The Young Woman
It was an endurable October evening that had acquired
some amiability due to the forenoon rains, which had smothered humidity to a
large extent and added a bit of chill to the lazy wind. The officers with their
wives were rejoicing in the Army Mess. The get-together was organized in the
honour of the visiting general officer. The crowd was smartly turned-out. The
women in multi-coloured sarees, back-showing blouses and jewellery dazzled. Each
one of them was dressed to outshine the other. The fairer sex added grace and
beauty to the gathering. Among the officers only a handful had taken care to
dress well, otherwise most of them had worn clothes as required by the occasion,
without bothering to match the colour of shirt and pant. They were out there to
enjoy some good whisky, good conversation and good food with their friends and
comrades.
A wide range of perfumes wafted across the lawn. In
the corners pungent smell of the anti-mosquito coil struggled to spread. An
hour later the smell of liquor, mostly rum and whisky, overpowered every other
smell in the air, barring the smell of the tobacco. The jazz band was playing
tunes. In between a singer sang new Hindi numbers in which anybody hardly seemed
interested. The cacophony drowned the dull music.
Part of the crowd, I chattered with my friends. The
sprawling, manicured lawn was filled with people, who stood or sat in the chairs
in several groups of varying numbers. Some were pure groups of men and women,
and some were mixed groups. The VIP moved around, chatting for a few minutes in
every group. I watched people and their expressions as they talked among
themselves. A young woman, wearing light blue chiffon saree and dark blue sleeveless
blouse, moved around anxiously. Sometimes she talked with the ladies and
sometimes with the officers, though she didn’t look interested any conversation.
Her roving gaze showed that her mind was on something else. As she passed by
me, we exchanged a quick glance and when she turned her head away from me I
caught a piece of smile on her left cheek. Intrigued, I followed her nervous
mannerism for a while and then lost interest.
High on drinks many officers told and retold tales, shared
experiences, jokes and anecdotes with one another. The senior officers in every
group talked non-stop while the juniors, with glass in hand, dutifully nodded.
While some of them seemed to enjoy those talks, the others prayed for an early
end to their torture. Then the master of ceremony (MC), a young major announced
the name of a lady and requested her for a song. Suddenly the noise subsided
and all eyes turned towards the stage where the band had stopped playing and
waited for the singer. In the crowd a woman, in early forties, stood up,
adjusted her saree and walked to the stage, escorted by a young officer. Dressed
in a silk saree and backless blouse, she on her supple shoulders carried the
beauty of a young mother and an air of authority. Before she could reach the
stage and hold the microphone, the most men had resumed drinking and chatting.
Sadly, the poor song choice made her effort lackluster.
With a better song her voice could have been passable. But when she finished
the audience broke into rapturous applause that went on until she was escorted
back to her seat where she received personal compliments that gave her a heady
feeling that she had sung very well. A little later she and other ladies
settled down to listen to the next singer.
Around me I heard a male voice say that she was the
commandant’s wife. Further, I needed no enquiry about such enthusiastic
clapping. ‘My wife can sing a thousand times better than her’, the words
escaped my lips. My friends expressed disappointment as they wouldn’t get to
hear my wife. We all were alone on a temporary duty to that military station. My
hope of listening to some good songs soon died down when a few colonels caught
hold of the mike and started singing public school song in their raucous voices.
With large pegs down their throats suddenly they had discovered that they too
could sing. It was a free for all among them, with the band playing bizarre tunes.
Mischievous cheers and claps by some officers encouraged the singers whose
chorus grew louder. It seemed we all were to suffer their torture for some more
time. Soon voices of discontent reached the general officer who sent the deputy
commandant to call them back.
Suddenly
I saw the young woman speak with the MC in a pleading tone. Her gestures said
so. Now my gaze settled on her in renewed curiosity. With a satisfied look she
walked back to the crowd and stood alone, with her gaze fixed at the band party
in the centre. A male singer came forward and belted out a song with insipid
melody, and deservedly got a tired response. As he walked back, I saw the young
woman rush to the stage. My gaze followed her restless gait. And before her
name was announced she had the microphone in her hand. I didn’t get her name. I
didn’t wish to. A name would have confined her innocent and anxious beauty to a
few words. I wished her youthful charm to retain its radiance wrapped in
anonymity.
She
turned back and whispered to the band master the name of the song she was going
to sing. As the musicians began and she hummed, I knew it was going to be the
best soulful song of the evening. Then in her magical voice she sang, ‘Tinka,
tinka……’, a famous Hindi number sung in husky voice by the famous singer, Alisha
Chinoy. There was a pin-drop silence. All eyes and ears were turned to the
stage. The moving breeze carried her soulful voice all around and far beyond
the mess boundaries. In the interlude she closed her eyes and drew inspiration from
the innermost depths of her heart. The vibrations in her voice had the right
mix of melody, huskiness and loneliness, and she used all three with aplomb. In
particular the depth of loneliness in her voice made the song far better than
that of the original singer. She got a good applause.
When she walked back I caught a glimpse of her face.
Our eyes met. She smiled. Her smile, broader this time, seemed to say, ‘I can
sing better……..’ Had she heard me what I’d confided in my friend’s a few minutes
ago. I gave her a puzzled glance. She looked at me for the last time and then
walked away, with a flush of satisfaction on her face and a tinge of sadness in
her eyes. As a young Army wife she knew this harsh fact that the greater
accolades were reserved for the senior ladies.
Thereafter
she was lost in the gathering. I curbed my urge of finding her name and
complimenting her for a wonderful song. Then I dropped the idea, had dinner and
returned to my room. But the song stayed in my mind and so did the singer. I
never thought I’d write a story about the young woman and her poignant song.
But I did. Perhaps she herself had written this tale on that lovely October
evening ten years ago. I simply put words to it.
*****
Grandpa’s Bench
I’m on my way to my native village. It’s an overdue journey; my last was
two decades ago. This time I’m alone. It’s not just another trip, but a journey
into my childhood. As I leave the city, I hit the metalled road, where a dirt
track existed earlier. My conscious accuses me of behaving like a gapeseed. On either side, the paddy fields interspersed with a few sugarcane
fields pass by in quick succession. Now the paddy has replaced the sugarcane,
which within a decade has become an uneconomical crop. The sight of the old
mango orchard with bletted fruits delight my heart, and lessen my unease.
For the first moment in an hour, I feel welcome in my own land.
Thereafter, my drive up
to the village reminds me of the hot afternoons when I, with my friends, rode
bicycles and raced with one another. Needless to say, I didn’t always win the
race. If I had ever won even once, I can’t recollect. I don’t want to and lose
the joy of those carefree childhood memories. In joyous mood, I drive on and
enter the village. The mud houses have been bricked, and dirt tracks have been paved
with bricks. The sound of a motor vehicle drew out several villagers on the
street. It did when I was a child. Some things, I guess, in a village life
never change.
My efforts to recognize a few faces, lined up along either
side of the road, proved futile. Before my ancestral house stands an old
temple, which threatens to kiss the earth any moment. Thought that temple might
become a heap of broken bricks during my next trip, makes my heart miss a beat.
With a sad heart, I move
ahead and pass by the pond, whose waters in old days covered one third of the
village, but now it has become shallower and muddier. Watercress, over the
years, has soaked up the pond dry. On its western bank was the barn from where I
had unsuccessfully tried to catch the fish on a few occasions. Across the mud
track, lay my grandpa’s house. When I turn the ignition off and wait, I feel that
any moment he would call out my name, and I would rush and hide myself into his
lap; like I, as a child, did to escape bullying by older cousins.
But alas! It doesn’t happen. He was gone four decades
ago. A sharp excruciating pain hits me. My heart isn’t ready to believe his
absence. In a remote corner of my heart, I had expected him to be there. Why? I
don’t know.
The house due to the
efforts of my younger brother, who had stayed in it for some years before
migrating to the city, had got a new lease of life and was sure to outlast the
dilapidated temple. With a creaking sound, the door opens when I push it. The
spiders have made it their home and decorated the interiors in multitude of designs
and sizes. Thick cobwebs hung in the dark and dusty corners. I stand still, for a while, admiring the beauty of
those cobwebs, shining in multitude shades of black and gray in the light,
sneaking through the broken roof. A creepy flight by the bats throws dust on me
and pulls me back into the reality. Brushing cobwebs
out of my hair, I go around the
house. Each pace gives me pain; each pain gives me pace.
And when my eyes fall on
the bench lying in one dark corner, covered in layers of dust and cobwebs, my
heart sinks. My grandpa’s companion of old years lay there in utter neglect. It
is a heartrending sight. Standing still for a long time, I feel like crying. I,
after sometime, do cry. And when I get over with my emotions, I pull the bench out
in the courtyard, and dust it.
A shisham log from the
family orchard was felled and put in the barn for a year to dry. After it was
thoroughly seasoned, the grandpa had called the village carpenter, who had made
one bench, two chairs and some pieces of miscellaneous furniture. The shining
brown colour of the bench had caught attention of every visitor, who had never
failed to praise the bench and had to hear the story that went into its making.
It was one anecdote I had heard on numerous occasions.
Involuntarily, I sit on it
and close my eyes. Then the childhood memories seize me from within.
Five decades ago I was
born and raised in the village. My childhood was spent under my grandpa’s
benign presence. And when I reached the age where I could comprehend things, he
regaled us with several stories and anecdotes.
The village had a few landlords,
who possessed large tracts of agricultural land and several servants. In
comparison, my grandpa and his brother had about 100 bighas, the yardstick that
didn’t qualify him to be called a landlord. But he thought and behaved like
one. Many villagers gave him respect, reserved for a landlord. So, whenever I
saw him talk to people, I found an aura around him. He was kind to one and all,
and that at times earned him more respect than any other elder in the village.
And the bench was like a
throne on which he sat for several hours during the day and entertained
visitors. No one went back without drinking tea or sherbet. He gave everyone a
patient hearing and tried to resolve their problems and disputes. For the poor
he was a judge whose verdict was seldom dishonoured. A few close friends got to
share the bench with him, while the most folks sat on the charpoy when they
called on him. A glib talker he was, but a poor listener.
But the most enduring
picture embedded in my mind is that of the Holi festival. I got to spend a few of
them with him. After playing colours in the morning, the household prepared for
the afternoon when people went around the village to greet one another. This
event was the most awaited moment for the old man, who since morning prepared
for it. In a large plate dry colours were laid out and in another plate the
sweets. People came calling on him. He would customarily hug them and exchange
good wishes. Then he would affectionately pull people’s right hand and put a
drop of the Kannauj perfume, and then narrate how he had procured it.
When his six
grandchildren were old enough, he regaled us all with a lot of interesting
stories, canvas of which was huge, characters larger-than-life and theme grand.
As we grew up, he narrated us many moral stories, a couple of which I remember
so vividly till date. I was his favourite grandchild for two reasons. One; I
gave him a good, thorough bath. Two; I prepared a perfect hookah, which he was
so fond of smoking. Of all siblings, I was lucky to share the bench with him.
The bench brought out the best in him. Seated in its comfort,
he told us some of the best tales. On a summer night, when we kids were joined
by our cousin from the city, my grandpa after dinner called us out. Out of his
kurta pocket he took out a small bottle and distributed one homeopathy pill to
us all, as though they were toffees. And when a few of us extended our palms
for another pill, he gave an admonishing look. Then we sat on the ground in a
semi-circle and impatiently waited for his tale. It was a special night as he
promised to tell us a very, very long tale that was to last the whole night.
When he asked us if we were ready to be awake the whole night; we all shouted
‘yes’.
The story began with a fascinating prelude. For an
hour or so we all were hooked up, but after some time, one by one, we tired of
day-long playing, fell asleep. I was the last to sleep. And the next morning we
woke up, we found ourselves lying on the chadar on the roof. For our actions,
we said sorry to the grandpa and begged him to repeat the story. But it didn’t
happen that night and the subsequent nights, as the grandpa fell ill.
Thereafter, we all forgot about that story, and so did the old man.
In 1974 I went to the boarding school. My grandpa was
proud and sad to see me off. Thereafter I met him whenever I came home during the
summer and winter holidays. My grandpa would tell people in the village that
his grandson spoke English more fluently than an English graduate. Due to long
absence from the village, I lost out on grandpa’s tales.
The grandpa and his younger brother, separated by a
few yards, slept under the thatch, outside the house. Three years later during
a rainstorm, half of the front mud wall of the house collapsed. The grandpa’s side
was intact, while his brother got buried under the debris. The younger brother died,
but the older survived, providentially. Thereafter for next three years he
lived in ill-health. And then in Oct 1977, when he fell ill he sent somebody to
fetch me from the school. Somehow I had the hunch that he wanted to see me for
the last time. As soon I entered, I saw a large crowd gathered outside the
house. Lying on the bed, he experienced difficulty in breathing. I sat by his
bedside, he took my hand in his and mumbled something. A few minutes later he
breathed his last.
I was relieved to be by his side then.
Suddenly I felt a wrinkled hand on my shoulder,
followed by a whisper, “Son, Take this bench with you. It belongs to you now.”
Scared, I open my eyes and look around. An eerie
silence reigns in the house, but I can feel he has been there a while ago. I
move the hand over the bench, and know it now belongs to me. With bench secure in the back of the pickup van, I leave the village.
*******
Michael's House
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One often doesn’t get what one
wants in life. Sridhar knew and understood that saying well and therefore he
never complained about the raw deal he often got in his job. Though initially
he used to grumble a lot, he had given it up soon realizing its futility. And
he was happy since the moment he had acquired a positive attitude towards his
job and life as a whole.
His job as a reporter with a reputed news channel was
challenging and most importantly, well paying, which had taken care of his
financial insecurities. With hardly any worries he had begun enjoying his work,
which took to him to places he had never been to or ever dreamt about them in
his life. He was often sent on difficult assignments, which other reporters
normally avoided.
And so when he was asked to report on a Mizo tribe, which
called itself one of the lost tribes of the Jews and wished to migrate to their
promised land in Israel, he readily accepted the task. For a moment though he
too was surprised to learn that such a tribe existed in India, which claimed
its antecedent to Jews. As a keen student of history he was hardly able to contain
his excitement to find more about them and see some of them in person. And in his enthusiasm he had glossed over the
fact he was being asked to undertake the arduous journey in the northeastern
India during the rainy season when everything from the flights to the road
journey became uncertain due to the vagaries of the nature.
He had his first encounter with the unpredictable nature
while waiting in the lounge at Kolkata airport when after four hours of
mind-numbing wait he was informed that the flight to Aizawl had been cancelled
due to heavy rains and fog at the Lengpui airport. He looked outside the
airport. It was a bright and sunny day in Kolkata. He smiled peevishly at his
run of bad luck and returned to the dormitory for the night halt. A day had
gone waste but he couldn’t lament its loss, as he was sure that many days would
go waste in future too.
Luckily the clear weather ensured that he reached Aizawl
safely by evening the next day. He checked into a decent hotel in the heart of
the town. By the time he freshened up and had his tea leisurely it was well
past 5 p.m. He changed and moved down the stairs to have a look at the city but
was quite disappointed to see the most of the shops being closed. People seemed
to be in a hurry to rush home. Later he learnt from a passer by that the market
closed by about 5 p.m. and the Mizos retired to their homes for an early
dinner, which was taken around 6 p.m.
Suddenly he realized that no one—nor his friends, nor
anyone at the airport, nor the taxi driver— had told him about that as if they
all expected him to know that simple but important fact of life in Mizoram.
Grudgingly he returned to his hotel room and decided to have his dinner early
after which he surfed channels in a desperate effort to kill time. Watching TV
he fell asleep and switched it off when he
woke up a few hours later.
Next day was hectic. He visited the local Jewish office acquired the details of the tribe that lived in and around the village of Phailen. Without wasting any time he hired a taxi and headed straight towards Phailen. Sanga, the taxi driver, regaled him with interesting anecdotes
and tales most of which seemed to be his own. He was an interesting man
nonetheless and mercifully he spoke both Hindi and English fluently, a definite
qualification, which set him apart from other drivers.
They drove on for about two hours and then suddenly Sanga
halted the taxi. When asked he replied nonchalantly that perhaps they were
caught in a traffic jam. Later Sridhar learnt from another driver that the
entire road was blocked due a mudslide caused by the heavy early morning rains
that day. It would take about two to three hours for the block to be cleared.
Luckily the taxi had stopped near a teashop, which was already overcrowded. A
young woman, the owner, was busy in serving hot tea and snacks to a restive
crowd. Sanga spoke something to her in Mizo. The lady smiled and immediately
provided her own wooden chair to Sridhar who managed to utter Kan Lawme
(thank you), one of the two words he had learnt since morning. And he was
pleased when the lady gave him a pleasing smile. So, after all, he had
pronounced it correctly he thought.
The noise in that small restaurant was annoying. He
thought of taking a walk on the road and see for himself as to when they would
be able to move ahead. However, the progress at the sight of the roadblock
wasn’t encouraging. Though the volunteers of the Young Mizo Association (YMA)
were working feverishly, they were too small in numbers to clear the pile of
the mud, which looked like a small hill. He knew for sure that they would take
more than three hours to remove the block. He returned to the taxi.
The sky was overcast though there were no signs of
impending rain. The surrounding hills were lush green and thickly wooded. He
marveled at the captivating beauty of the countryside. A lonely hut on a
detached hillock, not far from where he stood, caught his attention. Curiously
he gazed at it for a long time and then decided to walk to the hut, since he
had nothing worthwhile to do there.
As soon as he moved towards the track leading to the hut, a
local man sitting in the shop, stopped him, “Hey, where are you going?”
Without turning towards him, he replied, “To that hut.”
“Oh, you are going to Michael’s house,” he heard a second
man say with a deep breath of concern.
“So, that’s Michael’s house,” Sridhar said and moved ahead.
“Why are you going there? Are you out of your mind? Don’t
you know he’s a crazy old fellow? He’s chases away with a huge axe whoever
approaches him,” the third man spoke loud enough for Sridhar to hear. Curious
and concerned, he halted in his tracks and waited for more comments about the
old man, Michael.
For a few moments the pin drop silence ensued. Everyone’s
eyes bulged out in shock. They stared at one another for a while in disbelief.
And everyone burst out laughing when the fifth man spoke in jest, “He was no
better than a ghost when alive. The man never came out of his hut and prayed
for long hours as if the whole world was going to be washed away in a deluge
and only his prayers were going to save it. Whenever anyone happened to meet
him, he would lecture him for hours on the morality and degradation of human
values taking place in the society.”
“You won’t understand. He thought he was the chosen one by
the God to sermon anyone and everyone. Sadly no one listened to him, not even
his own children who left him fed up with his irritating sermons. After his
wife’s death the poor man became lonely,” opined the sixth man in mock display
of sympathy.
“She would have died because of his eccentricities. What
could the poor lady have done? She must have been made of a different material
to put up with such a man for so long. I couldn’t live with such a man for more
than a day,” the shop owner added, participating in the discussion.
A bemused Sridhar stood there listening to their tales of
the old man. Some men were saying that Michael was dead long back, while almost
equal number of men were vehement in their argument that he was alive. Their
discussion was turning into a heated argument when an elderly man walked in and
spoke somberly, “I’ve a solution to your problem. Why don’t we follow Zuala? He
goes early in the morning on Sundays to Michael to deliver him groceries when
we all are fast asleep.”
Zuala’s name evoked mixed reaction from the crowd but one
thing became clear to Sridhar that the village grocer wasn’t very much liked by
his folks.
The first man who perhaps disliked Zuala the most, tried to
put an end to the argument by saying that he had better things to do in life
than chase a dubious shady character like Zuala on a Sunday morning.
And when the argument seemed to have finished, he heard
someone interject, “But if Michael’s dead then who is lighting the lamp in the
night. I’ve seen the hut lit on a number of numerous occasions. I guess someone
live in Michael’s hut.”
Sridhar had
lost interest in their talks. He had heard enough bizarre stories about the men
who lived alone, far away from the village. So undeterred he resumed his walk.
The track to Michael’s house was winding and steep. After half an hour’s tiring
climb he reached the house and was pleasantly surprised to see an old man
standing in the veranda watering the plants.
The man was in his late sixties or perhaps early seventies.
His wrinkled face shone brightly and his swift actions indicated that the man
was quite active for his age. When he reached closer to him, he coughed to draw
his attention. The old man stopped the work, wiped
off his hands with a towel hanging from his neck and shook hands warmly, “welcome,
my friend. I’m honoured and surprised. I’m not sure which feeling is more
overwhelming.”
“Thank you,
sir. In fact, honour is mine. You can pick up the surprise element of our
meeting,” Sridhar smiled.
“All right,
call me John,” he spoke haltingly, necessitated by his advanced age. “You’re
the first visitor in a long, long time. No one comes to me nowadays, no one
except the grocer who delivers my weekly requirements every Sunday.”
“I’m happy
to get a chance to meet you,” Sridhar said involuntarily.
“You must have heard a lot of
stories about me down below in the village. Did you believe in any one of
them?” he asked inquisitively.
“If I had I wouldn’t be here,”
Sridhar replied briskly.
"Some of the villagers think that
I’m a mad old man who kills people with an axe,” he stood up and went to a
corner and returned with a long axe in his hands.
With that axe in his hands he looked menacing. For a moment
Sridhar was terrified. Seconds later the man replaced the axe in the corner and
returned to his chair. He spoke meditatively, “Do you think I kill human beings
with that? Did you see any blood on it? Perhaps those who spread such rumors
don’t know that I use it to chop the firewood.”
Sridhar felt for that old man who alone on top of a hillock
was not only battling loneliness but also the strong prejudices of his folks.
His sons and daughters, and the villagers had abandoned him ostensibly for no
fault of his. It was just that they weren’t able to cope up with his sermons.
The old man was well meaning and wanted to inculcate some values in the younger
generation.
Lost in his thoughts he didn’t realize when his host had
quietly vanished inside to brew tea for him. He was pleasantly surprised when
he heard him say thingpui and place a large mug with steaming hot tea.
He thanked him and began sipping tea. The man was a perfect host and he hadn’t
forgotten to offer a plateful of biscuits to him but of course, he was a bit
apologetic about the biscuits not being crisp and foggy weather had made them
soft.
A little while later when they had finished tea, he got up
to leave.
“It was nice to meet you and you have been an excellent
host. I shall look you up again on way back,” Sridhar said getting up.
“I may not be here then.”
“Why?”
“You can’t be sure of the time of your return and I might
be in the forest collecting the firewood.” Michael reasoned and he requested
taking out money from his pocket. “Can you give this money to the grocer? His
name is Zuala. His shop is about fifty metres away from the teashop where you
have halted.”
“All right, and many thanks for the hospitality,” Sridhar
shook hands warmly and then moved out of the hut.
The small but beautiful hut proudly displayed the plate
with ‘Michael’s House’ written on it. Certainly its owner was a proud man but
rather misunderstood by the locals.
The climb down the hill took a little less time and when he reached the tea
stall he was greeted with giggles, whispers and stunned looks. He knew what
they all were thinking and without bothering about their reactions he went in
search of the grocer’s shop. He found no difficulty in locating Zuala who was
quite surprised when he told him that he had accidentally visited the Michael’s
house. He handed over the money, which Michael had given to him.
Zuala was a bit puzzled but hid it admirably and pocketed
the money. “So how’s the old man?” he asked.
“Why? don’t you know? You had been to his house yesterday,
he told me and he had forgotten to pay you the bill,” Sridhar queried.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
“He’s a nice old man but you people have abandoned him
totally. I mean not you. He has high regards for you. It’s the other men in the
village about whom he has the grudge.”
“You’re right. He was a nice man.”
“What do you mean he was? He is. He isn’t dead but he’s
alive and hail and hearty. I met him a few moments ago and had tea with him.
Didn’t I give you the money he handed me over,” a peeved Sridhar spoke.
“Yeah, yeah. Certainly he’s alive. He isn't dead. Persons
like him never die. They live forever,” Zuala was philosophical.
Before their dialogue could progress further, Sanga came an
informed him that the block had been cleared and it was time for them to go. He
thanked Zuala and left. The teashop wore a deserted look with its owner busy in
clearing the huge pile of cups and plates. He exchanged a smile with her and
sat in the car.
En route Sridhar recollected that afternoon’s strange
events. Michael’s house lingered on in his mind. Even Zuala too had spoken in
riddles about Michael, he recalled. Perhaps to keep him in good humour Zuala
had agreed about his meeting with Michael but somehow he hadn’t looked
convinced. Suddenly everything about Michael’s house appeared a deep mystery to
him.
For Sridhar Michael’s house had become a puzzle. And he
would hate to solve that riddle, he thought.
He
smiled and drove on.
* * *
Train to Tinsukia
Vinayak Gadgil arrived
rather early at Guwahati railway station and he was disappointed to learn that
the train to Tinsukia, the farthest town connected by rail in Assam India Pakistan Soltoro Ranges Kashmir and Nagaland, he found every place with running
water and electricity habitable. Jungle
Warfare School The train halted at Dimapur station. He alighted to see if
any changes had taken place since his last trip. To his utter surprise nothing
had changed except for the presence of more security personnel. Over a cup of
hot coffee he tried to recollect some of the fond memories associated with that
place.
After a brief halt the train moved. He returned to his seat
and wished for a company to overcome boredom. Suddenly he froze in terror when
he found the same eyes stare at him. He was the same Naga.
* * *
Last Bus to
Lekhapani
Pooran Mal Lakhotia alighted at the Dibrugarh bus
station at 9 p.m. and rushed to the booking counter from where a dim light
emanated, indicating perhaps the counter was open. But he was disappointed to find
it closed. Dejected, he looked around for someone to inquire about the bus.
Seated in one corner, he found a man brewing tea. America America India
* * *
A dark alley
A child is
like a rose bud, tender and beautiful. Like a rose spreads its fragrance, a
child spreads its smiles. Its heart is as fragile as a petal. Both need plenty
of love and care, and delicate nurturing. With love they grow up and blossom,
without they disintegrate and die. Ironically, their creator and destroyer is
neither nature nor God but the man. One moment he is a saint and the next
moment he is a devil incarnate.
Varsha was like a rosebud, tender,
beautiful and growing up under the protective care of her father and casual
love of a rather casual mother. Like millions of children she went to school,
played in the gardens with her friends, read comics and storybooks, watched
cartoons on TV and once a while saw a horror movie and then kept awake the
whole night thinking of demons, and thereafter when she cried in her sleep, her
father rushed to her, took her in his arms and pacified her. He told her there
were no demons. It was just a nightmare, a horrible little dream.
She was a nine-year old girl and waited
impatiently to celebrate her tenth birthday, which was a month away, with more
balloons, more sweets, more pastries and more friends. His father was to be on
a business tour during that period but she insisted that either he postponed
his trip or she would delay her birthday. And, of course, the daughter won,
though she wished her father hadn’t lost.
A fortnight before her birthday Prasad
uncle, her mother’s distant cousin, came calling from Jabalpur Jabalpur
On previous occasions Prasad uncle had
invariably brought the best and the most exclusive gift for her. She would feel
elated and tease her younger sibling that uncle loved her more than him. Chhotu
would weep and run to his mother to complain. The mother would then pacify the
boy that next time the uncle would bring him better gift. Both children saw a
Santa Claus in Prasad uncle who never missed an opportunity to pamper them with
expensive gifts. His generosity
occasionally prompted Raghav Khurana, their father, to mildly protest, “Bhai sahib,
this way you would spoil the kids.”
“Why do you say that? Am I not their
uncle? They are like my own children,” Prasad would say and with moral support
from Mohini, his cousin sister, he would prevail upon Raghav.
Raghav, five years junior, would
surrender meekly in the argument, for he knew how much his wife respected him.
After the death of his father-in-law, Prasad had taken the responsibility of
bringing up her younger brothers and later helped them to get decent jobs. So,
in her heart Prasad held a special place and Raghav appreciated and respected
her sentiments. Therefore, he was extra careful not to hurt her in anyway. So
his access to the Khurana household was unchecked and above suspicion.
On an uneventful day when Raghav was
away on a business tour and Mohini to one of her friend’s house for the gossip
session, which the women of a particular social strata called it by a more
fashionable name, kitty party, the children were alone in the house under the
watchful eyes of the maidservant who herself needed to be watched for her indolent
attitude. The maid was playing with chhotu in the kitchen. The predator
accidentally landed up in the house. The prey was playing with her crayons. In
her bedroom she was drawing a house on the hills. So far she had drawn the
undulating hills, the grey clouds, the birds flying in the sky, a river flowing through the
mountains and a sun, which appeared to set, but she had intended it to rise.
And into the sprawling meadow a small path from the eastern bank of the river
led to a place where she had planned to draw the hut of her dreams.
Suddenly she heard her bedroom door
open with a creaking sound. She looked at the intruder and gave an innocent
smile. He slowly closed the door behind and sat on the bed. From a packet he
took out a bundle of chocolates, her favourites, and handed them to her. And when she
began eating, he put his evil designs into play. She protested. He insisted. He
told her it was a game. An infant’s mind wavered and in the fog of the
confusion she fell prey to his machinations.
But she knew her uncle had done
something horrible to her, something real bad. Before leaving the room the man
threatened her that he would kill everyone, her mother, father and chhotu if
she ever spoke to anyone about that. However, he would bring her more gifts if
she cooperated in future. He had left as surreptitiously as he had come.
She tried to leave the bed but found blood on the sheet, on her skirt. The
sight of the blood made her dizzy. She fainted.
Later when a beaming Mohini entered
the room after the kitty party, she found her daughter lying in a
semi-consciousness state. When asked the girl pointed towards the blood and
fell fully unconscious due to extreme weakness induced by loss of blood. She
was rushed to the nearest hospital. And when Varsha regained consciousness she
didn’t speak a word as to what had happened to her. The gynecologist, a woman
in her late fifties, initially was taken aback a bit when she examined the
young girl, because the hymen had suffered a forceful rapture resulting in
excessive bleeding. So, as a first fleeting thought it occurred to her
experienced eyes as a case of child abuse but when the girl despite persistent
cajoling refused to say anything, the doctor gave up. In this age she knew
children out of curiosity did bizarre things with their bodies and so she
conveniently conjured up a plausible cause, an accidentally inflicted
self-injury.
And not to bother the mother
unnecessarily the doctor explained Mohini the possible cause of the injury and
urged her to be careful with her daughter. It was an advice with a noble intent
but to Mohini it smelled of admonition from the doctor. Though outwardly she
smiled and promised to be more careful in future, inwardly she was infuriated
for she was in no mood to take lessons on parenting from an old woman. Varsha
was discharged the same evening and her mother took her home. Lying on the bed
on a clean sheet she stared at her unfinished drawing. She picked up crayons to
paint the hut but she couldn’t. The shiny path leading to it had turned into a
dark alley in which a demon with horns on his head and bulging monstrous eyes
was chasing her. She ran towards the hut to escape from his clutches but alas!
There was no hut, she remembered. She had forgotten to draw it. Helpless with
no place to hide, she stood trembling at the end of the alley and watched the
demon close on her. And when the devil reached near her she fainted.
After a while she awakened and wiped her sweat and tears. She was so
terrified of the drawing that she hid it into her cupboard at a secret place
where no one could discover it.
That moment she knew demons were for
real. Why had his father lied to her? She wondered. Later on she fell
asleep.
On the other hand, Mohini made
inquiries from the maid and she was rather relaxed when she learnt that her
indulgent cousin had visited the house during her absence. To her foolish and
rather sluggish mind no linkage between her cousin’s visit and her daughter’s
unusual injury occurred. Instead, she rang him up to complain as to why did he
leave without meeting her. The man’s excuse was that he was in a hurry. When
Raghav returned home he told her about Varsha’s injury diluting its gravity.
Unconvinced, he walked up to his daughter and asked himself. Though she had confidence
in him, she chose to remain silent. Instead, she fell in his lap instantly and
cried.
For next couple of weeks she ate requisite dose of vitamins to
regain her strength. A doughty girl as she was, she recuperated fast and
appeared in her final examination.
Raghav had sensed something amiss but
he dreaded to think anything unthinkable. Knowing his wife’s penchant for
parties, he thought the girl would be safe in a boarding school than at home.
So, from the next academic session, which was a month away, Varsha was admitted
into a boarding school whose strict rules and regulations made it impossible
for a visitor to meet any student unless he was specifically authorised
by the parents. Raghav had left strict instructions that no person other than his
wife and he be allowed any access to their daughter.
In the boarding school she remained withdrawn. Initially her
teachers thought that she was undergoing the bout of homesickness like any new
student and so they weren’t much perturbed. Later on Varsha discovered some
girls of her nature and made friends with them but her vivacity, her innocence
was lost forever. She carried a tormented mind; a scarred soul but she didn’t
show it outwardly. Her good grades had endeared her to teachers and students alike. Everybody in
the campus thought her to be a normal girl but the dark truth only she knew and
she wasn’t ready to share it with anyone, yet.
In the meantime when Prasad visited
Mohini’s house he was surprised to not to find Varsha there. Mohini told him
that Raghav had sent her to a boarding school. He got suspicious and wondered
whether the girl had talked to her father about that day’s incident but he was
relieved to learn that she had wisely kept mum. Later his lone effort at the
school to gain access to her had ended in a fiasco when the gatekeeper, who
bluntly told him that he wasn’t authorised to meet the girl, turned him away.
He returned home indignantly and thought of taking up the matter of his
humiliation with his cousin sister but on late thought exercised prudence. He
thought it wise to forget Varsha altogether and look for someone else. So,
slowly his frequency of visits reduced from once a month to once a year. No one
complained except Mohini who, however, paid a call to his cousin at Jabalpur
Ten years later Varsha grew into a
beautiful adult. Unlike most of her friends in the college she had no
boyfriends, an oddity with which her friends had learnt to live with. For all
these years she remained a loner. As she grew, so did her insecurities. And her
desire to share her unsavory past too died. It wasn’t until when she went
through her biology lessons that she learnt what a fifty-year old uncle had
done to a ten-year daughter of his cousin. It was the most reprehensible act to
say the least, thought of which made her nauseate every time.
As the time wore on she gained
confidence. After graduating she got a consultant’s job with a reputed firm.
Her parents began to look for a match for her when she gave them a green signal.
A year later she was married to Aditya, a simple man, an introvert much like
her.
The couple with mutual consent delayed
consummating their marriage until their honeymoon on which they were to go a
week after their wedding. She was relieved, as she wasn’t emotionally prepared
then.
With packed suitcases the starry-eyed
couple headed to a hill station. Theirs was an arranged marriage and therefore
they needed time to get to know each other. They were totally strangers who had
taken a scared vow to undertake life’s journey together and therefore, it was
essential for them to identify each other’s strengths and weaknesses.
For a woman, arguably the stronger of
the two sexes, emotional needs far outweighed the physical needs. But for a man
it was exactly the opposite. Aditya was a man, an impatient man. So, on their
first night in the hotel room, which he had painstakingly decorated with
marigold flowers and lights, he was exuberant. In the dim light
he approached her slowly expecting her to be as eager as he, if not more, but
he was in for the rude shock when she cried, “Help me,” and threw him off her.
He almost fell off the bed. She switched on the light and started crying
inconsolably.
For a moment he sat motionless not
knowing what had happened to her. He feared he had caused her some injury. Then
he heard her sobs cease. She fell into his arms. She spoke through her hiccups,
“Aditya, I’m so sorry. I can’t do it. I’m not a
normal girl.”
Touched by her honesty he hugged her
and said, “Who says you’re not normal? You’re perfectly fine. Nothing is wrong
with you. It happens sometimes to some people. Just that.”
“You should have married a better
girl. I’ve spoiled your mood,” her sobs resumed in self-pity.
“I think your past is tormenting you.
It would be better if you shared it with me,” he then added as an after
thought, “of course, if you’re ready.”
Minutes later she calmed down and
narrated her recurring dream. It was a dark alley in which she found herself
trapped with a demon. She cried for help but no one, neither her father, nor
her mother, came to her rescue. The demon laughed and told her that he would
kill her parents if she ever talked about what he did to her.
Aditya was dumbfounded. At once he
concluded that his wife was consumed by anguish because of something awful that
had happened to her when she was an infant. His further probe proved futile
because she said she didn’t remember anything except that dream, which
obliquely pointed towards a case of child abuse.
Needless to say their honeymoon ended
abruptly.
Back at home Aditya consulted the best
psychiatrist in the town. With great difficulty he managed to convince Varsha
to see him. Her first session was comfortable. The initial symptoms lead us
towards child abuse, the psychiatrist confided in Aditya. It would take a long
time, he cautioned. However, he was sure that Varsha would conquer her fears
and be absolutely normal again. He asked Aditya to search for anything like a
piece of clothing, an artefact, a painting or a drawing, which remotely connected to her dream. At
the spur of the moment he couldn’t recollect anything but he promised to come
back after a few days.
Suddenly a peep into her past had
assumed importance. He knew it would be difficult to extract even a bit from
her. So, in her absence he searched every piece of clothing, books, jewellery
and other things that she had brought with her. It was a painful job and he
hated doing it. After an hour he stumbled upon a drawing neatly wrapped up in a
piece of paper and kept between the pages of a book. Curiously he unwrapped it
and found it to be an unfinished drawing of scenery, which small children
usually painted. He was about to replace it in the book when the outline of an
incomplete hut caught his attention. From the riverbank a path led it.
“Oh, my God! It’s this path that comes
in her dream,” he whispered to himself and felt a great sense of relief.
Later he replaced all her items in the
cupboard exactly in the same manner before her arrival. In the evening he went
to the doctor and showed him the drawing. From his smile Aditya understood that
the solution to his wife’s problem had been found and it would be a matter of
time before she would walk free of her tormenting past. He breathed a sigh of
relief and thanked God.
The psychiatrist mulled over the
drawing for sometime and matched it certain parts of her dream. He formed a
conclusive opinion that the insignificant sketch was under preparation when a
man, whom she knew, subjected her to that unspeakable abuse. Perhaps he was a
close relative as it was often found in such cases. The fact that Varsha was
afraid to talk about the abuser added weight to his deduction.
It was a huge discovery, which helped
the doctor in subsequent sessions with his patient. Hard work of six months,
during which the doctor often was despaired by her inconsistent and truant behaviour,
finally paid off. And the whole story when it was narrated to Aditya enraged
him so much that he wished to kill Prasad uncle who had destroyed not one but
two lives.
At the behest of the doctor her
parents were informed about the incident. Mohini was speechless. Raghav was
furious. Somehow he had always disliked Prasad’s interference in their lives
but had kept quiet for the sake of his wife. Mohini advised him to forget the
incident but he was vehement on reporting the matter to the police who
registered the complaint but told him that after fifteen years it would be a
wild goose chase. However, Jabalpur
Raghav carried the newspaper cutting
to his daughter and said, “Varsha, see beta. The demon that terrorised
you has been caught by the police and is behind bars. Now you’re safe. He won’t
bother you in future.”
She read the news and started weeping.
After so many years her tormentor was caught. She managed a faint smile. Her
nightmare ceased. A few months later she became absolutely normal.
One day Aditya said gleefully, “Shall
we go on our honeymoon?”
“Sure,” she smiled and gave him a warm
hug.
* * *
Cherrapunji
A jilted Akash was escaping from his recent troubled past. Kadambini,
his fiancée of four years, had left him suddenly without giving any reason. She
hadn’t even bothered to tell him in person. All she said was that she was
marrying a NRI and moving with him to the States. He learnt about it through
her email. Her decision had shattered him emotionally so much that for a moment
he had contemplated of ending his life, but somehow he held back. The example
of his parents, whose married life went through its daily doses of upheavals
and he had been a witness to it for over a decade or so, ironically proved to
be a source of inspiration. His mother, an ambitious woman, was a top ranking
bureaucrat in the government while his father who too was a bureaucrat but his
laid back attitude towards life had resulted in his stagnation. Nor that he
cared much for the promotions anyway. He had a penchant for painting and during
his childhood he had wanted to take it as a vocation but for his father.
Ambition and lack of it had been the cause of the marital
discord in his parents’ life. His mother often
lamented his father for showing utter disregard to his career. His father detested her for interfering too much in his professional life and whenever their quarrel reached the boiling point his father packed up his bags and headed towards some hill station with his canvas, paint and brushes. And whatever he painted in his holidays, he donated to the locals there. Firstly, he was afraid to bring home his paintings and annoy his wife, who anyway didn’t think much of his paintings. Secondly, he never wanted their marriage to reach the breaking point just because of a few paintings. For the sake of his son he wished to carry on in his loveless marriage. Like him his wife too couldn’t dare to move away for the fear of social ostracism.
So to the outside world his parents remained a happily and successful married couple. No one knew the truth. For a long time Akash drew inspiration from his parents and thought of them as an ideal couple worth envy and emulation. The bitter truth was revealed to him later when he spent long months at home. He found his nature akin to that of his father and thus he felt more close to him at heart than his mother. In his father he had found a friend who understood him without any parental prejudice. His father never preached but listened to him sympathetically. He never hid anything from him.
lamented his father for showing utter disregard to his career. His father detested her for interfering too much in his professional life and whenever their quarrel reached the boiling point his father packed up his bags and headed towards some hill station with his canvas, paint and brushes. And whatever he painted in his holidays, he donated to the locals there. Firstly, he was afraid to bring home his paintings and annoy his wife, who anyway didn’t think much of his paintings. Secondly, he never wanted their marriage to reach the breaking point just because of a few paintings. For the sake of his son he wished to carry on in his loveless marriage. Like him his wife too couldn’t dare to move away for the fear of social ostracism.
So to the outside world his parents remained a happily and successful married couple. No one knew the truth. For a long time Akash drew inspiration from his parents and thought of them as an ideal couple worth envy and emulation. The bitter truth was revealed to him later when he spent long months at home. He found his nature akin to that of his father and thus he felt more close to him at heart than his mother. In his father he had found a friend who understood him without any parental prejudice. His father never preached but listened to him sympathetically. He never hid anything from him.
And so when Kadambini
suddenly dumped him for a NRI, he confided in his father and wept on his
shoulders for a long time. Once he regained his calm, his father advised him
that he should run away and drown his sorrows in the rains in Cherrapunji. The
persistent July rains of Meghalaya would wash off his hurt and provide a
soothing balm to his tormented heart.
He heeded the advice
and next morning he caught the first flight to Guwahati. Hours later he was
moving in a taxi to Shillong. As soon as he left Guwahati and entered Meghalaya,
the rains greeted him. He was pleasantly surprised and recalled his father’s
words about Meghalaya being the abode of clouds and Cherrapunji being the
wettest place on earth. In his student days his father had traveled a lot and
knew about almost every place in India.
By the time he reached
Shillong it had become dark. Throughout the three-hour road journey it had
rained persistently. The drifting fog and the clouds had enveloped the valleys
and the meadows, although he got to see some splendid landscape whenever the
sunlight lighted up the valleys intermittently. He was in no hurry as he had
plenty of time on hand to explore the place.
After a brief night
halt he hired a taxi and moved to Cherrapunji in the morning the next day. And after half an hour as soon as he entered
the Mawkdok valley, the exquisite sight elated his dampened spirits. It had
started drizzling. The rain-bearing
clouds were descending the hilltops and swirling in the short and narrow
valley, which was gateway to Cherrapunji. A small crowd of tourists traveling
by cars, buses and taxis had gathered there. Everyone was busy clicking
photographs and taking pictures of wonderful locale with their handicams and
cameras. The first time visitors to that place were the most vociferous in
their expression of the emotions. The children screamed and exclaimed in sheer
delight.
Akash noticed that the
elderly people after a while settled for the hot tea in the makeshift shops
close by but the children continued to enjoy the fast changing weather. Some
collected the droplets in their hands and rubbed the water on their faces, some
tried to catch cloud in their fists vainly and some simply loved the feel of
the light drizzle and wind hit their bodies. The worried mothers yelled
repeatedly and asked their children to come under the shade but they seemed in
no mood to obey them. However, the mothers’ anguish and the children’s joy
ended soon when the drivers urged them to get inside the vehicles. He felt
sorry for the children’s curtailed merriment.
Minutes later he too
moved on.
The breathtaking
beauties of the Mawkdok valley and subsequently of the sprawling lush green grassland
made him forget everything. He felt as if he was moving in Scotland, a place he
had seen only in the movies. For miles together there were no cities except for
some small villages perched on the gentle slopes and tucked safely in the
valleys. The taxi driver negotiated the winding road with consummate ease. The
moist and fresh mountain air was invigorating and the loneliness of the landscape
thought provoking.
He chose not to listen
to whatever little the driver had to say about Meghalaya and Cherrapunji.
Instead, he enjoyed the sudden gush of the rain lash his face occasionally.
Having watched the children play in the rain a while ago, the child within him
too had surfaced up. It was time to relive his childhood, he thought.
An hour later he caught
the first glimpse of the some huts on a hillock. Only a few front huts were
visible while the rest were covered in the thick layers of a stubborn mist. And
when his driver informed him that was the famed town of Cherrapunji, he almost
jumped in delight. As he went closer to the town, more huts became visible. The
entire town was engulfed in thick fog. He would be really lucky to get its full
view in the rainy months, the driver told him.
The drizzle turned into
a downpour as soon as he entered his hotel room. After consulting his driver he
abandoned his plans to see anything that day. If the weather cleared by evening
then he would take a walk in the forest nearby, he thought. He settled for
local delicacies for lunch. While lunch was being prepared he sat on a lawn
chair in the veranda and watched the rains whose fury didn’t seem to subside.
Never in his thirty years of life had he witnessed such a heavy rainfall, which
threatened to wash away everything with it. That moment he thought how helpless
a man was in front of the nature despite all the technological advancements he
had made.
Will the man ever be
able to tame the nature’s fury with technology? He wondered.
The waiter, a local
Khasi boy, who brought his lunch, interrupted his further thoughts. He looked
unperturbed by the heavy rains. With his characteristic smile he served him
lunch and moved away.
Akash ate hungrily and
finished his lunch sooner than he normally did. The rains continued unabated
and he remained confined to his room until noon the next morning. Even by
Cherrapunji’s standards the rains during the last twenty-four hours had been
rather incessant, he was told by the waiter.
In the afternoon the
weather cleared up, he immediately moved out of his room and went for a walk
into the forest. He needed time and solitude to carry out introspection, he
needed time to forget Kadambini and put behind her thoughts, her memories and
move on in life.
An hour’s walk took him
deep inside the young pine forest. His walk, however, was made little difficult
by the prevalent fog and soggy ground. Despite inclement weather it was the
ideal setting he was looking for. In his endeavour to look for some place to
sit he continued walking. Hardly had he moved a few kilometers when to his
astonishment he found someone emerge out of thick blanket of fog. Thought of a wild animal sent shivers down
his spine and he froze in terror not knowing where to escape. And then he
heaved a huge sigh of relief when he saw silhouette of a human being. Moments
later he was baffled to find it to be a girl when the figure became slightly
clearer. She carried a broken twig and kicked loose stones as she moved. Her
voice was surprisingly attractive. It was the low and melodious note suggestive
of a typical Khasi romance; described in tourist brochures but rare in
experience. When she came
within a few metres of him, he wished to hide behind a tree and hear her sing.
For, he wanted the music of her voice to descend deep within his heart. But
sadly she stopped humming as she saw him first and her question as to who he
was enticed an instant reply from him.
“It’s me, I mean
Akash,” he fumbled for words.
“So, what are you doing
here?”
“I’m a tourist. I came here
in the forest to take a walk.”
“I’m Sohra.”
“Shora,” he repeated.
“Forget it. Call me
Cherra. It’s much easier to pronounce. Even the British when they landed here
first failed to pronounce it correctly,” she said putting him at ease.
By then Akash was
thoroughly confused but he was sure of one thing that he had got the name of
the girl wrong. However, he couldn’t comprehend a bit of what she spoke about
the British getting it wrong. So to clarify his mind, he asked, “Could you tell
me what the mystery of Shora is?”
She looked at him and
smiled. For the first time he had a close look at her. She was a local Khasi girl
whose incredible beauty combined tribal innocence, magic of a pastoral poem and
jungle lore in the right blend. He stood spellbound by her earthy harm.
“Shall we go to some
place where we can talk comfortably,” she pulled him out of his trance.
A bit embarrassed, he
mumbled, “Yes.”
They went to an
abandoned hut, which was about a furlong from there. The hut was locked. The
cobwebs hanged all over the place. the
owner seemed to have been away since long. They stood in the veranda separated
by a few meters of gap.
“You were saying
something about the British?” he asked impatiently.
“Oh, yes,” she tried to
recollect, “firstly, it’s S-O-H-R-A and not what you pronounced the word
like. Secondly, I said the British too
didn’t pronounce it correctly.”
“What’s the tale?” he queried, settling down mentally to hear something
interesting.
She began, “It’s a
story that happened about hundred seventy years ago when Shillong didn’t exist.
It’s hard to believe, isn’t it but it’s true. Even if Shillong existed then, it
must have been a tiny non- descript village of few huts. The Khasi tribes of
this region often attacked the British troops stationed in then east Bengal.
Fed up with the attacks, the British troops decided to put an end to all this
and marched into the hills of Meghalaya from the south. The troops first
reached the village of Sohra. Since they found it hard to pronounce they named
it Cherra and the village of Sohra since then came to be known as Cherrapunji.
Punji is the word for a village in Khasi. Later when the British found it to be
quite a rainy place they shifted their garrison from Cherrapunji to present day
Shillong. With passage of time Cherrapunji lost its importance and Shillong
from a nondescript village became a bustling capital of the entire northeastern
region. It remained so for a long time even after independence till Assam’s
capital was shifted to Dispur. However, Cherrapunji’s name in history got
assured when the world discovered it to be wettest place on the planet
receiving the highest rainfall annually. Isn’t it quite baffling that this
small village gets more rainfall than any other place on earth, not even in the
Amazon valley?”
“Surely, it seems a
fairytale kind of thing. It’s hard to believe that I’m walking around here
which is a well known place in the world,” he spoke in admiration. “But how do
you know all this?”
“I was a young child
when the British landed here first,” she smiled.
“So, then how old you
are?” he asked seriously.
“I’m not good at math.
You can calculate,” she grinned mischievously.
“You want me to believe
this,” it was his turn to smile when he thought she was pulling his leg. “You
couldn’t be a human being to live that long. Only ghosts have such long lives.”
“Who knows I could be
one,” suddenly she became serious.
“You’re trying to scare
me,” he laughed.
“No, you should have
belief in yourself.”
“I do.”
Then for a moment they
fell silent. When asked he told her everything about himself, his parents, his
job, his courtship with Kadambini and how she had left him a week ago for a
rich NRI. She listened to him patiently, sympathetically without intervening in
between and he finished, she remarked, “I’m not a philosopher but I believe in
one thing that life must go on irrespective of upsets and upheavals. We can
learn a lot from the nature. For example, look at the hills of Cherrapunji. Do
you find any change in their behaviour. They are what they must have been when they
were born and they would remain the same for times to come. Till recently the
hills of Cherrapunji received the highest rainfall and then suddenly Mawsynram
has usurped its unique status, which incidentally is the wettest place on earth
now. Do you feel that this village or the hills surrounding it are lamenting
the loss of their place? Certainly not. This place is as vibrant as it was
before. That’s what life’s all about. Nature teaches us a lot.”
He was amazed by her
simple explanation of a complex human philosophy. If her beauty extra-ordinaire
had stirred his heart, her intelligence had touched his soul. He wished she
filled vacuum in his life. Will she agree to his proposal, he doubted. But
there was no harm in trying, after all, otherwise how would he know what she
had in her mind.
Gathering courage, he
inched closer to her and whispered, “Cherra, will you marry me?”
“Oh, you want to marry
a ghost,” she laughed teasingly.
“Please, I need you,”
he begged.
He looked at her in
anticipation and held his breath. Though lips moved, she said nothing. Perhaps
she needed time to decide, he thought. He understood the predicament she was
undergoing. After all, it was all-important decision of her life and she didn’t
want to take it in haste. And so he waited.
But the fickle weather
of Cherrapunji didn’t wait. The rains lost the intensity but the fog gained
momentum and within minutes it filled the entire area—the forest, the valley
and the hut. It came rushing into the veranda and suddenly the day turned into
a night with nothing visible. Akash panicked and thought that he would lose
her. She would disappear in the fog as she had emerged out of it. He groped for
her in the dark but didn’t find her. Frantically he searched her around the hut
but she wasn’t there. In desperation he shouted her name, Sohra repeatedly.
Then he sat on the
ground dejectedly thinking he had lost her forever. But to his utter dismay the
fog started drifting away from the hut and when he looked around he saw her
standing nearby. Tears rolled down his eyes in sheer joy.
She came close, lifted
him up and whispered, “Had it not been for the fog I wouldn’t have known how
much you love me.”
“So, I take it you’ll
marry me,” he was ecstatic.
“Meet me in Shillong
tomorrow at 10 a.m. at central point. I’ll tell my answer there.”
“You can come along
with me in the taxi,” he suggested.
“Don’t worry about me.
I’ll be there on time. I’ve wings, I can fly,” she teased.
He hesitated for a while
and then said, “What if I don’t find you in Shillong?”
“If you believe me, you
will,” she said and left. He watched her disappear into the drifting fog.
“If….,” he feared to
entertain the
thought.
* * *
Fog
Anubhav lived in the plains in the midst of heat, dust
and humidity of Agra. It was a city, which experienced extreme weather
conditions. During summers the temperature almost touched 50 degree Celsius,
while the winters often got freezing cold. The other two seasons, the rainy and
the autumn, came and went unnoticed. Citizens of the Taj city got a brief
respite during the month of November. When he was a child he had been to the
hills of Kumaon and Himachal on a few occasions with his parents. The virgin
beauty of the hills had captivated and left an indelible mark on his
impressionable young mind that he often wished to run away into the lap of the
mountains and spend his life there. But Alas! That couldn’t happen. He was tied
down to a very demanding business.
Representing the burgeoning Indian market’s new breed of confident
entrepreneurs, he was an
exporter of garments. In every way he was a self made man. Armed with a
business degree from a reputed foreign university, he had spurned many lucrative
job offers from both Indian and multi-national companies. His parents had been
shocked by his intention to set up a garment factory and enter into the export
market. His father had tried to talk him out of it. "No one in our family ever
ran a grocery shop leave anyone venturing into the business. As far as I know
all our ancestors had been administrators," his father had argued. Anubhav knew
that his father, an IAS, wanted him to follow in his footsteps but somehow he
wasn’t cut out for ten to five job. Since college days his bent of mind was
towards business. His father had bowed before the wishes of his only son.
During
the initial days of struggle he had annoyed his father once again when he had
refused to take any monetary assistance from him in setting up his own studies.
He had politely told him that he wanted to be a self made man in true sense.
Nothing more than the blessings he was ready to accept from his parents for his new venture. With some luck and plenty of hard work, his business
grew and within three years his company’s turnover increased from fifty
thousand to around fifty lakh rupees, and catapulted him into a dream success
story. It was a phenomenal growth. The market had the potential for much more
and he was sure that within a decade he would be a major player in the garment
export.
Success
is always sweet and hard earned sweeter. However, every success always
extracted a huge price, he often remembered his mother’s words of wisdom. In
his case too the success had taken out a huge price, time, from him.
Time
for him had become such a precious commodity that he had little for his
parents, his friends, and most importantly, for himself. His day began early at
about 5 a.m. and then after a hard grind he could manage to go to bed at 11
p.m. And of the six hours that he got for himself, he found them insufficient
but he had no other option. The tough competition in the world market kept him
on the toes. He was constantly thinking of ways of improve his quality and make
into roads into newer African markets wherein he found a tremendous potential
for his products.
During
fortnightly dinners with his parents, his mother never forgot to coax him to
find a suitable girl and get married. Her simple motherly logic was that the
wife would take his bulk burden off. However, he wasn’t emotionally ready for
the marriage yet as his whole time was taken up by the growing business. So, on
each occasion he deflected her mother’s question and concern so diplomatically
that his father never forgot to mention to him that he would have made a better
diplomat than a businessman. He simply smiled at his father’s comment.
Taking time off his business was a distant dream. So,
suddenly when the opportunity came his way after three years he was delighted.
His parents too were happy for him and asked him to proceed on vacation
straightway. Coincidentally, on the previous night Vincent, his college friend,
had called him up and invited him to visit Kohima, where he worked. He had
promised to ring back with a positive response.
Vincent was a Naga who had come to Delhi for his
graduation. They had joined the college the same day and incidentally clicked
well the moment they got acquainted. And in next three years he learnt a lot
from Vincent about the northeast, in particular Nagaland. During the umpteen
coffee sessions Vincent narrated him countless fascinating stories, mostly folk
tales, which aroused intense curiosity in Anubhav’s mind that he promised
Vincent that he would certainly see Nagaland. But somehow he couldn’t accompany
Vincent to Kohima during the vacations. Later he went abroad for his business
degree and Vincent returned to Nagaland to take up a government job. He revived
his friendship with Vincent once he established his business.
Next day he contacted his travel agent and asked him
to make arrangements but didn’t inform Vincent about his plan. Once he landed
at Dimapur airport he rang up Vincent and told him that he was on his way to
Kohima. An annoyed Vincent cautioned him about the weather and gave him the
cell number of Daniel, a taxi driver in Dimapur. The delayed flight upset his plan and he was forced to
halt for the night at Dimapur. Daniel met him in the hotel room and told him to
get ready by 8 a.m. the next day. In the first instant itself he understood why
Vincent had suggested Daniel. His pleasing demeanor had impressed him.
Next morning Daniel was outside at his room sharp at 8
o’clock. A few minutes later their journey began. To Anubhav’s question
regarding time required to reach Kohima, Daniel’s philosophical reply was that
it depended on the weather and so it wouldn’t hazard a guess. Anubhav gazed at
the overcast sky. The white clouds wandering aimlessly across the sky seemed
quite assuring that the rains would skip that day. So, he found Daniel’s reply
a bit intriguing. After all, whatever little knowledge he had acquired during
his school days was enough to tell him that white clouds didn’t bring in the
rains. So, he brushed aside his companion’s concern about weather as preposterous. Afraid, he might invite some outlandish
comment from Daniel if he talked to him; he opened a book and started reading.
Daniel, however, seemed unperturbed as he drove on.
Both were too lost in their own thoughts to think of any conversation. However,
they remained oblivious of the sudden weather transformation. Hardly had they
traveled for an hour, when the whole sky got covered with rain-bearing clouds.
And without any warning, thunder nor lightning, the rain came down heavily. The
strong accompanying winds lashed the windscreen and threatened to tear it
apart. Anubhav hadn’t experienced such an intense rainstorm before and
therefore, he was getting perturbed but for Daniel it was a common occurrence.
So, he was unfazed and continued driving. On sharp bends, however, he was
cautious and slowed down. Some minutes later, though, even he too got anxious.
From the hilltops the dense fog had begun descending rapidly and filling the
lower slopes along which the road went. For a while he drove under the fog
light but when the fog became quite dense the road apparently became invisible.
“Sir, I think we’ll have to halt at some place and
wait until the fog clears. It’s dangerous to drive under these conditions. A
week ago two trucks had fallen into a ravine, not far from here,” Daniel
informed him.
A perturbed Anubhav asked, “Where?”
“Don’t worry, sir. I hope to find some hut soon.”
The car was moving slower than a snail in the fog.
Daniel was anxious but not unduly worried for he knew there was a hut close by.
During numerous trips to Kohima he had seen that hut but never stopped at it.
Minutes later he got a whiff of charcoal coming from his left. He halted
his taxi to a corner. Without exchanging a word they dismounted and walked
towards the hut. It was pitch dark even during the day and they found it quite
tough to climb the hill. Once they reached within a meter they saw the faint
light of a lantern filter though the glass window.
Daniel knocked at the door and shouted loudly in his
own language. In the din of howling of the wind his voice got submerged. It
took him a great deal of shouting before a middle-aged woman opened the door.
He spoke something to her briskly and then the woman let them in. Both were
soaked and shivering. The woman ushered them to the hearth, which contained
burning coal. On a closer look, Anubhav found three pretty women sitting at the
hearth warming themselves. They stood up and offered them their stools. The
older woman urged them to dry their clothes against the fire lest they caught
cold. One of the girls at the behest of her mother poured the water in a kettle
and hung it over the fire.
In the dim of light Anubhav strained his eyes to watch
their actions and tried to hear their conversation. Daniel was engaged in
friendly dialogue with the elderly woman. The girls talked amongst themselves.
Perhaps they all talked about the weather, or about him, a stranger in their
midst. He looked at them.
A little later one of the girls offered him a hot cup
of tea. His clothes had dried up and his shivering subsided. The tea energized
his soaked sinews. To his strange delight Daniel had started translating the
conversation without any request from him.
“Where are the men? I see no one in the house,” Daniel
asked.
"Their father has gone to town to fetch groceries,”
the landlady replied.
“Will he come back tonight?”
“Can’t say. I doubt if he makes it in this weather,”
Anubhav found the woman’s response relaxed and saw her look at him attentively.
“Who’s he?” she asked.
“A friend of mine. He came to spend a week in Kohima,”
Daniel explained.
“Oh,” the woman smiled. The girls giggled.
Anubhav wondered why they did what they did.
“It seems the weather isn’t going to clear up. We
might have to spend the night here,” Daniel looked helplessly at the woman and
spoke.
“No problem. Better you leave tomorrow morning. By
then this storm would peter out,” her words removed Daniel’s major worry of the
moment. A shelter for the night was all he needed.
The woman asked the girls to prepare dinner for the
guests. So, their status had got upgraded from shelter seekers to that of
guests, Anubhav grinned. Their talks had again turned to weather, he noticed.
The woman complained that she was witnessing one of most horrendous nights in
her life. The rainstorm was into its sixth hour and still going strong. She
wondered how long it would go on like that.
The three girls were busy in preparing dinner and they
paid little heed to the dialogue between their mother and Daniel. Once a while,
though, they did glance at Anubhav out of curiosity. Once dinner, consisting of rice and
vegetables, was ready the girls laid it out on a small table. They ate dinner
quietly. The plates were removed and placed in the makeshift kitchen. The woman
lighted a pipe and offered it to Daniel. In the meantime the girls too settled
down with them after finishing their chores.
By chance Anubhav looked at his watch. It was 6 p.m.
but it was so dark
outside as if it were midnight. It was going to be the
longest night of his life and he didn’t know how to spend time. He wondered if
the hut would survive the fury of the rains and the howling winds. In his life
he never had felt so petrified but in their company he put up a brave front.
Besides that horrendous night, there were plenty of things, which looked
bizarre to him. One, the hut was located far away from any village. Two, it had
no male members and the woman’s reply that her husband was away to Kohima to
purchase groceries wasn’t very convincing. Three, the three girls somehow
didn’t seem normal to him. Four, the whole place had an eerie ambience.
But
Daniel perfectly felt at home in the company of those women and that gave him
some comfort. To his rather unusual query as to why they stayed away
from the main village, his host had a tale to tell. She narrated that her
father-in-law was a very influential man in the village but he was quite
orthodox in his beliefs. And he held one belief that the education was bad
thing for the simple tribal folks as it brought devil into their minds and thus
was a hindrance in their way of achieving heaven after death. So, he never
educated his children. It was a different matter though all his children except
my husband died when they were young. But everyone in the village wasn’t like
him and when the pastors came to the village to spread education, he drove them
away. Unable to bear his idiosyncrasies, other villagers one by one left
the village and settled about a mile from here. Only he stayed back. So that
explains our lonely existence.
“Is he alive?” he asked looking incredulously at her.
“No, he died a decade ago.”
“Then why didn’t you people shift to the new village?”
“My husband didn’t feel the need,” was her cryptic
reply.
“So, you spoiled the future of your daughters in the
bargain,” he sounded concerned.
“What education? My daughters are wise and know
everything a woman needs to know to keep her husband happy after the marriage.
Moreover, they are fabulous storytellers. Perhaps you aren’t aware, we have six
daughters and not three. Three of them have gone away with their husbands and
now live happily with them,” she said proudly.
“Do you mean to say they were chosen for their
storytelling capabilities than their educational qualifications,” Anubhav
glanced at Daniel, then at the girls and shrugged his shoulders in disbelief.
Daniel nodded in affirmation. The girls simply smiled
in which they were quite good at because in the last few hours he had noticed
that they smiled on and at almost everything. Undoubtedly they were pretty but
they were illiterate and it was rather unusual for any sensible man to marry
anyone of them for their physical beauty alone, he argued in his mind.
The woman took a long drag from pipe. For a while they
fell silent.
“But for the fog, we would have continued our
journey,” Anubhav lamented.
The woman
looked at him affectionately and spoke, “Yeah, this fog is quite dense
and
almost impassable but it’s nothing compared to what the natives experienced
hundred years ago. My grandmother once told me that her husband with some
villagers had gone for hunting in the forest where he was caught in the thick
fog, which lasted almost a week. And once the fog cleared two villagers had
lost their way back home and never returned. Even till date their bodies
haven’t been found. Some say wild animals ate them, some say they crossed over
into Burma and lived there until their deaths. But no one’s sure what happened
to them.”
“So, fog has been a kind of devil to you folks,” he
commented.
“For some may be but not for me. Fog has brought light
in our lives. The denser the better.”
Intrigued by her statement, he questioned, “How?”
“The thick fog, which makes movement on the roads
impossible forces the travellers to take a shelter for the night in the nearest
place. And our hut’s providential location attracts the hapless passengers. A
knock at our doors during a foggy day or night means a godsend opportunity for
us. We provide free food and shelter to the stranded persons. During the long
nights when they get bored, our daughters take turns to narrate them stories.
Often someone takes fancy to the stories and offers to marry the girl,” she
said excitedly. “There have been some instances when the strangers failed to
arrive at a decision, the fog persisted for another day and helped them to make
up their minds.”
“Did some stranger leave without marrying any of
daughters.”
“Yeah, it did happens once,” she said recollecting.
“About ten years back, on such a foggy night a man had walked in and pleaded
for shelter. When he heard stories from my daughters he appreciated very much
but refused to marry. Finding me disappointed he offered to stay for a week and
teach us English. His logic was that knowledge of another language would
broaden the horizons of my daughters and enhance their capabilities to narrate
stories to someone who didn’t know the native dialect but English.”
“Why did that man refuse to marry any of your
daughters?” he asked curiously.
“He was a pastor,” she replied briskly.
“And when was that?”
“After my three daughters had got married off.”
“So, none of them had had a chance to tell their
stories in English to anyone so far,” he queried anxiously.
“They have you now,” she said with a mysterious grin.
He felt a chill run down his spine. So, he would have
to listen to their stories and then chose one of them as his future wife. It
was the most bizarre circumstance he was confronted with. Why should he
unnecessarily bother about the issue? He can listen to them and then refuse to
marry anyone in the morning, he thought. After all, the woman had laid no such
precondition. Or, he could feign illness and decline to listen to them but that
would be foolish, for he would never know what stories the girls told and
mystery would never be resolved. Moreover, he had no other options to spend
that long night.
The woman signaled to his daughters that it was time
to wind up. She stood up and ushered her both guests to their beds, separated
by a thin bamboo screen, which afforded privacy from the sight but not the
sound. Grudgingly Anubhav sat on the bed. The smell of dampness was
discomforting. He tried to lie down on the bed but stood up the next moment
when he saw a girl walk in. She pulled a stool and sat near him. After a brief
introduction she started to tell him a story. He listened it with childlike
attention. It was a folk tale, absorbing, intriguing. On the other side he
heard Daniel listen to another story. The only difference was that he heard in
his own language.
Thus for the first half of the night the girls
enthralled them with fabulous stories, whose impact was so profound that they
kept thinking about them for quite sometime. That night he understood why
strangers proposed to marry the girls. A beautiful storyteller for a wife
wasn’t a bad deal, after all.
Next morning the fog cleared up and like on the
previous occasions, left a smile on her face. The men got ready hurriedly and prepared to leave.
Inside the hut the mother bade a tearful farewell to one of his
daughters, while the other two looked on jealously. She accompanied them to the
road where the car lay after suffering the nightlong storm.
Once the girl got inside the car, she shook hands and
thanked the both men. Minutes later Anubhav and Daniel were moving on the
highway.
Both men looked at each other and smiled.
* * *
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