A Cracker Free Deepawali

The snapshots above are some posts from netizens against the ban on cracker sales this year in Delhi and NCR. The sheer intensity of the retorts prodded me to ask:-

So what is it about a cracker-free Deepawali that is so, so abhorrent?

Forgive my temerity in asking such juvenile questions but its just that I want to know. Silly curiosity, of course. That’s all. I swear. That’s all. No Communist agenda. No evil ‘Sickular’ design. And no anti-Hindutva scheme.

So, for this blog’s sake (and only for this blog, be assured of that) lets picture a scene. A Cracker Free Deepawali scene. A scene that I have conjured up with my abundant and hyperactive imagination. Its hypothetical of course, please be amply clear on that. This scene is purely a work of fiction and any resemblance to any situation or event is completely (I swear to you) unintentional.

This scene is more like something filched right out of a Karan Johar script.

Chocolate-y. Bubblegummy. Unreal. Impossible.

So, here it goes. Take a dekko........

A Cracker-Free Deepawali.

You wake up to an early winter morning. There’s a smell in the air, a cool fresh kind of smell. The sharp smoky odour of crackers that you are used to being greeted with every single Diwali morning of your life, is missing. That is because yesterday, on Choti Diwali there were no crackers burst. Not even one. Today too, would be the same.

But you have no time to spend musing on crackers. There is so much to do........

Get the Puja room ready for the evening’s worship.

Make the rangolis: one with flowers and leaves on the front porch, one with coloured dust in the Puja room, a Kollam you have learnt from a Tamil friend on the floor of the living room.

Wash and dry the diyas from last year and put them out in the winter sun to dry.

Wake the children up and hustle them out of their beds with promises of coconut laddoos, malpuas and of course an iPad for the older one and a toy Robot for the younger.

Set the clothes for the evening on the spare room bed:  His, yours and the kids. A beige sherwani, a burgundy lehenga, a little girl’s fluffy pink gown and a young man’s shining tuxedo.

Take out the crockery for the evening’s get together, wipe them clean and lay the table.

List out the gifts, placing tiny labels on them: Papa, Mummy, Tanu, Josh, Lovely Bua, Shefali Didi, Sinha Uncle and Aunty, Ghai Uncle and Aunty, Shaloo Bai, Paperwale Bhaiya, Doodhwaali Amma, Ruchie, the Aiyer family, the Sharmas from across the street, the PG bachelor from the opposite flat.......

Steep the rasgullas, fry the gujiyas, sauté the matar curry, slice the salad, garnish the meetha pulao...

Help Him string up the fairy lights.

And as the sun sets in the beautifully coloured Western sky, gather in the Puja room with the Family for Deepawali prayers. Close your eyes in reverence before the Goddess of Prosperity as old beloved arti bhajans, the sweet smoke of chandan agarbattis, the glow of the clay diya and the warmth of people you love washes over you in gentle waves......

The door bell rings and the children rush, behind Sugar Candy, your beige Labrador....There are old friends at the door that have come to spend Diwali with you. The adults gather in your living room. The children rush off to the porch. Soon your house resounds with laughter and giggles and happy talk. The kids run in and out of the house playing strange games that only a child would understand. This time you are not much worried about them playing outside. Inside they might break a few of your prized crystal figurines but outside its completely safe.

A least for Tanu.

You didn’t have to take out her claustrophobic N95 mask this Diwali. Nor bring down the oxygen concentrator from the loft. She has Childhood Asthma. It gets worse during winters what with the cold and the city’s traffic fumes. But during the Diwali week, it preys on her little lungs, her endless cough and heart rending wheeze echoing louder in your mother’s heart than all the patakha in the world. You remember how your Diwali evenings mainly consisted of endless battles with her over wearing that stifling mask and over prohibitions on going out to celebrate with her friends. But today, both you and Tanu are breathing, free of anxiety.

The door bell rings again. You glance at the clock. Nine pm. Wonder who it is this late, you think. You go to the door. But Sugar Candy is there before you. She loves people and this evening with your house full of friends, she is happier than ever. The ringing door to her means more people and that is why she has rushed out, even before you can react. For this Diwali she does not have to cower, shaking like a leaf under the bed at its farthest corner, as her world is ripped apart again and again and again with deafening, ear splitting explosions, whose ‘why’ she is unable to fathom. But this evening there is no stopping Sugar Candy from enjoying her Diwali. For today her world is filled with only the sounds she loves, sounds of her favourite people laughing and talking and simply being happy. She stands at the door, wagging merrily.

You peer out. It’s Ghai Auntie. And oh, there’s Ghai Uncle too. All wrapped up in shawls and caps and carrying along with their walking sticks, two stainless steel dabbas of home- made mithai. You are so pleasantly surprised. This old couple never ventured out of their little corner flat during  Diwali. Ghai Uncle had had a heart attack four years back and had been operated for it. Since they never left home during Diwali, you would make it a point to meet them the next day to hand over their Diwali packets. Ghai Aunty would tell you worriedly, Beta, patake ke awaaz se aapke Uncle ko neend nahin aati. Poorie raat jaage rehte hain,  headphones kaan mein lagake. Kehte hain ki jaise hi pataka phat ta hai, unka dil ka dhadhkan tez ho jaata hai...

You can remember the fear in her eyes, Darr lagta hai kahin phir se attack na aa jaaye.......

You smile at them today, Aaj baahar kaise Ghai Aunty?

It’s Ghai Uncle who answers as he hugs you and steps over the doorway, NO crackers, Beta, it’s a Cracker Free Diwali, he announces grandly.

Ushering them inside, you catch a glimpse of Arati your neighbour placing lighted diyas on her window sill. Her little daughter is helping her, handing over the oil filled lamps carefully to her mother as Arati lights them and places them over the sill.

So late, Arati, you call out.

She calls back.  Had gone to the Club for their cultural show. Just come back.

Preeti had gone with you? You ask. You remember last year how she had refused to come out of her home, clinging in abject fear to her Dad’s arms as the older children exploded deafening crackers in the courtyard.

Her mother had rued to you that evening. She is terrified of Diwali, Didi. Hates it. The noise really scares her.
Today Arati answers you. Yes. She really enjoyed the show.

Great, you wave at them. Happy Diwali, Arati. Come over once you’ve finished with the lamps.

Ok Didi. Arati waves back as Preeti smiles at you.

You turn to get back inside but catch a glimpse of the kids playing in the courtyard. It looks like they are attempting a garba. There is music playing on someone’s cell phone placed on a plastic chair. Tanu it seems is the dance director. She is bossing over the kids, most of them older to her and many of them teenage boys. With some of the older girls in attendance, she is ordering them to line up, showing them how to clap the garba sticks together, teaching them dance steps.....You watch them at their innocent play for a few minutes, amusement and relief flooding your heart and then as you turn to go back, you spot the Western sky. It is speckled with stars on this moonless amavasya night. You stand back for a moment to savour this spectacular night sky, pitch black, pierced with little solitaires and think.

This Diwali has been good to you, for you. 

Your Tanu has breathed free this Diwali. Ghai Uncle has rid himself off his obnoxious, useless head phones and come to celebrate Diwali with you and his friends without Ghai Aunty scared to death for his health and well being. 
Little Preeti has lit diyas without being petrified of chocolate bombs exploding next to her tiny ears. She can now grow up carrying happy memories of Diwali and not fear it any more. 
Sugar Candy has been able to continue to indulge in her love for people this Diwali without being jailed under the bed, unable to understand why the world had turned into a nightmare of sounds. 

You have celebrated this Diwali for the reasons it was meant to be celebrated, in the way it was meant to be celebrated............with lights for dispelling of darkness and with the drawing closer of family and friends...

And tomorrow, on Christmas Eve or on Eid or on Baisakhi, or during Sharmaji’s son’s wedding or even when India beat Pakistan at a midnight match, you can stand firm and tell your friends, 
Wait! Stop the crackers! They are not good for us, for any of us. 

You know we had celebrated a Cracker Free Diwali this year. 

You can do it too.

Random Thoughts of a Random Respectable Bhadralok

I am a very respectable person. A retired public servant. From a good family. You know, a respectable family, of respectable society. I was a senior executive in a respectable government enterprise. An employee of standing, much respected. Now I am retired. But I retain my respectability. Today I am travelling. From Kolkata to New Dilli. By flight. Air India, Boeing 787 Dreamliner. Executive class. I am going to spend Durga Pujo with my son at Delhi. Me and my wife. My son is at the XYZ Bank. He is a very senior manager there. He will send his office car to pick us up from T3 airport at Delhi. I am eager to meet him and my grandchildren. But I have to wait for a while for that. So I am sitting at the Kolkata airport, waiting for boarding for my flight to commence. My wife is sitting with me.
A young couple is sitting opposite us. Probably a husband-wife duo. But you can't tell for sure these days. No sindoor. No shankha pola. No mangal sutra. And of course no sari. Skin fitting jeans on both. The woman is falling all over the man, touching his hand, laying her head in his shoulders, giggling.....No sense of propriety, no sense of what behaviour is correct in a public space...So much shameless PDA. I learnt this word recently. Public Display of Affection. A bane of our times. A disease affecting all youngsters of today. I glance at my wife, sitting respectably away from me in the next chair. She is staring somewhere ahead, eyes not quite focussed. I call out to her (no names), Listen, have you brought the Bingo packet? She pulls out an orange pack from the Big Shopper at her feet. I tear it open and pull out a piece. It's spicy but tasty. I crunch into it. Just then, the girl sails into view. My teeth grind to a stop in mid crunch. Tall and thin, she is wearing her long hair loose with a funny  bun on the crown of her head. Silver colored shades and a shining pink lipstick. A thin almost transparent top sticks to her body, her woman curves sharply defined in display. And her jeans! Oh my God! They are torn in at least four places, large merciless gashes through which the bare skin of her legs are on full display. Shameless, I verbalise to my wife, pointing to the girl with my half eaten Mad Angle. My wife shakes her head, agreeing. Such lack of  a  sense of respectability, I continue. These educated women of today! Don't they have any sense of what kind of behaviour is right, what kind of behaviour is wrong? Torn jeans, body on display.....like a hussy.....When will they learn..........to behave in public.....
Quaking with righteous indignation, I finish my Mad Angles, roll and crumple my empty packet and throw it beneath my shining chrome-faux leather airport chair.

Of Porpoises and Plastic...

Our boat is a sad looking thing, peeling paint and rotten rafters. It must be an old one, I tell myself. In contrast to the aging boat, our boatmen are young. Very young. Locals from the banks of the Chilika.One is in class nine and the other in class ten, as they tell us later. Babu and Raja. Fiesty little men who handle the boat confidently, laughing with much amusement when we voice our fears at being sailed around by two underage kids in the vast and beautiful Chilika Lake in Odisha. They handle the boat and us like pros, their confidence boosted by Dad in an orange lungi following us protectively behind in another tourist laden boat.

We are on the trail of the Chilika dolphins. Chilika's dolphins are the Irrawady fresh water dolphins, Orcaella brevirostris: silver, snub-nosed and as cute as the bottlenosed dolphins of the oceans. They are though, not quite freshwater, living in the brackish waters of estuaries and are classified as 'vulnerable' with respect to their conservation status. We spot them after much questing, a brief view of a pair swooping in and out of the gray sea. Happy nevertheless, we return.

After an interesting ride over the choppy grey lake dotted with bamboo poles sticking out through its surface like Bhishma's bed of arrows, a few hungry seagulls, hoards of crows trying to negotiate the windy skies between two islands we reach a thin patch of land called Sea Mouth. We are to have lunch here in one of  the numerous palm thatched shacks. After the haggling over  the price and size of prawns is done, the cook tells us to walk over the opposite edge of the island for a view of The Bay of Bengal.

"Six minute to and six minutes fro" he tells us helpfully. "When you come back, lunch would be ready!"

We walk up a sandy path between rows of discarded plastic bottles, plastic wrappers, thermocol plates and thousands of coconut hulls, to the edge of the dune. Here we are rewarded with a view of a virgin beach and the deep turquoise Bay of Bengal surging at its Eastern edge. The golden beach is smooth and the waves perfect, topped by pure white surf and we are kids once again as we enter the water, giggling in chorus with the white surf.

After almost half an hour we are dragged reluctant out of the sea, like petulant kids on the verge of a tantrum, back to the shack for lunch. To compensate, this is a grand affair: mounds of rice, a yellow sea of mung daal with burnt jeera and slices of tomatoes floating in it, mashed potatoes, a single papad, tangy mixed vegetable pickle and of course the chef's special of succulent Chilika prawns in a violent red curry with explosive capabilities equalling that of an IED.

I am freshening up, standing by one of the wooden tables and as I brush my hair I look around. The little sand island, hardly 200 metres in breadth is pockmarked with mounds of plastic waste and empty coconut shells. Runners of hyacinth (well, it looks like hyacinth) on the sand bloom with guthkha wrappers, thermocol glasses and used nappies instead of pale purple flowers. The baby waves that lap the river side of Sea Mouth brings in more rubbish that tangles in the sand shrubs and remains, festooning the river beach with a garland of junk.
I find myself getting annoyed with an impotent indignation that needs urgent vent. The two young men, our boatmen sitting at the next table are easy victims.

 " What is all this?" I point to the dump next to the shack.

Raja smiles apologetically.

"Garbage."

"What about Swachh Bharat?" Derision drips like hot candle wax from my voice.

"You know about Swachh Bharat?"

The boy nods. He does. His class nine is at the local government school.
"Yes." He know it well.

I enquire again.
"So what's this?"

"Aswachh Bharat!" The boy replies.
No, he is not being funny. His voice is resigned.

But Babu, the tenth grader who looks like he is in class six is not one to get cowed down so easily...
"We collect these bottles and sell them to recycle. See..."
He shows me a sack full of plastic water bottles.
Somewhat mollified, I go on.
"You must tell these tourists not to throw rubbish like this. This rubbish will get washed away into the sea and choke your dolphins.........."
The boys listen intently, their keen eyes upon my face.
I go on.
"When you grow up and own your own boats, if this pollution continues unchecked, who knows whether there will be any dolphins left to roam your Chilika......."

I am aware I am full of hyperbole but it is all I can do.......dress my words with drama to sieze attention..

Two pairs of eyes follow my face and the desperation that I lace it with throws shadows on theirs.

"No tourists will like to come here then....."

I leave my words hanging like a portent in the salt heavy air.The boys look away meditatively, Raju into the distance and Babu at his sack of PET bottles.

That afternoon as I ride Raja and Babu's blue boat with its peeling paint and torn tarpaulin back to Satpada, I hope earnestly that my two bit words would not get blown away like Lay wrappers in the sea breeze or float away like Coke bottles at high tide....

Hope that one day if I am fortunate to return to this picturesque Sea Mouth where the river embraces the ocean, I'd find that a shrewd politician's nationalistic campaign for a clean country merged with a young people's dreams for a better future has worked to return Sea Mouth as Nature had intended it to be: clean, pristine, unsullied by human hands...


PS : There are other environmental issues plaguing coastal Odisha such as diesel boats on the Chilika destroying the Orcaella's habitat but I chose to write about this issue of littering of sea beaches because it is something that we as tourists are guilty of and something that we can stop easily if we have the will to do it. And I feel it is the locals who can play a major part in instilling this behavioural change in the tourists that visit them.

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.........