Words' Worth

As I was waiting for my food at the restaurant, I watched different people around; this being my favourite pass-time.  A pot bellied gentleman, with quite snobbish ways, ordered the food.  It was clear from his behavior that he was the one, receiving the guest.  As the waiter was moving away, he called him again and with a lot of attitude, added, “Aur tomato soup ke saath woh TOSS bhi le aanaa”.

I took me some time to understand what toss he wanted.  Well, he wanted the Bread Toast. 

We, jolly Indians do not speak the Queen’s English; nor do we speak Kings Hindi or any other Indian language..for that matter.  Dialects change here with every district and it is a pleasure and sometimes a surprise to note the little but interesting variations.  I admit I could hardly understand my grandma’s Bangla!  And my hubby tells me which is ‘Tam Brahm Tamil’ and which is a ‘Typical Madras’ Tamil when we watch some Tamil movie together.

I was brought up in Ranchi, which was a part of Bihar, then.  My mother refused to learn Hindi on the pretext that she will blissfully remain unaware of any bad words the neighbours would mouth, although with time, she did pick up bits and pieces of it: only bits and pieces.  My father, on the other hand, took to local style of Hindi with much élan.  So, he would break into those ‘Jaibey karenge” and “Khaibe Karenge” with no mercy.

My mother should receive some kind of Premchand Award for Hindi or so..!  She would address my boy-classfriends as ‘Anindita ke Dost” and my girl-class friends as ‘Anindita kee Dosti!

Once I overheard her saying this timeless sentence to the girl who helped us with the domestic chores, “Tumhara Uncle bahut achcha badboo waalaa chaawal laaya”.  My mother’s audience rolled and roared with laughter.

But my mother’s spirit was not to be dimmed!  She still continues to say ‘Dal-Chaal’ for ‘Dal Chawal’ and that makes me feel she is going to serve raw uncooked rice (Chaal refers to the uncooked rice in Bangla).  She asked my Tamil father-in-law once , “Shombar achcha hua?” She was actually seeking feedback on the Sambhar she had prepared.  My father-in-law took time to understand it and now refers to Sambhar as Somvaar and plain Daal as Mangalvar, for my mother’s benefit J J

My father-in-law, himself, has his own credentials.  He speaks the Vivid Bharti and Bollywood Hindi. He told me once, “Unn dino Ravi-vaar ko film dekhne ke liye hamaare ghar mein huzoom lagti thi”.  He sometimes complains of ‘Julaab’ and still gets the Tarkari from the Bazaar.  (Well, we do still refer to veggies as Tarkari in Bangla but in Hindi, it is quite a long lost word.)  So one day he said, “Tarkari lekar aa raha tha, dekha faatak par santri khade hain”.  He also gets ‘Achchi Baas waali chawal’ from market and when he met me for the first time, he wanted to be sure that I really liked his son.  So, in a very filmy tone, he asked me, “Kya tum uss-se mohabbat kartee ho?”

Raising toasts to the AIR, he loves to listen to ‘Vidhva Bharti’ / विधवा भारती (he loves to twist the names) and one day made me laugh as he broke into his own twisted version, “Yeh mera prem patra Phaarkar..tum naraaz na hona’.

My meighbour whose name is Ranganayaki has been nick named as Nayaki by her family.  For many days my mother would mistake her name as Nightie.  L

Once in West Bengal, I was talking about the responsibilities of a farmer’s Board.  I enquired how they refer to Chairperson in Bangla.  The answer was, “Oi paati Banglaaye Chairman ke President boli” (We refer to Chairman as President, in our colloquial Bangla).

Yes, many of the English words are now part of Hindi vocabulary.  So we provide ‘Motivation’ not ‘Utpreran’ and conduct ‘Monitoring’, not ‘Anushravan’.  It is like, “Anushravan kya hota hai….hindi mein bolo na Monitoring…..”

During one of my first visits to villages in the Malwa (MP), I had this interesting incident.  As I finished my discussions with some women of a household, I asked for leave. The said, “Baitho Didi.”  I sat down but again told them that I really had to leave, it is time.  They reperated, “Baitho Didi.” I was surprised and a bit irritated too.  I wondered, “Were they about to serve tea again? Why are they asking me to sit?”  Only much later I realized that “Baitho” is the way they say “Bye”.  Like, “Esho” in Bangla.

During some of those initial village meetings, when sometimes it would get quite noisy or agitated, I would often request, “Arey…Shant ho jaao Bhabhi…”.  And Shant Ho Jana in Malwa is ‘Bhagwan ke pyaare ho jaanaa’.  In Gujarat, the death is referred to as ‘Off thai Giu.’

It is interesting and sometimes hilarious to experience these local diversions which only add colours to our lives.  My mother, who is a plump lady was walking by some flower vendors near a temple.  A guy, with a lot of respect called, “Moti Ben, phool le jaao’.  Mother’s face turned puple with anger.  What an audacious guy he is, she thought.  I later explained that Moti Ben is Badi Behan.

People from some parts of Saurashtra has this habit of saying a sentence in both Gujarati and English punctuated with an ‘Etle ke..’.  So, “Aa hamaari potaani sanstha etle ke own organisation chhe.’

So while we take a ‘Jummevari’ for our own luggage in MP, we also count to ‘Gunnis’ (19) and ‘Guntiss’ (29).  We ‘helai di’ (Fele di—throw away) the rotten veggies in Tripura while have distinct rule for greeting ‘Pranam’ and ‘Namaste’ in UP (when and to whom).  Language is also like the Dosa which has a different recipe at different places and referred to Dhosa, Dosha or even Daunsa in different places. 

So let us enjoy this colorful rainbow of dialect which will make our life’s’ journey all the more enjoyable and I am sure I will be able to add some more to this post as time passes by…..

Rani's Keeper

It was a cold rainy and windy morning when he let Rani fly. The rains ploughed the wet ground and Raka stood there, threw a glance at the angry clouds and let Rani take its course.

Rani had been with Raka since last five years. The pristine white dove was a messenger from his beloved, the beautiful, doe eyed Noori, the daughter of the clan leader. Noori, brought up within the confines of the patriarchal household, was never familiar with the world that existed beyond the windows of her little room. The great Rann stretched for miles and she wondered what it would be like, to run across the dunes, hide from her father and cross the desert, to a newer world, if any.

During lonely nights she longed to hear her mother’s voice among the twinkling stars. Her mother had become one of those stars just after Noori took birth. That is what was explained to her, by her grandmother. After her grandmother left to join the stars, the shroud of loneliness covered her and she remained inside it, never knowing the smell of the rain on the ground.

Raka, the camel keeper delivered provisions to the clan leader’s house. They were just in their teens when Raka and Noori first met. Raka followed his father to the daily chores at Noori’s house and the two eyes met and the time took the youngsters to a different plane. They met every day, with a shy glance, at Noori’s house. Her father was too confident of the boundaries laid by him and was oblivion to the lights dancing in his young daughter’s eyes whenever Raka came in.

In the huge mansion guarded by high walls, Noori and Raka did not have difficulty in finding solitude for those few moments when the love blossomed.

Noori’s pet bird Rani then played messengers to the lovers. They sent little love messages to each other, while the world went on without any knowledge of the love that was now ready to come to a full bloom.

But…. Noori was married off. She was already 15 and it was a concern for the honorable Sardar to have his daughter unmarried even at this age. The two could not utter a word and in no time their world came down crashing under the harsh storm of providence.

Before leaving for her new home, Noori sent Rani forever, to Raka.

And Rani stayed with him. For Raka, Rani symbolized everything that Noori was. Childhood love, youthful desires, lost companionship and woes of a bleeding heart.

Rani stayed with Raka throughout the years. Rani stayed with Raka when Noori crossed the desert to build a new home. Rani stayed with him when Noori devoted herself to her marital duties. Rani stayed with Raka when Noori was sent back to her father’s home as a punishment for bearing two baby girls within three years. Noori’s family could no more take the ‘misfortune’ the bride had brought to the family by bearing girl children. So she was sent back.

Raka built little hopes about asking Noori’s hands in matrimony from the Sardar. He also willed to take care of the little girls. Only if…only if..the Sardar agreed.

Only Rani saw the delicate heart beneath the tough exterior of the dark tall rustic camel rearer.

Raka would lie under the scorching sun waiting for Noori while Rani gave him company. He would lie under the stars and hope Noori would one day break all bondages and run into his arms and he would take her away from all her worries. Rani seemed to know all that.

But Noori never came. She submitted to the shackles gifted to her by her life. And one day Noori left again, once again to her husband’s home after some negotiations between the two clans.

The empty heart of Raka kept beating like drums and Rani heard it all.

And one day clouds gathered and like an army, broke through the vast Rann. The big raindrops ploughed out the wounds from the heart of the earth.

Then the news travelled fast, like a lightning, through the dunes to Raka that his beloved was now one among those stars in the sky. She left the unjust world, soon after making her family proud; after giving birth to a healthy boy.

Raka stood atop a dune, tried to scream and tear the earth and the skies. From somewhere Rani flew to his shoulders. Did he have a message still to be sent to his beloved?

He let it fly…..across the Rann, to the horizon….for good.

“Good bye and God Bless my Rani….till we meet someday, among those stars”

May God bless the messenger

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

Kitchen King ho……ya Kitchen Queen..

Picture this:

Wife is in the middle of finishing her Sunday late afternoon kitchen chores, wanting badly to rush under the shower, running up and down, with her eyes on the wall clock and sleeves of the already ‘wet-with-sweat’ nightie wiping off the stubborn sweat on the forehead that keeps coming.

It is a sultry, hot Kolkata afternoon with the exhaust fan totally gone and surely she wants to catch up some nap on a Sunday afternoon.

Hubby arrives to the relief of the wife (they can now quickly have the lunch and have a nap). But her hope is short lived. Hubby is here with his old lost and found class friends whom he met at the bus-stop corner and has invited them for lunch. To add to the misery, he says, “I just got these fish which my friends liked, I think some fish fry will go very well with the mango daal which you have prepared”.

A volcano erupts from the top of HER head but she is still silent, offers some sharbat to the guests and excuses herself quickly to her bed room to change her clothes while showering the volcano ash on her children who are stuck to the television. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Only you have the right to lie down and I am supposed to only work?”

Friends, I am not into any debate on gender roles. I intend to note down some of the funny kitchen tales I have eye-witnessed.

My Ma and Baba had the unsaid rules written very clear. On week days Ma did the vegetable and fish shopping and on weekends Baba got the vegetable along with the ‘Maangsho’ (Chicken/ Mutton). My darling dad would always return, beaming while narrating to his wife, how he outsmarted the mutton seller who tried to sell lamb’s meat . “Bhera r maangsho dichchilo beta…aami bujhe gechi…aami dekhe shune khaashi enechi!” I don’t have suitable words to explain this sentence, honestly. I don’t find a suitable English for the Bangla ‘Beta’. (It is not ‘My Son’, please).

Baba would often ask, just as soon as he finished his Sunday breakfast, “Ki torkari aanbo, bole daao”. (Tell me what vegetables should I get). My mother would first mumble to herself, “Pete gelei shuru” (she meant that he did not have the patience; just as the breakfast is finished, he wants to go). Then she would announce from the kitchen, “Look in the refrigerator and decide what you should get”. To that my wise and patient dad would reply, “Okay, I will wait, tell me when YOU have the time”. That would make my Ma all the more angry and she would march to the fridge, all the way listing the vegetables which needed to be bought. Dad’s mission accomplished!

On the days when it really got late and Ma would be really tired, Baba would, by his own fate, return from the market with tiny little fish (which needs a lot of effort cleaning). My mother would shower all her anger on the vessels and the sink-tap while mumbling, “Khaao…rosher khaaoaa khaao…!”, while I stood at a distance and offer any help she needed!

Well, this gap between the ‘Kitchen manager’ and the ‘Gatherer’ transcend geography and generation.

Ofcourse, in Bengal, the Babus love to go to ‘Bajaar’ early in the morning before going to office so their wife could finish some cooking before they left for ‘Duty’. “Bhaat kheye jaaoaa”, in other words, “Having rice before leaving home” is an important event, an auspicious one too! One should never leave home without eating, if you leave home empty stomach, you are bound to remain hungry throughout the day!

The kitchen rules at the Iyer household is more participatory. Mr and Mrs Iyer both wear the sleeves of the Kitchen Manager. Mr Iyer loves to shop…and stock: at a whole sale rate. So there comes 5 Kg of tomato for a family of two. “We anyway need so much of tomato”. It is no use attempting to explain that rotten tomatoes are of no use! Mr Iyer’s hands would fish out most rotten and ripe bananas, tomatoes and potatoes from the seller and this continued to remain the reason for arguments between the happily married couple.

Well, it was another time when Mr and Mrs Iyer lived in a plush, large house of their own. Later when they shifted to the Pigeon House in Mumbai to join their son and daughter-in-law, old habits of Mr Iyer transported itself with him.

In the pigeon house of a home, Mr Iyer found his Military Connection and started stocking the home with supplies from his Canteen. So six Harpics, ten body soaps, Kilos of dry fruits, shavings creams, talcum powders, spices and much more started occupying the little space. It only made the two Iyer ladies madder. “Dad, there is no war declared, we can buy the supplies every month” the daughter in law pleaded, into deaf ears.

Mr Singh and family are ardent Shiv worshippers. On Shiv Ratri, the entire family observes fast. So while going home for lunch, he decided to carry 5 kilos of bananas, 1 kilo for each member, according to him. His two sons, thinking on similar lines, carried 2-3 kilos bananas each, while they were returning home. The daughter-in-law, being the kitchen manager, bought another 4 kilos. So, here is a family who think alike! Happy FASTING, Singh Saab!

I am sure there are these interesting anecdotes in each one of our lives; while I keep gathering these from my family and friends, I really need to sweat it out this weekend to make space for the 75 kilos rice that has been ordered by my family members to accommodate in my match box size kitchen, wish me luck friends and Happy Space Management.

My Puja diary......and hers

This autumn, one morning, my daughter woke up and walked into the balcony, stood there for some time, breathing in the fresh crisp morning air.   I myself was in the ‘special Puja’ mood, which every Bengali is, a few weeks before the Durga Puja.

With the clear sky, the autumn air, we can hear the footsteps of Sharodiya Durga Puja.

As I looked at my daughter, I wondered what she is felt.  Did my child feel the similar craze, as I would feel, as a child, just before the Puja? Did her heart too sing, “Pujo Aashche?” Did she smell the Shiuli in the air and did she feel the soothing cold? What was she looking at?

Pujo and its arrival has never been the same, after I left my home town about sixteen years back!  As a child,   every single vein in my body would sing to the tune of ‘Pujo Aashche’.  My childhood Puja was marked with the arrival of pleasant autumn in the Chota Nagpu plateau.   The sky would be so clear and in the little town of Ranchi, I could hear the festival arriving, each day. 

The weather would itself tell us what vehicle Durga Ma would be using for arriving during the Sharodiya Puja.  If there were heavy rains during the monsoons, we knew she would arrive on a boat; during the years when we witnessed storms, we were sure Ma Durga would arrive on a horse-chariot.  That was what our childhood fantasy about Puja, was like!

It was also about buying new clothes, piling them up in one bundle in the ‘Godrej’, marvelling at the hoardings of Bata shoe (Pujoe chai notun juto), also buying a nice pair. I remember my parents drawing our little steps on papers for buying our foot-wear, before they left for shopping, sometimes without us.

 Planning the design we wanted for our dresses and buying (once a year) those much desired make-up stuff.  Mother’s special sari would also be bought during the Puja.

The annual visit to ‘Rampuriya’ cloth store in father’s scooter and coming home happy with the shopping was one of the best memories I have.  Ma would stich pretty dresses for me and my dolls and when I was a bit grown up, the dress material would go to the tailor.

Whenever we had visitors, we would proudly show off our dresses to them.  “Eta Mama diyeche, eta boro ma  diyeche”.  And we would keep aside the best one for Ashtami.

The rough sound of Radio-waves going up and down at the start of Mahalaya, has a special sweet memory which no smooth You Tube relay can replace.  In the sleepy dark night, Birendra Krishna’s voice would awaken our heart, soul and wash us with craving for Aagomoni.  We would sleep and also be awake, while the Mahalaya played through the dark into the sunrise.

On Ashtami days, we would take the Prasad Thali to the Puja Pandal and later bring it back; this task delegated by mother was a matter of pride, in itself.  Durga Puja also marked our independence since we could go Pandal hopping with friends and eat some of the ‘Phuchka’ or ‘Chat’.  My mother’s bare feet, adorned with Red aalta,  walking towards the Pujo Pandal brightened the Ashtami mornings.  The Navami would bring with it a stint of sadness that the festivity would now end.  Dashami mornings were spent helping Mother with the Nimki frying.   Me along with my father and brother, cousin, would cut the Nimkis neatly while mother fried and stored them for ‘Vijaya Dashami’.  After witnessing Ravan-Poda in the evening, the postcards were filled up with wishes to the relatives.

Small though was our neighbourhood Puja Pandal, we always returned to it even when we shifted house to some other neighbourhood. I have never again felt this level of enthusiasm about Puja, once I left the little home town, no not even in a bigger place in West Bengal.  In the last few years it was as if Durga Puja started and ended before I even realised, before I even felt ‘Pujo-Pujo’!

I kept trying to fit-in my childhood experiences to the frame of every city, every neighbourhood I have been and it only saddened me more, filling me with yearning for those days.  I tried to recreate the same experience for my child too but it made me more nostalgic. 

So, that autumn morning when I saw my child taking in the air, I thought, did she have the same feeling about Puja? Did she have a similar sentiment which I brought back from my home town, preserved and carried within me wherever I went?

I always tried to give her the joy of buying new dresses during Puja but found that she did not care for preserving those for the festival, as, unlike me, she gets to wear new dresses every now and then.  She does not have to wait for Puja. She does not have a long holiday, so a visit to Puja Pandal is not ‘non-negotiable’.  So, how can I recreate the same Puja for her? I always wondered!

Taking in the crisp air, she said to me, “Amma, I will be so happy when the last period ends today, for this will mark the beginning of my Navratri.  When do we go to buy some new Chania Cholis and shoe for me?”

So, she was waiting for Navratri to begin! And from then, she counted every moment for the Navratri, decked up in her best for Garba, enjoyed the Durga Puja Bhog and on Navami, she said, “Let us enjoy since this is the last day”.

My craving for my childhood Durga Puja came to a pause.  It dawned upon me that my child is building her own memories around her life.  It is not essential for me to fit in my piece of memory in to hers, she has her own set to put together, I need not Script her memories as per my own childhood memory.

So, she enjoyed the Navratri.  Is she happy? Yes.  Am I happy? Now, yes, certainly.  The moment I acknowledged that my own memories are precious and I may keep them safe within me, without trying to fit them in to the present, I was happy.  I have decided to enjoy these ten days, the way it is celebrated, wherever I am, in space and time.

The Autumn wind? Yes, it will come back next year and take my hands back to my beloved birth place but will safely land me back to where I am, at present.

Happy Dusshera to all my friends.

Tahrir.......

Sharon was startled at the shrill sound of the phone ringing in the living room. She threw a glance at the bed side clock. 12 midnight. Who could have possibly called her at this hour?

It was Jacob on the other side. “Sharon, there is a news! You really need to burn your midnight oil and finish this story to be published tomorrow in the early morning edition. You see, I just heard that Rustam Mallik passed away half an hour back. Considering the stature of this great poet, our newpaper really needs to do a lot of justice to him. A marvellously written, well deserved tribute to this great man, thats what I want. And only you can write it! So hurry up and in next two hours send me the first draft. Get all the information you want about him and just do it!”

Sharon’s heart missed a beat. She was surprised and shocked. No, not because Jacob had called her at this weird hour! She was used to this. What shocked her was Rustam Mallik’s sudden death.

And fate had chosen none but her to write a ‘marvellously written, well deserved tribute’ for him!


Rustam Mallik was in news only last week when he received his award from the Head of the State and then he and his wife had appeared in a talk show. His second wife!


In the talk show, Rustam had let his heart out about his view towards the simplicity of life, of his love for Shayari and dedication to many social causes. His wife told the world how she is the luckiest woman on earth to have Rustam as her life partner!

Rustam Mallik was one of the highest regarded poets in the modern times and everyone said that he had a heart of gold and God dwelled in his pen! His poems on the social issues were part of student’s texts and he was the recipient of many prestigious awards, national and international.

So it was only proper for Sharon to search all the articles about him and write down many good words for the departed soul! Jacob knew that she would do justice to this work for the newspaper. Jacob knew her talent very well!

What Jacob did not know was Sharon had a sea of information on Rustam’s life! In her little library, Sharon had collected paper clippings of whatever news she could find on Rustam’s life. She had all the stories which the world would need to mourn the passing away of their dear poet.

What the world did not know was that Sharon carried in her heart, an entirely different saga of Rustam’s life!


She had met Rustam when she was a little girl, of only 6 yrs. Rustam was quite indifferent to this little girl, who tried to reach out to this poet, once. She wanted to hold his hands but Rustam hurried away.

She feebly called after him, “Daddy.....”

Sharon’s mother took her away. Time out! She could not spend more time with her daddy.

Sharon’s mother had met Rustam when she was a demure, young college student. She missed her classes to listen to him at the state sponsored mushayraas. She gradually fell in love with him and did not even know when she entered his life.


Rustam was a married man. Although Rustam and Sharon’s mother remained in the relation, he took all the care not to let the world have even a hint of it.


Mrinalini was too much in love with him to resist him. She was afloat a boat in the ocean of her own emotions and she let Rustam sail her away.


The tempest started when Mrinalini got pregnant with their child. Rustam threw temper, broke the wine bottles at Mrinalini’s house and also injured her badly when she refused to let go off the baby.


Rustam suddenly walked out of Mrinalini’s life, vouching never to come back again! Sharon was born in a convent where Mrinalini had taken a shelter. She later worked at the convent school and raised Sharon.


By the time Sharon was 5, her queries about her Daddy disturbed Mrinalini. Rustam had threatened her enough not to reveal Sharon’s parentage to the world.


Only when she turned six, did Mrinalini promise to plan a small meeting with her father. That was the only birthday gift little Sharon wanted. Mrinalini had requested a brief meeting and Rustam agreed with the condition that the meeting should not last 5 min.


That morning Sharon woke up at the crack of the dawn, bathed and dressed in her best and dressed up her dolls and Teddy too. They needed to see her Daddy too!

Mrinalini held the child’s hand and patiently waited outside the auditorium where Rustam had one of his shows. After the programme he came out and Sharon gathered her dolls and Teddy to meet him. And it was over before she knew it. She had dreamt Rustam taking her in his arms, giving gifts and hugging her. But he did not even hold her little hands and left the child surprised and weighed down with the desire for more.

Mrinalini never seemed to even recognize Sharon’s longing to be with her father. As she grew, her madness for having her parents together, also grew. She never dared to let her heart out before her mother. By then Mrinalini was a completely different woman from the fragile girl in love that she once was.

So Sharon grew up without her father. She kept collecting all the news she could, about him and spent all her pocket money buying his books. When she was a teen ager, she stole herself away from school to hear him at the stage, whenever he was in town; just like her mother did when she was in college.


Sharon was a silent observer of Rustam’s life. When he separated from his wife, Sharon hoped he would return to Mrinalini but Rustam married a beautiful and successful theatre actress and told the world that they were the happiest couple in the world.


When in college, Sharon became bolder and more confident. She wrote to Rustam and forced him to be in contact with her, albeit secretly. His wife and Sharon’s mother were kept in the dark about the acquaintance that was secretly building up. There was mutual promise to keep it in the dark.


Sharon would wait at the entrance and exit during Rustam’s programmes and their eyes would meet only for a while and these moments were enough for Sharon to carry on with her life. She did long to be in his arms, to question the injustice done to her, she wanted him more than anything else but neither he nor Mrinalini ever had the hint of it.


Then Mrinalini left the world. She asked him whether he could be there for the last rites but Rustam refused.


After Mrinalini, Sharons’ life became a vacuum as well as a liberated sky! She could now follow Rustam without being caught by her mother; only Rustam was indifferent once again and slowly stopped all the contacts with her.


Sharon never stopped reading his books and all the articles which talked about the benevolent social work Rustam was doing. He opened orphanages in two cities, was the founder of a blind school, was the director of Association for retiring poets and many more.


Rustam’s life ended before Sharon could know. No, she did not feel the tears wanting to flood her eyes. She now had to write a dedicated tribute to the great poet, who had been a great person and a great social worker in his life.


Kaise karoon bayaan inaayat teri
Hazaaron karam kiye toone
Mere tahrir mein jo na sama sakein
Itne afsaane diye toone....


Sharon took out her files and began her work. The story is yet to come to an end......



Anindita Baidya
16 July 12

Images: From the internet

The final rendezvous

‘Ann.......!!!”

The silence was broken by a faint call from somewhere very far. But it was very distinct and she recognised the voice immediately. And the realisation sent a chilling wave down her spine!

“It couldn’t be him! How on earth is it possible?”




Samay ke uss paar se bhi awaaz deta hai koi?

Tera naam doosre jaha se bhi pukaartaa hai koi?

Annelise ignored the voice and treaded ahead. It was a dense forest and the cold windy morning in January made it difficult to move very fast.

She again heard the voice, “Ann..........................!!!!”

She almost started sweating in spite of the harsh cold wind. Annelise now decided to hurry back to her resort.

The resort manager had informed her that the beautiful Sunrise Point in this part of the Shivalik hills was closed for tourists, since last thirty years! The tourism department had sealed this part and notified the place as ‘UNSAFE’.

She very well knew, why!

Annelise tried to shrug off the thought of the voice calling out her name. Her very own name, ‘Ann’. And there has been only one person in the world who ever called her by that name!

Sahir! Only Sahir!

Sahir and Annelise, the star struck lovers, the prince and princesses of a fairy tale love story, a tragic love story.

They both belonged to very rich families. The two families in the same neighbourhood had built fortune over the generations and their wealth, splendour and dazzle could speak only a small part of the enormous power and strength they had built in the society.

And so, undoubtedly, the highly regarded two families could not allow the two lovers, belonging to different culture and religion, belong to each other. They were like the two banks of the same river, nothing in the world could allow them to meet.

There were tears, there were pleadings, there was violence, house-arrest and unlimited pain and woes at both the sides. Ann and Sahir, however, could not bring their families into a mutual peaceful contract. Soon Ann’s powerful brothers arranged a hasty matrimony for their sister, ignoring cruelly her tears and heartache.

It was with the help of a cousin that Ann managed to sneak out of the busy house and meet Sahir at a remote lane. They had decided to board the next train to the neighbouring station. But hell soon broke loose and both the families discovered that the lovers had left! There was a chase, a bad chase, a long chase and Sahir and Ann headed straight towards the forest, with no idea where the road would lead to! After an hour of chase, they clearly spotted Ann’s brothers and Sahir’s family running towards them like a group of mad elephants. It had not taken long for them to decide the final fate! They looked at each other and knew what they had to do.

In another moment, the two lovers jumped off the high cliff, down, down the rocky hill, rolling past high trees, thorny bushes and steep rocky edges.

Fate had different plans for each of them.

Ann was rescued by a group of trekkers. They tried to help Sahir too but he did not live long enough to even reach the hospital. Ann had remained in coma for a day and much after she had regained her senses, that she actually realised what a crooked game her fate had played!

Death had embraced Sahir while her own life had deceived her and death had deserted her!

After recovery, Ann left the town for good. She lived the years in her own captivity, in some lonely hilly village and had never returned to her homeland. She punished herself for not having crossed the boundary of life and death along with Sahir.

Thirty years later, she planned a rendezvous with the long lost moment and landed up in a small tourist cottage, not having even informed her family. She had borrowed the cottage owner’s car and had headed towards this place, knowing very well that treading inside was forbidden.

Her thoughts were once again shattered by the same faint call, ‘Ann....’ and she now started perspiring badly on her forehead. In the almost freezing cold, she felt very hot with her cardigan and shawl around her. She tried to walk faster but the thick fog made viewing very difficult. Her own legs seemed like heavy pillars and hands trembled badly.

And then....her heart almost stopped beating and she tumbled over a rock. About twenty feet away, on a rock, she saw her scarf, her very own red silk scarf which had her name beautifully embroidered in blue, at one edge.

Ann had tied this scarf around Sahir’s neck just before they plunged themselves downhill. Her cousin had informed that Sahir was buried along with this scarf; a small, last piece of regard for his love, shown by his repenting family.

Ann was in no way looking forward to any more chilling surprises. She ran towards her car and drove it very fast.

The car pulled along recklessly through the forest, cutting through small herbs. Her hands were shivering so badly and had almost lost control.

In all her panic, she missed the ‘Forbidden path’ signboard on the way and drove into the path, still sweating and fighting hard to look through the thick fog. She had avoided looking back or sideways while driving. Some vehicle lights visible through the rear view mirror caught her attention and she looked back while driving at the same speed.

She did not notice the deep valley just ahead and in no time Ann’s car along with her, dived into the deep valley, knocking against the rocks, tall trees, thorny bushes and steep rocky edges........!!!!!