nausheen. He was so used to her that he had almost missed the passing time.

“Go after I die, Nausheen” Afroz pleaded. Nausheen had no answer for that. Her duty was beckoning her.

And so one day Nausheen left. Afroz’s life was not enough for all the love he had for Nausheen, so he bid her goodbye, with a smile and stole another moment for his treasure. “God bless and goodbye, dear”, that is all he said and the poet rested quietly in his heart.

Tu mila hai toh yeh ehsaas hua hai mujhko
Yeh meri zindagi mohabbat ke liye thodi hai
Ek zara sa gham-e-dauraan ka bhi haq hai jis par
Maine woh saaans bhi tere liye rakh chhori hai

Nausheen’s departure got delayed by a day. From mid-way, she returned, to offer her flowers, prayers and tears on Afroz’s still body.



Lyrics: From Qateel Shifai's ghazal
Photo: From internet