Aye Mere Pyaare Watan........

                                                   Where is the golden river

                                                   Gurgling through the hills

                                                  Where is the music of drums?

                                                  Where does the first ray of sun..

                                                        Wake up the flowers

                                           Where does the smoke rise from the huts

                                          Where does the moon shine on silvery lawn

                                                   My little land, my mother land

                                                            I cry for you..

                                                            I long for you…..

                                                             I miss you so…..

I was born in Ranchi, a little hilly town in the Chhotanagpur Plateau, a summer resort for many. I was nourished with the wind, sunshine and greenery of the beautiful town and that made me a complete Chhotanagpuri at heart. When I left the plateau, I felt as if my heart was uprooted and since then it has been a wanderer. I promised myself to return one day, to this plateau, to the people, to those gurgling waters and to the little whispering hills.

The earliest childhood memories were of the short summers punctuated by sharp showers and hailstorm. Chhotanagpur summers were all about closed windows, hot wind blowing over the green plateau and the wind beating against the shutters and lots of dust. Around mid afternoons, the black cloud would gather its allies and create a powerful storm, which in Bangla, we termed as ‘Kal Boishakhi’. The storm would snatch away the ripe green mangoes from the bowing branches and as a valediction, it would leave back lots of icy hails all over the ground, all for us. We as kids would carry mugs and wear red coloured Bengal Gamchas over our heads to collect the hails (sheel, in Bangla).  How we all loved gobbling up the icy pieces and then collecting the ripe mangoes fallen all over the wet ground!

I always feared those storms and seeing my father absolutely enjoying it and taking the sharp showers on his bare chest would fill me with rage. I, as a child, always thought that storms would be followed by earthquake and I passed on this fear to my little brother too. We, as kids, would shout, shriek and cry seeing the storm and pray, “Bhoomikompo jeno na hoye’. (“God, let there be no earthquake’).

The winters saw us completely inside the quilts, studying inside the quits, drinking milk inside it and wrestling and boxing inside it too. During day times on holidays, my mother would actually warm our bath waters directly from sunlight! During lazy holiday afternoons, we would soak the abundant sunlight, after lunch. The neighbours would gather at a common place, with the kids reading comics or playing and mothers mainly knitting and sharing designs. A short retreat to the warm bed after the sun-soaking was a bonus.

The rainy days would be usually long. Rains would continue for days together and that kept us indoors with our dolls. I cherish playing with dolls on rainy days. This was the season when the neighbourhood dolls were married to each other and our mothers played sporty event managers in actually cooking delicacies for the Putuler-Biye/ Gudiya kee shaadi.

We played a lot of local games, like Pitto, Budiya-Kabaddi, Eye-spy (Ice-pice :)),Kit-kit, Langri-chhoo, Cutting the apple, Chhoaa-chhoyee, Kumir-Danga(Crocodile). And cricket was played with custom-made bats from left over wooden pieces!

Our life was integrated with so many other people. It was all about inter-dependence than independence.  They were our lifelines in so many ways. Our post man chhacha who smilingly delivered the post cards, my final exam result and the parcels, the Nana who would vend moongfali (well moongfali was called Badam by us :)), Tarbooj, Son-Papdi and sometimes sweet jaamoons.

The image of an old lady selling puffed rice to us is so very clear even today. She carried a huge sack of puffed rice on her head and wore jewelleries which fascinated me. She used a local system of measuring the puffed rice.

Thanks to my mother and cousin sister, we knew all that was happening in their lives. I imagined this Nani coming down faraway hills, crossing meadows to deliver the puffed rice at our doorstep.

As clear as this is the image of the curd seller who had a typical sing song way of calling out “Da----heeee’. And then there was the milk seller who would proficiently ride his bi-cycle while having his one palm covering his ears and the other, stretched out while he would break out into some soulful song.

Sometimes local circus was staged in the lanes where young kids showed off dangerous tricks. They walked on rope, tied babys' neck by ropes and swung them around and later collected money/rice from us. Sometimes someone would carry a BioScope and place it right on the road while we children looked through the circular windows inside the bioscope.  I, for the first time came through ‘Gabbar Singh’ and ‘Hema Malini’ through the bioscope. Vendors in one-stroller mobile shop would sell ribbons, clips, kajal and just about everything we wanted, including those colourful hair decorations!

Our life was so close to the local festivals of Sarhul and Karma, festivals which paid homage to Mother Nature for giving us our abundant resources and affluent land called the Chhotanagpur.

The annual picnic to nearby water falls were so much looked forward to. The bountiful Suvarnarekha would cascade through  hillocks in and around the sister-districts. There were hill rivulets whose beds were rocky. We could see the river bed clearly at one time and a little rainfall would speedily fill up the river to such an extent that a jeep could very well get stuck in the middle. Rabindranath Tagore has described such rivers so beautifully as , ‘Amaader chhoto nodi chole aake-baake, Boishak-maashe taar haatu jol thaake’ (Our little river meanders through and during Baishakh/summer, the water is knee-deep).

Our little town adorned a special look during the Jagannath Mela in the Bengali month of ‘Asaar’ (in July). The colorful carnival, the daring circus artists, the sound of the flute, the coloured specks and the big Papads with a sprinkle of rain made those days extra special. The mighty Jagannath, his brother and sister travelled to their maternal aunt’s house while we cheered through. The festival, so big, yet was away from any pseudo-grandeur and was so much OURS.

My heart carries me to the fragrant land and I long for its touch. I have left a little part of myself still there, beckoning me with open arms and tearful eyes.

                                                                Ek pehchaanee see khushboo kee talash

                                                                           Ek boond kee pyas hai

                                                                           Pila do samundar mujhe

                                                                             Na bujhe.......Na bujhe

                                                                                Dil ke kone mein

                                                                             Baandh kar rakhee hai

                                                                             Ek yaado ke Gathri, maine...

                                                                            Salamt meri yaadein rahe

                                                                            Salamat mera watan rahe………



Anindita Baidya
06 Dec 12


Phoographs: From Internet