धीरे चलो.....

जितनी भड़कती है चिनगारी
उतना जलता है आशियाना
भर जाने पर पानी बहुत
रिस जाता है मिट्टी का टीला

छलक जाता है पैमाना
गर भर जाए ज़रूरत से ज़्यादा

थक जाओगे अगर दौड़ो
इस तेज़ी से तुम
ज़रा मध्यम रहे
कदम तुम्हारे, दोस्त!


कि ज़िन्दा रहे देर तक
ज़िन्दादिली तुम्हारी
और थके नहीं आँखें
रास्ते की लम्बाई को देखकर


Anindita
Written on 16.11.96


Photograph: From Internet

My humble salutation to Gurudev

On the occasion of his 150th Birth Anniversary, I gathered up enough courage to write some lines. I am too small to write anything about Gurudev so I decided to pen down only about my experience with Gurudev’s works.

I was introduced to Gurudev when I was a baby. I knew him as the man with interesting hairstyle, a long beard and intense eyes, in that large photograph in the drawing room of our quarter at Ranchi. That photograph never ceased to send some waves of awe as well as fear, perhaps because of that long beard. I remember a dream when I was a child; I dreamt that Baba and I were onboard a bus and he pointed towards a person saying, “Look, Rabindranath is travelling in the same bus” and I saw this man with that same long beard, counting some cash! I talked about my strange dream in the morning and my Ma only smiled.

Later, Gurudev came into life in the form of institutionalised, organised music school affiliated to the Rabindra Bharati. However, even before that, I was already growing up fantasising holidays as ‘Aaj dhaaner khete, rodru chhayaaye...” and admiring the mystery of ‘Aalo amaar aalo’., courtesy my mother. And my music teacher introduced me further into Rabindrasangeet.

At that age, I did not quite understand the meaning of those lyrics. ‘Aamraa shobaai raja..’ for me, was a beautiful, enjoyable song, the notations being simple, in Daadra tal which could for sure fetch me a distinction at the exam. However, my first song in presence of a crowd, I remember, was ‘Tumi kemon kore gaan koro hey guni!’ during my Part I examination when I was very small. The examiner and the room full of examinees appreciated my song. My last song sung in an exam was ‘Chorono dhoritey diyo go amaare...’ about 23 years ago! Everyone will agree that this is not an easy song to sing! With mind occupied with not missing the rhythm, following the tabla, I had sung it with low self confidence!

The best part of Rabindrasangeet to me, has been the Sanchari; I just loved the change in the tune and the graveness of the Sanchari. Be it, ‘Chomokibe phaagunero pobone...’ or ‘Chiro-pipaashito baashonaa bedonaa...’, I just loved to repeat the Sanchari again and again.

My academics changed into love, dedication and worship only after my vagabond spirit was released from the boundaries of organised learning. Strangely, only after I stopped taking lessons in music that I started enjoying it.

From songs, I was introduced to Gurudev’s dance-drama and of course poetry.

But Gurudev as the philosopher, I recognised only after I started my job-life. When life had rendered to me some share of sadness and happiness, loss as well as benevolence, I took a quiet shelter in his works.

During difficult days at work, Gurudev’s works based on the Upanishad were my source of sustenance. I went to work after listening to ‘Shobaaro majhaare tomaare sheekaar koribo hey...’, I marvelled at the infinity of the cosmic power with ‘Bhubono joraa aashono khaani...’, I gathered strength with, ‘Aamaar poraan binaaye ghumiye aache Amrito-gaan...’.

What attracted me most was that Gurudev’s writings on the Almighty never described any form; Almighty was not a man or a woman, not even a human form. The unending power was described as ‘Groho-taaroko chandro topono, byakulo druto bege, koriche snaano, koriche paano, Akkhyo kironey...’. Almighty was a ‘Satya-sundoro’.

Gurudev’s works helped me tide over my father’s death when I understood that death is the beginning of an eternal bliss with the ever present stream of light. ‘Amar ei deho khaani tule dhoro, tomaar ei devalay e prodeep koro..’ and thus I let go off my father knowing that one day I will also be one with that light!

At the border of India and Pakistan at Wagah, I once stood, questioning what made human beings divide and harvest aggression when we all are same. Gurudev’s words, ‘..where the world has not been broken into fragments by narrow domestic walls....’ strengthened my thoughts and I believed that I was not wrong!

Gurudev has thus been in every nuance that life has offered. What could be more passionate than ‘Momo hridayo rokto-raage tobo chorono diyechi raangiyaa’ and ‘......tobo odhoro ekechi shudha-bishe mishe momo shukho-dukho bhangiyaa’.

What could be a more retiring submission than, ‘Nijo haatey tumi gete niyo haar, phelonaa amaare chhhoraaye...!’

I had sung this song 23 years ago with a low confidence, in presence of the examiner but today when I stand before no examiner but only before the Almighty, tears do not stop while humming, ‘Bikaaye, bikaaye dino aaponaare, paari na phiritey duyaare duyaare..’ when I am tired but then Gurudev is there to lift up the spirit with, ‘Klaanti amaar khoma koro Prabhu..’

So here I am, in full awe and inspiration with Gurudev but not one bit of ability to write about the great Philosopher.

In love, worship, music, prayer and life’s rhythm, my humble salutation to GURUDEV!

बन्दगी

हो इबादत ऐसी मेरी
कि जुस्तजु न हो पूरी
रहूँ तेरी तलाश में हर पल
यह प्यास रहे यूँ अधुरी

तु नूर है या है हवा
तु मुझमें है तो मैं कौन हूँ?
दोस्त है क्या, रक़ीब कौन है?
तु हर चीज़ में है तो ग़ैर कौन है?

इन्हीं सवालों से रहे हर पल
शाद-शाद मेरी बन्दगी
हज़ारों सवाल, कई जवाबों से
रहे यूँ आबाद मेरी ज़िन्दगी


Anindita Baidya
5 May 2011

Photograph: from internet

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!