Jekhane Dekhibe Chaai ( Wherever You See Ash.....)

It was a rushed evening. We were hurrying with our last-minute shopping as were most others around us. 

‘We’ were mainly women, old and young, running up and down those tiny gallies, peeping into little shops, pushing our way into the bigger ones, searching for today’s styles at yesterday’s prices, checking, sorting, screening, cajoling, haggling on our last minute purchases: sarees, blouses, salwars, lehengas, shoes, cosmetics, bangles, earrings and all those millions of little things that make being a woman such a pleasure and a delight. And all this before Maha Shashti, the first day of Durga Pujo, dawned tomorrow.

I was on the trail of a designer blouse, of a particular shade of mehendi green, to wear with my Green Dhakai Jamdaani
( you may like to refer to my eponymous post on this exquisite piece of woven magic at www.indmanbhatta.blogspot.in). It was a difficult task but I finally found one, and though it did not live up to my rather high (read snooty) standards, but having no other option so late in the day, I purchased it. I was then running with my extended family back to the main road to catch a ToTo (that’s what the E Rickshaws are called, here in my home town), when this funny thing happened.

As I hurried, half walking, half running down those fast darkening streets, I spotted a strange sight. On the steps of a large shop, its shutters now down, four or five little boys stood frantically tearing up packets of what looked like wafers. They all seemed to be around ten or twelve-year-olds and around their feet lay strewn hundreds of packets, very similar to the packets in which Lays wafers and Kurkure are sold. Some were pink while others were blue and curious I stopped to ask another interested onlooker,

“Yeh kya kar rahein hain?”

The man answered, “ Paickit mein paisa hai….Oose dhoondh rahein hain……”

“Really!” I was intrigued.

I lingered on even as Other Half moved ahead.

There was an iron railing that separated me from a little boy in a fading, cheap polyester shirt, tearing at a pink packet with his teeth. I leaned over the rails and watched him. He took his teeth off the packet and why I do not really know, said to me,
“ Isme coin milta hai!”

And as he said it, he looked at me straight in the eye, his face full of such heart wrenching earnestness that I forgot to breathe for a second. So I lingered, to see how his luck treated him as he went back to his tearing of packets, sometimes with his teeth and sometimes with his fingers.

I asked the man standing next to me, “ Yeh packets inko kahan se mila?”

“Woh kharab vaala hai.” He informed me. “Dukan vaalon ne phenk diya hai.”

His explanation sounded reasonable, for this was mostly a market of whole sellers and I could understand how one lot of these pre- packaged snacks may have gone bad and thus got thrown away.

The man went on, “ Isme bacchon ka game rehta hai.”

Ah, now I understood.

“To coin nahin hai…..game hai…..!” I uttered aloud my conclusion.

The little boy heard me and interjected. He did not seem to agree with what I had just said. He handed me a packet to prove his point,

“Dekho dekho, isme coin hai!” he said, placing my fingers around a round disc like object inside the packet. It could be a coin, I thought, but more likely it was a beyblade kind of thing, for to my fingers it felt too thin to be a coin.

But then Hope is such an optimistic little bird…………..

I urged him eagerly, hopefully, “Kholo kholo……dekhen……!”

The little boy tore the packet open and upturned its contents onto the ground.

Some kind of Fryums like snack spilt onto the ground. We both hunched down, looking for the coin. But it seemed to have disappeared. 

Perhaps it was never there. 

I looked up at the boy, hesitant to face his dejection. But he had returned to his string of pink packets and was tearing diligently at another one. I asked him, cautiously, “Kya hua? Isme nahin tha kya………….”

But he did not answer. He had no time to waste answering silly questions posed by middle aged voyeuristic women. I turned to my path and followed it homewards, leaving him with his pink packets and his quest for coins.

As I walked back, I found myself feeling immeasurably sad. And my beautiful leather purse with its snapshot of the Goddess and its little coin pocket jingling with coins I rarely used, felt very heavy in my hand.

What if I turned back and emptied my coin pocket into palms of that little boy dressed in the fading cheap polyester shirt?

The thought came in a flash and went away in a flash too, as I got busy flagging down the ToTo and settling into it with my family.

I really don’t know how to end this post. Should I talk of the grinding poverty that ails our country and of the Grand Canyon deep gap that exists between the haves and the have nots that are its children? But it’s such a done to death topic that my mind refuses to talk about it.

Instead let me write a few lines on the topic of optimism.

There is a verse by Tagore that goes  “Jekhane dekhibe chai, uraiya dakho tai, pileo pitae paro amulya ratan" (Wherever you see ash, sift through it, and perhaps you might find within it a precious gem)!

I think this odd experience of mine** is an illustration of the indefatigable spirit of the people of my country, whom no amount of poverty, hardship, hunger, want or need can defeat….who spend their inconsequential little lives sifting through garbage, rubbish, polypacks and ash, surviving solely on slivers of faith and of hope, sustained and dreaming of the Amulya Ratan that they might find  there one lucky day…….

**(  I wonder why on earth I always land up having such weirdo experiences like this....)

Rallying for Women

Devi Pakshya (देवी पक्ष) has dawned. The Goddess has begun the journey to her home, and is earthward bound. In another week, she will arrive and the whole world (well at least Bengal) will be immersed in her worship and in celebrations. Everything for those five days will be about her, the Devi; the prayers, the food, the dress, the song, the festivity, everything. For those few days, a woman will be in ascendant. That's a good thought, even if she is only a Goddess, just an idol of made of clay and dried grass.

It has just so happened that over the last few days, I've been working very closely with women. With Devi Pakshya arriving, I felt that this was kind of apt too. 

My work sphere is ordinarily, very very male dominated and at time it so happens that I am the only woman in a sea of men. This is a tiring situation and believe me, quite, quite unenviable. I get fed up of the hyper-inflated egos, the misplaced sense self worth, the unending crassness, the astounding lack of sensitivity, of empathy, of finesse, of beauty and of course the invariable BO, the BB (bad breath), the BW (bad words) and the exasperating sight of much surreptitious cradling of the nether regions of their bodies. This overdose of the Y chromosome really gets to me at times and I often find myself craving some refined feminine company.

So it was a real pleasant experience for me to interact with a rare breed, women of my profession in high places, women of note in my worksphere.

The first thing that struck me and very pleasantly too was the air of gentleness that women bring in with them to the workplace. With men, it is as if being gentle takes away their masculinity and therefore they make it a point to be rough, in all their dealings, especially with those inferior to them in station. With women, I found, it is quite the opposite. They are soft spoken and courteous, to all without exception and consequently the atmosphere around them changes to one of facilitation, rather than intimidation.

Women are born empaths, without an iota of doubt. They can sense what boosts you, what hurts you, what gladdens you, what brings you down. And they act upon their intuition and therefore have much better interpersonal work relationships.

They are upright too, with honesty of aim and purpose and procedure and it is straightforward business working for them and with them.

It was therefore a real delight to interact with a few women, as I said previously, women in high places, women who are successful professionals in my field of work and who, I found, have become so without sacrificing their femininity and their essence as women.

A perfectly draped sari, a thin gold band on the finger and a thinner one on the wrist, a mellifluous voice that never raised itself without cause, a kind smile, a faint fragrance of an exotic perfume, a lilting laugh, a patient ear, a kind word of genuine concern............. I watched with increasing vindication of my respect for women as professionals, as the huge, burly, brusque and very masculine male colleagues and staff were turned into “eager-to-please” mush around these elegant and accomplished women.

And it is not that these women are all colourful butterflies without substance. Not at all. If you spent time with them a while, you might get dazzled by the glare of the tempered steel beneath the surface, tough and sharp and driven.

I know all women professionals are not as wonderful as the ones I have described just as all male professionals are not as awful as I have painted them out to be. It is never correct nor just, to fit  human beings into narrow, watertight categories. We are all gray, never black or white. I know that. Yet, I remain of the opinion that women make much better professionals, in most fields.

It may be that it was a coincidence that I got to interact with this particularly great set of women over the past few days. Or that I was so jaded with my daily interaction with men, men and more men that my judgement is coloured and I am consequently, going overboard with my assessment. Perhaps.

But whatever it may be, I would still vote for women professionals. I personally may have reached a murky professional dead-end and am prone to being hounded by pangs of disillusionment; yet, I’d always rally behind women, any day. Like the Goddess and unlike her too for her days are limited to ten a year, I will pray that they always remain in ascendant.

Everywhere.

At all times.

And that it is Devi Pakshya always, forever!

MUSINGS V

Many years, back it just so happened that my hometown and my work-town coincided.

Those were happy days which Other Half and me spent re-discovering my beautiful place of birth, learning to look at it with new eyes. We roved the city on his mobike from college days, a tried and trusted Yamaha; spending entire Sundays and most evenings gallivanting around the town’s long, lonely roads, its gullies and of course those special spots from my growing up years.

One such evening we had gone to eat at a favourite Chinese joint and had got delayed as we chatted with the Indian Chinese owner and dawdled over the food. Therefore, when we were finally ready to return, the clock hands were nearing midnight. My town was by habit an introvert and in those leisurely times nearly two decades back, it actually went to sleep not a minute after eight. Therefore, at twelve midnight, the streets were so deserted that in the ensuing silence, I could almost hear the town snore.

        Our bike speeded through the empty streets mostly unhindered except for the occasional time when it was accosted by a especially territory-conscious stray dog. It was March but winter had still not said goodbye. The night was pleasantly chilly and the roads mostly dark as no street lights were lit.

I spotted it from afar, a pool of saffron light, shining in that dark night at a point on our left, at the edge of the road. As we neared it, I could hear the loudspeaker bawl. I remembering muttering to myself: “Ours is truly a lawless land. Just look. Loudspeakers blaring at midnight with such impunity! Do we even have a police force????”

               It was a small pandal, set up with garish pink and red and saffron satin with a low makeshift stage. At one end banners announcing Ramnavami celebrations scheduled for the next day hung, adorned with photos of local political leaders complete with insincere smiles and hands folded in sychophantic namastes. 

I remembered. It was Ram Navami tomorrow.

The little enclosure had been set up for the neighbourhood celebrations to be held the next day. And of course, the blameless loudspeakers were only practising for tomorrow’s function. With Lata Mangeshkar’s Shri Ram Chandra Kripalu Bhaja Mana............., that well known hymn by Tusidas from Ram Charita Manas.

Then I saw him. A man. Maybe a rickshaw wallah, judging from the rickshaw standing idly outside, sans driver. This man, the probable rickshaw puller would ordinarily have been simply an ordinary rickshaw puller.

But he wasn’t.

That was because I found him dancing. To the bhajan blaring from the loudspeaker: Shri Ram Chandra Kripalu Bhaja Mana....

He was a local Adivasi, perhaps an Oraon, or a Santhal or a Munda, or maybe a Birhor. I didn’t know for sure. He had a head full of thick curly hair, grey and black and a wild moustache to match, again grey and black. A dirty gamchha was tied like a semi turban round his head. He wore a battered full sleeved shirt, its sleeves rolled up till his elbows; and a checked lungi that was doubled up and tucked firmly at his waist. His skin was darker than the night and his eyes were closed. He was dancing, hands raised to the havens, flexed at the elbows, feet moving in slow and deliberate rhythm to the beautiful bhajan playing from the rickety speakers.

         Something about that scene attracted me. Perhaps it was the strong surrealistic feel.

“Stop, stop,!” I poked Other Half eagerly. Prudently, he didn’t stop but slowed down.

There was no one else in that place at the time, except us on the bike and the dancing man.

A single mercury vapour lamp threw an orange glow all around and within the pandal.

Lata kept up her singing, her strong voice brimming with adulation: .“Shri Ram! Shri Ram!"

The man danced unconcerned, eyes closed, head tilted to one side, moving in slow circle:

“Nava Kanja Lochana Kanja Mukha Kara Kanja Pada Kanjaarunaam........”

“His eyes are like newly blossomed lotuses; His face, His hands and His feet are like the lotus and the red of the rising sun....”

He reminded me of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu dancing in the rapture of his adulation for his beloved Sri Kishna......reminded me of the whirling dervishes of Turkey, dancing in the unadulterated ecstasy of their worship.....!

It was really late and not quite safe for we were all alone. Very conscious of this fact and immune to the chams of surrealism in all its forms, Other Half picked up speed and raced home. As we wove our way through the lanes and bylanes, I kept thinking about that man dancing alone in the night, in perfect communion with his God.  Maybe a swig too many of Hadiya, the local rice brew had helped him attain his trance but then who was I to judge, to come between him and his God?

         If there was ever a direct hotline established between man and the gods, I am sure it was that night between that Adivasi rickshaw puller and his adored  Shri Ram.

And so, even today, whenever I hear the strains of Shri Ram Chandra Kripalu Bhaka Mana (the version that has been sung by Lata mangeshkar specially),  my thoughts invariably move back to that spring night in my hometown, a saffron coloured midnight when a man danced his prayer to his God.

One worships ones gods in many ways and forms: through gyan or knowledge, through service of others, through remembrance, through song, through ritual and through total surrender. The last, that of total surrender is something akin to Love, a state when one is immersed absolutely in adoration of the beloved,  a state when the mind, the body and the soul are absorbed completely unto one’s God.

I contemplate wistfully, Heyyyy, wish someone loved me like that.....

Heck,  wish I could love my God like that....

Musings IV:Fruस्त!

We have been conducting an examination today since early morning and now are correcting the answer papers and collating the results.
We are four, of various ages, genders, professions and circumstances. But at this moment, we have one distinct thing in common: We are bone-exhausted.
The day has been tiresomely long, more than twelve hours now.
The room is a little warm, our backs are aching with the continuous sitting in one posture and our eyes are swollen red with all the small print reading. And as for our  brains, they have congealed into mulch with the rubbish that the examinees have submitted, masquerading as answers.
I look at the clock. Its hands are inching towards eleven and twelve.
Then I look around. The young man opposite me looks as if he will slide down the sofa if I just tap his shoulder. But he is bravely holding on to the paper, reading loudly in an attempt to ward off sleep. The woman beside me stretches and then walks over to a table, hoping that the straight posture at a hard desk and harder chair will keep her awake. The young woman sitting opposite stares back at me unseeing, eyes glazed over, hair askew......and as for me, I don't even dare to conjecture what I must be looking like just now: probably like a banshee on amphetamines maybe....
The rot that we are correcting is not helping in any way, adding layers and layers of frustration, futility and monotony over our muscle-wrenching exhaustion.
We are at the brink of a breakdown, all four of us.

Just then, the young woman opposite me slams her papers down, slams herself against the sofa back and announces,
"Ma'am, मैं तो Fruस्त हो गयी!!!!!!!

At first I don't get it. Then as I look at her face, it hits  me:
Frustration+ त्रस्त=  Fruस्त!!!!!!!

I find the giggles forming at the pit of my stomach and rising up, like when you've had a whole can of fresh, fresh Pepsi.
I laugh, loud and free and then keep giggling in bits and pieces as the humour hits in fresh waves each time I think about it.
What a beautifully apt description.

"Fruस्त!!!!!!!" indeed.

Even my blog with its supercilious five hundred worded Tharooresque pretensions, could never in its life be able describe our current predicament and state of mind as well as this simple two syllable fusion word.

Fruस्त!!!!!!!

😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁👌🏼👌🏼👌🏼👌🏼👌🏼👌🏼

I can feel energy and life return slowly back to my bones. The laughter has done its bit; and re-energised I attack my work with renewed vigour.

As I walk back home all alone in the night,  under a sharp clean sky and an incandescent moon, I look up at the dark mountain towering above me and gleefully say out loud to it, 'Fruस्त!!!!!!!'
Then letting that flabbergasted mountain mull over my new word of the day, I run back home, giggling.........