snippets #1: The time bygone

There was a red bicycle. A shorty, fit for the naive kids to learn cycling. My maternal grand uncle had gifted the bicycle to my brother on his 5th birthday. The gift turned out to be a boon for the other neighbourhood kids as most of the interested ones learnt to cycle in that very red, shorty and humble one. After its varied interesting adventures, the cycle was kept in our verandah and I grew up to a 9 year old seeing it stationed in one position until one day Baba came with a pair of balancers. They were fitted to the either side of the rear wheel. Baba summoned me and presented the boon again. My joy knew no bounds. Every evening, be it a hot one, rainy one or a cool one, my red cycle will be out in the playground. Well, the rider was still struggling with her pedalling skills, though. Then a day came when off went the balancers and the cycle sped and wandered from one corner of the neighbourhood to the other. The red bicycle now got an elder pal who got a resting place just next to it. The pal was a straight handled mountain bike which was bought for my brother as he needed one to go to school. After a few years, I, too started learning to ride in that big one. The problem with the mountain bike was one could not do 'half-pedalling' and one would have to take it all the way to a slopy land of the playground to brace herself up to the lofty seat. Well, it took a long time to tame the bike for the young one while the elder one happily rode it to school. The young one loved to get 'double carried', though and would wait outside her school get to look for the bike rider coming to pick her up.

Days went by. Some one came to request for the red shorty for her kid. We gave it away. Little did we know that the red shorty won't come back to us again. With it, its old pal also went. Don't know what really happened to it, maybe it ended up in a recycle garage after stumbling for a few times. They went away. Their first rider also went for higher studies. The vacant space of the verandah was taken by a second hand ladies' bicycle. When I saw it, I fumed. I was not ready for a second hand. I detested it and started walking to school. The cycle sulked alone till my Baba started riding it. I too, soon followed the course as I realized by that time, that Baba wanted to celebrate my adolescenthood by gifting me a cycle like the way he did for my brother, but he could not afford a new one as he took a voluntary retirement from his service because his company wanted him to.

Of the storms, the green mangoes and the company quarters in MAMC, Durgapur

One day, while coming back from work, I, like other usual days, started hunting for an autorickshaw which would transport me to the nearest metro station. The satiated autorickshaws raced against each other. I got a seat in none of them. A cold breeze came by and momentarily dried my perspiring face. I looked up. The tall trees were swaying their heads. I frowned. Is it a storm rising? Just then, an autoricksaw driver peeped out from his vehicle, and said,"Didi, boshun taratari, jhor uthche.(A storm's rising, please be seated quickly)" The driver was in a hurry to reach his destination. As he sped on, he exclaimed that mangoes would be falling due to this storm. He sounded hopeful about reaching his home as fast as he can just in case some mangoes are still there strewn on the ground near his house, waiting to be picked up by him!
The enthusiasm of this man took me back to my long lost days.

In Durgapur, we stayed in company quarters. An interesting feature of the ground floor quarters was the open space around the boundary limits and the buildings. All the residents who stayed in the ground floor quarters, planted different varieties of plants all around the year. My paternal grandfather planted three mango trees in the open space around our quarter. All these mango trees bore a plenty of fruits and during the Kalbaishakhi Storms, the mango rescue team of our house (my mother, my brother and I) would stand in guard near the mango trees with sacks and bags. Our motto was to stop the street urchins from getting nearer to our mango trees. When the mangoes started falling down, we would run around to collect them while my father would enjoy the whole scene from the windows. After braving through the rains, when we got back inside, our faces beamed to estimate the total collection of the mangoes. It was always close to four or five Kgs. The very next day, my mother would send us out in the neighbourhood to distribute the mangoes to every household. 

The most important ritual which followed after the mango collection was preparing and devouring "Aam makha" (A type of raw mango savoury seasoned with salt and red chilli powder). One of my neighbourhood sisters was a specialist in preparing "aam makha". Many a summer afternoons were spent in preparing the coveted dish and eating right after. As I write about it after so many years, I can still feel the taste and start to drool. Oh my Childhood! I miss you so dearly......

Rustic Rinchenpong

I tend to seek refuge in the Himalayas. The lofty ranges, the green trees, the valleys and the moors of the Himalayas helps me to rediscover myself again and again.

 Running away to the mighty mountains gives me solace everytime the hard routines of life rebukes me and intimidates me with its fiery red eyes.
A few months ago, along with my family members, I went to the sleepy Himalayan settlement of Rinchenpong in the western part of Sikkim. The entire region seemed to be well-adorned with flowers to celebrate the spring carnival, - the small, simple and pretty forget-me-nots, the Red Lillies, the Arum Lillies, the Bleeding Hearts,
the Poppies, the Foxgloves, the Salvias, the Pansies, the Daisies, the Poinsettias, the spiny Rhododendrons, the Orchids and many unknowns added dashes of colours and made the region more verdant and vibrant.






 Photography Courtesy: Avik Das.

 After a 5 hour-long journey from New Jalpaiguri, all of us were quite tired. The limbs wanted to recline in the comforts of the hotel we were staying in but the heart wanted to wander around.

 As a sincere listener of heart on all occasions, I went out for a stroll. The road headed towards the unknown. I took short strides ahead. The Buddhist prayer flags greeted me and fluttered in the cool breeze with absolute glee. Some unknown birds chirped about their daily chores.

As I moved ahead, I heard the crickets singing an unknown song. Perhaps, a song of melancholy, or, perhaps a welcome song for a two-legged animal who calls herself civilized. The Pine trees stood tall and protected the flower shrubs, creepers, grassy and mossy green carpets like the responsible elders. I stopped and took in deep breaths - the abundant and unleashed pure air to help me go on for a few more months until the schedule of my next refuge. The air which I took in had a sweet, slightly pungent, intoxicating and wild fragrance. Was it of the Pines? I really don't know. The fragrance had the quality or vice to turn anyone to a life-long wanderer. The fragrance mocked the civilization and its advancements and laughed devilishly at the attempts to harness its source. I started climbing up a flight of mossy stairs. They led me to a place where slightly crowded settlement of Kaluk waved and beckoned from a distance.

I quietly told myself, "maybe next day" and headed back to the Hotel.

Next day, we went to our Rhododendron adventure and came back to Rinchenpong late in the evening. We couldn't explore much of Rinchenpong on that day. The Kanchenjungha, too, did not smile at us at all.

The next morning we woke up to a bright, warm, sunny weather. As we peeped outside of our glassy window, the Kanchenjungha smiled warmly. She stood tall with all her pristine and spotlessly white mighty peaks, flanked by the Mt. Kumbhakarna from the left, the Simvo twins and Siniolchu, guarded her from the right. We couldn't hold ourselves back and went out for a hike down the slopes towards Tato Pani.

The entire region seemed to be having a gala time, with the tree tops lightly swaying their heads, the flowers dotting the green slopes and the children playing in the football ground basking in the warm sun.Our sojourn could not be carried on further as our tummies growled with hunger. We headed back for lunch. The lunch platter was an amazing one. The 'gundruk' soup made with locally available ingredients and the dried shrimp curry were absolutely delicious.

After lunch, we, the younger turks of the group, instantly made a plan to hike up 3 Kilometers to Kaluk.The road was a smooth, pitched one with the Pine guardians strictly guarding each of its curvaceous turns. The walk was a pleasant one. We took relaxed strides ahead. The intoxicating fragrance went along with us. The quaint mountain scenes elevated us to speechless appreciators. But, frankly speaking, Kaluk failed to live up to our expectations.

What more can a crowded settlement, crowded shops and crowded luxurious resorts with people hankering over Kanchenjungha's sight from the rooftops offer to the ones who were smitten by the simplicity of Rinchenpong? With a deep despise we turned down on the left side of the unkempt road towards a village called Boom. The pathfinding plackard showed that it was just 1.75 Kilometers down Kaluk. Whether we really wanted to explore the place or not, I don't know. In a state of trance, we moved ahead. A loud rumble in the clouds above us pushed us back to our senses. We had to return because we were not equipped for the sudden rainfall. A friendly cab driver favoured us by transporting us back to our Rinchenpong hotel.

The conventions of the civic life we are used to, threw us back to the din of the city. Our workplaces waited for our attendance. Honestly, I did not wanted to come back so early. I just wanted to stay back and seep in the flavour of the place slowly just like a wine enthusiast seeps in some exotic old wine. I really long to go back to the pitch dark nights illuminated by the humble lights of the mountain hamlets. I long to go back and spend a night under the stars and several known and unknown constellations. I long to go back to the life of a rambler roaming around the mountains and going on a high after inhaling the intoxicating fragrance of the wild forests. Yes, there's no escape from the mountains, Mr. Ruskin Bond. I can't but totally agree to the words you spoke with such a conviction,

"It is always the same with mountains. Once you have lived with them for any length of time, you belong to them. There is no escape."

– Ruskin Bond, Rain in the Mountains: Notes from the Himalayas

Photography Courtesy: Avik Das

How to reach Rinchenpong and where to stay: 

i) Reach New Jalpaiguri Jn on any NJP bound train. 

ii) Take a cab directly to Rinchenpong. It would take about 5 or 5.5 hours to reach the place.

iii) We booked Royal Dewachen Hotel for our stay. Owned by Mr. Debanu Basu Mallick. Professionally best of the services with a humane touch.

    Contact Details: 

https://www.facebook.com/people/Debanu-Basu-Mullick-Rinchenpong/100008888498300

Insensitivities

One can feel the range of insensitivity imbued in some people around the one when he or she falls ill. When you would feel like sleeping they will shout and scream as if the dacoits have purposely chosen your house to break into. When you would have your medicines and think about a moment of peace to contemplate, they will break into peels of laughter as if some one is cracking live jokes. Your close ones would advise you to ignore the uneducated ones who cannot empathize with a sick inmate in their house. Huh! Did I say empathize? They will definitely show pseudo-empathy and roll their eyes out in disbelief when you would inform them that you are having homeopathic medicines to cure yourself. What do they tend to receive from this behaviour? The question haunts me.............does education means only to strengthen your power of tolerance? Why should only the educated ones tolerate these literate uneducated ones? Aren't they entitled to a miniscule percent of empathy? What do you think?

You brave against all odds then you get to hear that you had favourable environment to flourish....... You speak your mind then you get to hear that you have to adjust every time..how many shackles would you invent to tie up a success seeking woman? How many? You go on inventing yet she would emerge victorious...yes, yes on every single occasion......this is her pledge to herself....break her wings, tear her soul....yet she will fly and show you how gracefully she can........

ফেলে আসা দিন

পরীক্ষায় বাংলার ইতিহাস
আমি তখন ক্লাস নাইন এ পড়ি। বার্ষিক পরীক্ষা শুরু হয়ে গেছে। সেই সময়ে দুটো বিষয়ের পরীক্ষা একই দিনে নেওয়া হত। এখনো সেই প্রচলন আছে কিনা জানিনা। একদিন সন্ধেবেলায় বই খুলে পড়ছি। পরের দিন ইতিহাস ও বাংলা রচনা ও ব্যাকরণ (বাংলা ফার্স্ট পেপার) পরীক্ষা। মোট দুশো নম্বর। খানিক্ষণ ইতিহাস পড়ার পর মনে হল, আর পড়ে বিশেষ লাভ নেই, এমনিও বানাতে হবে অমনিও বানাতে হবে। নিজেকে পুরাকালের ইতিহাস রচয়িতা মনে করে আপন মনে মাধুরী মিশিয়ে লিখে যেতে হবে পাতার পর পাতা। হঠাৎ মনে হল বাংলায় তো সবই আনসিন আসবে, পড়ে কোন লাভ নেই, তার চেয়ে বরং আনন্দমেলার সংকলন গুলো নিয়ে বসি। গল্পও পড়া হবে আবার রচনা লেখার জন্য কিছু নতুন শব্দভাণ্ডারও তৈরি থাকবে। যেমন ভাবা তেমন কাজ। আনন্দমেলার উপন্যাস গুলো পড়তে শুরু করে দিলাম। দাদা পাশে বসে ছিল। ওকে বলতে হল না, নিজেই বলল মা এলে সতর্ক করে দেবে। মা কে আমরা খুবই ভয় পেতাম, এবং তাঁর নামকরণ করা হয়েছিল হিটলার। সেই বিশেষ নামটি কেবল আমরা ও বাবা জানতেন। কিন্তু শেষরক্ষা হল না। অবাক করে দিয়ে বাবা হাজির হলেন। আমরা পড়াশুনো করবার সময় বাবা খুব একটা আসতেন না। আমাদের প্রতি ওঁর অটুট বিশ্বাস ছিল। দাদা আমাকে সতর্ক করার সুযোগই পেল না। অতর্কিতে আক্রমণ করার ভঙ্গিতে বাবা বললেন," তা তোর না কাল ইতিহাস পরীক্ষা? পড়া তৈরি? আনন্দমেলা পড়ছিস যে" আমি বিন্দুমাত্র ঘাবড়ে না গিয়ে বলেছিলাম, "বাবা, ইতিহাস তো এখান থেকেই তৈরি হয়।" বলে আবার সেই উপন্যাসে মনোনিবেশ করলাম। বাবা হাসি চেপেছিলেন না রেগে গিয়েছিলেন, তা আর মনে নেই। তবে তাঁর স্বভাবসিদ্ধ ভঙ্গিতে (ব্যঙ্গ মিশ্রিত কৌতুক ও কপট রাগ। বাবাকে যাঁরা চেনেন তাঁরা আশাকরি ভাল বুঝতে পারবেন) বলে উঠলেন, "হুমম। তা তো অবশ্যই। তা সেই ইতিহাস লিখে পাশ করবে তো লোকজন? না হলে কিন্তু হিটলার ইতিহাস ফেল রহস্য উদঘাটন করে ফেলবেন। এবং তারপর কি হবে আমি জানিনা।" নাহ। হিটলার আর তলব করেননি। সে যাত্রায় মায়ের হাতের মার থেকে খুব বাঁচা বেঁচে গিয়েছিলাম।

A day of tryst with the myths and lores

The age-old myths and their manifestations do exist in this era of rationality and technical gluttony. Some months ago, I got a chance to walk on the soil where the painters of a forgotten genre are still fighting for their due recognition. They are the humble painters of myths and folklores.

Armed with the natural dyes, they are painting colourful stories told by the folks of the yesteryears. Their bold fingers are incessantly creating finer details on the canvas of their choice – a simple cloth bound “sheets of paper sewn together and sometimes stuck on canvas. Their widths can go from 4 to 14 inches and their length; often 3 feet can exceed 15 feet.” (https://www.deccanfootprints.com/collections/patua-scroll-paintings) They are simply going on creating under the sun for the love of the art without knowing their goals. Well, that’s not true. They know their goal which is to earn a handful at the end of the day so that they can buy food to fill their stomachs and a bottle of local liquor to fill their hearts.

When I visited their village nested in a corner of West Medinipur district of West Bengal, India, a feeling of awe shrouded me all over. People do sketch and paint in their childhood, draw two triangular mountain peaks and a semi-circular rising sun or maybe a rose with a long stem and leaves, but who would have ever thought about revere an art form and make it a religion? I wouldn’t have known about this form of veneration if I didn’t make a visit there. The majority being Muslim by faith, they decided to shun the compartmentalization by taking up stories of hindu mythology and paint them accurately. They have also dropped their ancestral surnames and picked up the surname of ‘Chitrakar’ meaning painter in Bengali, their mother tongue.  

They start their days with decorating the walls of their humble mud houses. When enquired, they put the brightest of their smiles and said that when there are left-over colours, we use them to paint on the walls. While strolling through the kuccha lanes and observing their exhibits, I looked above. The azure sky, green trees, red gravelly soil and the colourful paintings all seemed to be smiling in unison as they were victorious to incite a peaceful riot of colours.

The day melted away to evening. A black drape was put over on all their exhibits by the tip-toing night. We were called for dinner in Bahadur Chitrakar’s house. The house which we saw in the day time was no less than an established, famed art museum. Bahadur himself had painstakingly collected the souvenirs on display in his house by bartering away his own scroll paintings (known as Patachitra in Bengali) to those painters. His semi-permanent house proudly displayed the papyrus paintings, Egyptian artefacts, palm leaf scrolls known as “tala pattachitra” (http://gaatha.com/palm-leaf-pattachitra/) from the neighbouring painters of Odisha, mirror works from Rajasthan and many more such jewels lost in the sands of time. The Government wants to buy his collections, repair his house and make a museum near the village to display those collections. This offer has put Bahadur in a fix. He cannot decide what to do. He asked our opinion saying that he was illiterate; he did not know what would be good for him. His intoxicated voice had such a pain that we could not share our opinion with him. Now, when I think about that day, I can still feel the pained voice. This was the pain of illiteracy, indecisiveness, poverty and the pain of the father who did not wanted to bid farewell to his married daughter but had to do so under social compulsion.

Another incident happened in Bahadur’s house after we had our dinner. I want to include that incident as a concluding note. After we were done with our dinner, the painter wanted to gift us a ‘patachitra’ each. He asked our names one by one and went on creating beautiful paintings with them. He was being verbally assisted by his daughter, so that he ensured that the spellings of our names went right. His daughter faltered while spelling out my name in Bengali. The brush which he held on so firmly even in his inebriated condition got twitched. He looked up and mildly rebuked his daughter by saying that he had done everything to educate her and she failed in this minor test. His daughter went visibly embarrassed. Not embarrassed for her father’s scolding in front of the outsiders but because of her failure. Her and her father’s defeated faces continued to haunt me for a long time.