Valor of a Mother

Valor of a Mother – Probably a True, Well-Known Incident

In southern tips of West Bengal, near it’s Bay of Bengal washed south sea-shore, there lies a dense forest region called The Sundarbans.

In the fringes of this forest, in a village-hut, one evening, a young rural housewife was cooking supper.

Her child, an infant, was lying on a worn-out blanket, safely tucked out beyond the range of the burning earthen-chullah, the infant was lying behind the lady.

The lady was lost in her own thoughts. Her husband, a professional honey-gatherer is away inside the forest for the last one week with a group of same professionals from the same village.

Sundarban is infamous for it’s famous man-eating, cunning, huge and menacing tigers, called the Royal Bengal Tigers. Every year, almost every group of such wood-cutters, honey-gatherers, fishermen, who depend on Sundarban forest for filling up their belly, who ventures deep inside the forest, loses one or two persons who fall victims to these man-eaters.

Their wives, mothers, sisters at home bid them adieu tearfully when they leave. Some returns, some never. Who’ll come back and who’ll be gone forever nobody knows. Even the rivers and canals inside the forest are full of massive man-eating crocodiles. And also there are pirates who loot and kill these poor villagers.

Probably the lady was too imbibed in these thoughts and deeply worried about her husband’s state of affairs as there was no news for the last one week that she did not hear a soft, silent sound that indicated a gentle pushing of the weakly bolted door of the hutment.

The next instant, there was a thunderous roar and with a bang the weak, loose door literally de-bolted and  broke apart as the startled lady sprang to her feet and stared almost face-to-face in the closest range at a full-grown male royal Bengal tiger, the putrid warm breath of the same touching the lady and the baby on floor who’s now crying loudly, calling helplessly for her mother.

The tigers’ gaze was at the baby on the floor who for the man-eater is a lump of soft, tempting lump of delicious flesh almost ready for it’s dinner. The lady, stunned and dumb-fixed at the initial shock, could somehow follow the tiger’s gaze and read it’s intention immediately.

What followed next has now entered into the folklore of untold braveries of this forestland. As the beast moved towards the baby with an intention to pull it, it’s tail facing the lady, the mother, she forgot everything and grabbed the tail of the beast and pulled it hard with all the strength of her feeble, malnourished body, shouting and exclaiming at the top of the voice alarming all other villagers “Tiger…Tiger…Tiger is taking away my baby..my poor baby…please save us..!!!”

Touching the tail of a tiger is probably beyond the thought of the bravest of the brave. Going or standing near a man-eater is in itself a fearsome proposition, leave along even touching it’s tail. And here was a situation in which a mother, in an effort to save her child, was pulling the tail of the beast really hard, stretching the tail fully, and the beast is roaring menacingly and both the tiger and the lady are rapidly moving in full circles with the tiger in a desperate effort bending backwards repeatedly in a circle to catch hold of the lady; in the process it’s attention from the baby has got completely diverted.

A group of villagers standing outside the house witnessed this unequal battle which continued for a while; shouting they were, banging their sticks; but these efforts are nothing in front of a badly insulted, humiliated man-eater, who probably never imagined a poor human being will ever touch it’s tail, leave alone pulling the same and moving in circle with him, harassing him so long and depriving him of the delicious pray.

Finally the inevitable happened. The furious maneater managed to grab and clung his teeth and jaw ferociously on the waist of the lady whose grip on the beast’s tail loosened in extreme pain of it’s bite, snatched and lifted her up like a piece of fish fresh out of river in the jaws of a riverside bird, jumped – almost floated out in air crossing the accumulated milieu of people around the house and vanished in the deep dark abyss of the surrounding dense forest with the brave mother’s body still dangling down from it’s mouth, her one last gaze fixed at her infant child, now lying safe and unscathed on the floor. That was the last, finale, ultimate consolation of a brave mother. 

The Exams

The Final Letter:

Mechanical Operations was a vast, very boring subject in Chemical Engineering discipline, quite befitting it’s name. Still students need to mug it up and pass somehow. No choice. You get one supplementary, can sit again, with twice a supple you get a year back, the 3^rd one will land you straight out the college right there in the streets fending for yourself.

In a sultry June night, Anurag, a 3^rd year student of Bihar, in his single-seated NIT hostel room at around 2 am somehow completed mugging up the huge quantum of notes, staggered to toilet, came back, had a glass of water, climbed the metallic-cot which goes in the name of bed and was planning to doze off. But he jumped right back from the bed and stared at the floor, his gaze fixed near the door of his room. A piece of paper lies crumpled near the gap at the door-bottom. It seemed someone has slithered it beneath the door.

Anyhow, not able to remember whether he noticed it or ignored it when he went to washroom and ignoring that thought right now, he picked up the folded paper and opened it. A line is handwritten, scribbled hastily in it in Hindi which translates to “Best of luck for your exams, study hard, I’m going.” (Tum log poro, main jaa raha hoon).

The handwriting is familiar to Anurag and the tone of the letter left him half-perplexed but set alarm-bell ringing in his mind. He banged out of his room, banged the door of his next-room neighbor Alok (also from the same state), who was also studying late and awake. He immediately opened the door. Anurag showed him the paper. The next moment the two boys ran towards the corner room of the lobby, which was dark. They kicked the door hard, it was closed from inside. Aloke pushed the only window of the room facing the lobby, it was loosely bolted, hence opened up. They gaped and stared inside, shocked.

There was nothing left for them to do, it was already too late.

Tears welled up in Anurag’s eyes..”I knew, somehow I knew…that’s why I called up at his home yesterday and asked them to come immediately, at least during this semester time…but…nobody cared, none listened” he couldn’t finish, his voice choked, he sobbed.  

Aloke’s eyes was almost glaring in darkness, fists clenched he growled..”Why crying like a enunch? WHY??? We have endured too much. We’ll now take out all our bedrods and raid the m**fucker professor’s house before dawn and put these rods inside him in his bed. This is his 3^rd victim. Now we’ll make his family cry for him.”

By this time, the entire hostel is wide awake. The aftermath till next seven days was very common and inconsequential for this topic (e.g. student unrest, breaking of all furnitures in hostel, en-masse attack / morchas / dharnas / strikes / fast-unto-deaths in the department and campus, targeting the professor with bedrods, calling the police, post-mortem, flashing the news in paper, adding some color to it (adding a girlfriend angle and a failed love-story), deceased family members visiting campus for funeral and making a scene out of Rudaali there – lucky that time there was no mobile phone else somebody would have shot and posted the same in facebook). Finally, a false case was put up against the professor by the remaining faculties of the department who were also equally shocked, the professor was suspended for a period, then an inquiry was held, in the inquiry he boldly defended himself saying “I can’t permit an ineligible student to largesse out a degree per-se just for the sake of getting him passed out and bagging a job”. Whatever it is, soon the case fizzled out and the professor is reinstated. That particular hostel-room was permanently sealed. Nothing so great about it.

*

Before the room was sealed and cleaned up, a post-card was found inside the drawer of the study-table. Anurag and Aloke hastily hid the postcard. The content of the post-card was shared by the deceased student with his two best friends a few days’ before; they were aware of it; however absorbing the full impact of that letter was beyond the level of maturity of these two 3^rd year engg students when they read it first time, but now they could understand, hence hid it before it lands up in the hand of police:

“Bhaiyya, we’ve gone thru’ your letter and we do understand that you’re distressed, you find the subject very difficult, but how can we help you we can’t understand. Your father has no job, as you know here there is no employment, once he has lost both his legs, he’s now dependent on us. Mummy had not studied and married early. We only have a few piece of land, as you know, we had to sell a part of it to finance your studies there. My parents are scared of me as they look at my face, thinking of my marriage and my dowry. Your younger brother is looking after the piece of land that we have. This piece of land on which our hut remains and you yourself is our only hope. Bhaiyya, the whole family is looking at you, that you’ll pass out and get a job, so that our family will get relief, so that I can continue my studies. If you break down, what will happen to us, where shall we go? We are so much dependent on you. If you think you are getting victimized, kindly meet the authorities, kindly meet the professor, catch his feet, request him, inform him that you are very very poor, you need to pass the exam, get the degree, so that you get the job and we are faced from starvation. Sorry bhaiyya, I can’t understand even if one of us happens to come there, how can we be of any help for you. And this is after all consequence of your own deed. We did not ask you to give proxy for your friend in the class of that professor; when you knew he was so egoistic, why did you do that misadventure? Why couldn’t you think of the consequences of your act that may land you and all of us in this misery? We’re poor we can’t afford to be mischievous, we need to be serious. Please study seriously, please request the professor to forgive you, please catch his feet. We don’t have enough money to come to your place right now.”

(Of course the letter was written in Hindi, gist of the matter translated here)

The Unknown Ailment:

The Moments of No Return

Part-2:

The Unknown Ailment:

Around 8 years ago, one fine morning, in a small residential co-operative society in an industrial town, a retired old man from a PSU started feeling a sharp pain at the right side of his belly.

Living together with his elder son, daughter-in-law, wife was also living (a municipal counselor), younger unmarried son, both sons well-employed, all members well-educated, it looks like a happy upper-middle class well-knit family. Hence the eldest member, the man immediately consulted his eldest son, who was employed in a PSU steel plant. They took the father to the steel hospital, supposed to be the best in the entire district. They did a MRI scan and found nothing. Asking the old man not to worry, they said it may be simply acid, gas, gastric etc and asked him to be cool and resume his regular morning and evening walks.

The old man returned deeply perturbed as the pain has not subsided at all. He confided with his old time collegues who advised him to consult the old physician of the government hospital who was once a good friend of this old man.

He visited that old physician in afternoon, who frowned on the MRI report and asked the man to do a thorough re-check-up.

In evening, over supper, when the man discussed this issue once again to other family members, the responses were as below:

Wife : “You seems to be a bit paranoid nowadays, as you are retired now, have nothing to do, one small ailment here, one pain there, why to worry so much? When body is there, pain will be there. Can we escape pain? Why don’t you go for brisk-walking like, say Mr Sarkar or say Mr Roy is doing?

Eldest son : “Baba, don’t think too much, it’s a simply gastric problem, actually you should not take any non-veg at this age, and after dinner every night better take one zinetac. It’ll surely subside, no problem.”

Daughter-In-Law: “Baba, it’s nothing serious, my mother also had a burning sensation for around one month in her stomach, then she consulted a doctor, who gave her an antacid, and some food restriction, it automatically subsided. So please don’t keep much attention on it.”

Youngest son : “Baba, why don’t you also read Bhagvat Gita or Ramkrishna Kathamrita in night? These you know gives lot of mental peace? And I think it’s time you may start Satsang as well.”

The old man looked at the faces surrounding him and started having a strange gut feeling of hollowness and loneliness. These are the very people for whom he struggled lifelong and built up this house where all of them are sitting right now and staring at him in a strange manner.

*

The next morning a new problem occurred as the old man started to have a pricking sensation in one of his legs. The pain in belly-side has aggravated into a burning sensation. Coupled with this, there is a general feeling of numbness, weakness, feverishness.

His family-members showered him with lots of morale-boosting advises. However, in afternoon, he overheard a hushed conversation between his wife and daughter-in-law as he was going to washroom, feeling restless:

“See what I feel, the old man now needs psychological help. It’s called “buro boyshe bhimroti (illusions in old-age)”. The old humbug is now having all sorts of illusions of illness. Actually nothing has happened, but he is inventing these sicknesses and attracting our attentions.”

“Ma..you’re absolutely right, in our college also we read in psychology course that in old age people feels alone and they seek attentions. Moreover they feel insecurity about death and disease and always imagine that something is afflicting them. Baba is having the same problem. If it is not controlled strictly right now, he will create serious problem for all of us, more so for you.”

“That’s why I feel we should immediately consult a …or what’s the need of consulting…I think there are certain homes and asylums where they take this types of patients…”

“But ma, if baba is sent there, who’ll take his pensions, sign the bank papers, all these house papers…”

“That you needn’t worry, being a counselor I can surely move something, I am not an infirm like your Baba…house papers are all in my name, bank account is joint, I am his nominee in pension…so nothing will be lost. Moreover, after all, why I have entered municipality? For fun? These are very useful source of funds in emergencies.”

“I think ma you are really wise and foresighted…”

The conversation continued late. The man moved away, slowly, silently, inside the dark corridor leading to the washroom. The afternoon sun was gradually setting in horizon and the hazy darkness of dusk was engulfing the corridors of the apartments. Lights were yet to be turned on, which made the onset of dusk even more depressing.

*

He came up slowly, stressfully, to the roof of his house. A strange feeling flooded his mind, a strange sense of melancholy cry, there was no tears in his eyes, but tears well up within heart. This is something none else will understand, only those who has undergone these will realize this sense of extreme sense of hollowness. At these moments, the corners of the parapet-wall seems to be extremely attractive, and a feeling of hurt engulfs one’s mind, it mutters silently inside..”So that’s it…when I was there, none of you understood me; let me go away, when I won’t be there, you’ll miss me, cry for me, feel my absence dearly and recall me dearly.”

Agreed this is an illusion. In this merciless, ruthless, pitiless, worthless planet, no one remembers / recalls the departed ones after funeral. But there is no stoppage, no prevention of a badly bruised soul to temporary slip into his own world of merciful illusion.

*

There were lots of hue and cry that night in that otherwise sleepy and impersonal co-operative locality. Police came, so as friends of both the sons. Police took photographs of the dead-body of the old man and the location on the concreted surface in ground besides the garden where it was lying in a pool of blood. His family members were both aghast and terrified, pleading with the police that there’s no any reason for any of the family members to push the old useless man down the roof. The wife was exclaiming again and again that the old man was suffering from depression although he was having everything and was taken good care of. Very soon, the local MLA (a good friend of the counselor lady) also arrived in the scene. By late night it is ensured that death also becomes a mere statistics. The family members now became busy in searching for a good Hindu priest who’ll come and sanctify the place next day – after all it’s an unnatural death.

*

PS : During the post-mortem, it was detected that the person was having a malignant and benign tumor in brain which was actually pushing against some of the nerves that stimulates some region of one’s belly, legs etc. But that was of no significance now. 

RIP – poor soul.

The Moments of No Return

The Moments of No Return

Part-1:

The Hand-Held Rescue:

17 years ago, a then-young tourist went for a trekking from Gangotri towards Kedar Tal in Garhwal. They stayed overnight at an avalanche-prone camping site named Bhoj Kharak. Next morning they were supposed to move-ahead but at dawn got completely engulfed in a white-out (a familiar phenomenon at heights where white dense cotton-like cloud masses rises from the lower valley and gradually fills up the upper valley. These forms potential thunder-heads and later on may further intensify in heavy snowfall).

The tourist got panicked and nervous. Fortunately he had an experienced Garwhali guide who coolly judged the situation, calmly held the hand of the tourist and said..”Sir, no problem at all, nothing doing, we are going down to Gangotri now itself. It’ll snow heavily ahead and I’ll not take you there with me. It’ll be risky for both you and myself as well. Alone I can come back, but not with you. I understood your panic. We’ll go down, rest assured, as long as I am with you, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Anyway they went down safely, in between there were some hiccups, some slippages on slippery glaciers as the visibility was near-zero and the tourist was nervous, but once the guide, and in one occasion the porter saved  the tourist.

Finally after they descended to Gangotri, the tourist was furious. It was all bright sunny there. The sky is hazy blue. The ominous mass of cloud which they encountered at 12000 feet elevation now looks so innocuous-looking floating mass of usual autumn-cloud floating listlessly in the blue sky, it’s hard to believe that the same cloud could have caused a potential fatal consequence for all. Oblivious of his predicament a few hours before, the tourist started blaring to the guide “You rascal, idiot, Garhwali cheat..!! You knew very well that it’s nothing, no problem, it could have cleared a few moments afterwards, no snow, no weather problem, but you were in a hurry, you robbed me a life-time chance to see Kedar Taal but you’ll charge my full money, paisa to wapaas nehi karoge, will you return the money?? You people are..** …..” et al.

The guide was a veteran of many expeditions (he left GMVN long-back and currently based in Swiss Alps). He listened coolly, composed, absorbed everything. When the tourist finished, he stood up and gently pointed out to the distance in deep mountains from where they descended a while ago. The mass of cloud has already blackened at distance. Then moving towards the tourist he replied…..

“Look Sir, a few hours ago we were inside that cloud. You were covered all around in white-out, your visibility was zero, you were feeling helpless, trembling, panting, nervous. Had you been alone, you would have been frozen to death by now, or would have turned delirious and jumped yourself out in the deep gorge out there. There was no escape for you. At that height when it snows heavily – you see it has already blackened – snow has started already – and it was one of the most treachereous route with deep gorge at one side and no track on the steep hill-slope, you yourself slipped twice – had there been no hand-holding for you today, you would have met your own fate – and that was a sure and certain death by now.

But now, as you are out of danger, holding my finger you came out of it, you are seeing the danger from a distance, detached from its consequences, you are now seeing the brighter, positive side of it, the beauty of it and ruing the loss of not seeing what you missed; and firing the very same man who have saved you, rescued you from a helpless situation a few whiles ago.  But I don’t blame you. You plainspeople are always like this, you don’t know what we in hills say – Never believe the 3 Ws (Wine, Women and Weather). I rescued countless people like you from such hopeless situations and when we came out, I got only gaalis like what you are giving to me now. Sir, it’s very easy to feel helpless and clueless when you are ALONE in a hopeless situation. It’s also equally easy to pass judgments, give advice and show expertise from a safe distance once when you either came out of the danger or when you have never experienced such hopeless situations. Trust your hand-holders and always keep one in your life. People like you will always need us for your own survival.”

A Critical Lack of Understanding & Empathy

I am deeply perturbed.

Telling “RIP” is the best and easiest solution. So to say solution.

But the frequency of RIP has increased alarmingly these days.

I know and sense somehow the soul of departed Jiah Khan and Rahul Singh and also Shyamal Bhattacharya will meet each other on the road to beyond the river of live to the unknown eternity. Somehow their destiny is crossed.

But what it takes to finally decide these souls to mark an end and say “I give up” (a la 3 idiots where none understood the protagonists).

I think (and I know surely) it is their surrounding people only who did never understand them. May be they all had a different dream. Someone wanted to be a successful actress, but deeply compassionate and soft within, was going thru’ a bad patch, was looking for a solace, but surrounded by highly ambitious near ones who might have continuously egged on the poor soul for success and more success which was not come by immediately, dejected and frustrated “gave up.”

Someone might have bagged a seemingly cushy job and had dreams when joined from campus but found the office life completely and starkly different from what was imagined the day at appointment letter was received. But there was none to relate these pain, these woes. None will understand. Family will say “Beta, aisi nokri nehi milti, please don’t leave this job, please stick to it, it’s a tough world outside, you are our only hope…..”…and none will understand the inner turmoil that goes on inside the person…any hint if it comes outside people will say..”oh, he is depressed, better to consult a…***…and there will be medical board…” but none will understand that the person is hale and hearty..what he/she needs is a bit of empathy, a good friend, a good listener, someone who understands and who empathizes..not a professional empathizer…but someone with no stakes. Alas…there will be none…

Someone might have rose from the ranks and today near his retirement is still doing shifts (night shifts..does anybody know what is the agony of shifts, where it wrecks havoc in your body and mind?)…might be there was an appeal to relieve him from this relentless 8/16/24 hrs merciless shifts even at a senior grade…and when the same is not listened…its definitely the best to move out…early morning cool bridge is pretty dangerous especially when you are coming back from a hard shift in workplace..that’s why many of the accidents happen to shift-people after they go back from night in the early morning…it’s an eerie thing to note that when the sun rises and a new day/dawn begins..for many soul that’s the time to say good-bye to this earth and live for an unknown destination…never to come back again.

When I was going for my drawing sessional exam in 4^th semester, in a similar early morning, near the Durgapur LPG bottling plant turning, I saw a cycle in mangled condition and a body lying near, the face and the head and the throat portion is squashed into a mangled mass of flesh, from distance it looked as if this portion is covered with a red colored cloth. I could only see this much, but the image got etched inside. Who was he? Coming back from shift in night? Or going to work in morning? Whoever he was, he started his journey for some destination, ended somewhere else.

Needless to say I almost got a supplementary in my 4^th semester drawing exam and passed with grace marks. That was the first time I saw dead-body on road due to accidents. Afterwards, I ‘ve seen many, many more on highways, NH2 in my previous tenure at Mathura when they were building this road to 4 lane, and somehow have to come accept this fact..life is meant for an untimely end one fine day when none will expect you to bid adeu to all..come what may whether you voluntarily give up or forced to.

And there are indeed times when you do fascinate the…..it is better to stop here.

Ballad of an Unsung Martyr

Ballad of an Unsung Martyr

Kingshuk Sen

Here, an absolute serenity prevails.

There’s tranquility in space, warmth in abundance. It encompasses all of us here. When you look at the fragrant flowers blooming in the garden, the azure sky atop, the meandering stream gurgling its way down in a laidback manner, the soothing light that illuminates the surrounding, a hypnotic sense of peace engulfs you. You never want to leave this environ and would always like to keep it embraced close to your heart.

And this is where I met her early one fine day.

She had lovely, expressive, bright eyes, a melancholy smile that caresses her lips, natural warmth that gels nicely with this environ. There is something in her that makes one’s heart bleed, at the same time attracts one towards her.

She was looking forlorn as she enters the complex. May be I was the first one to catch her sight. Looking lost and hesitant, she was visibly in two minds whether to ask me for guidance or not.

There is a fragrant mist that envelope both of us as I drew close to her. I softly touched her trembling, hesitant, soft arms and then affectionately welcomed her amidst us.

“We’r all waiting for you, dear, for long. No worry here for you. We’ll leave happily, merrily here forever. Its our garden, we all look after it. Welcome here, dearie.” I softly embraced her.

There’s a soft, hushed shriek of pain that came from deep within her voice, but she stopped it midway. I left her and softly caressed her arms…”It still pains, dear? So sorry, I was moved a bit when saw you”

“Yeah, still a bit…” she replied, a short reply full of sadness….then her gaze got fixed at the side of my face, she came closer and softly, tenderly touched her fingers over my cheek and my neck and moved them over, her face blushing with both sadness and fury….”I see..I can feel it…..does it still hurts u..??”

We moved inside the garden now. “It no longer hurts, dear. Not anymore. Here, you’ll be free from all pains. Of course it’ll take some time. You’re already free of the pains. It’s your memory that still inflicts you with pain. Once you rise above your memory, the scar may remain, but the pain goes. The same will happen with you.”

“But…where am I now…?” She again starts getting perplexed. Its natural. She has just stepped in. “And who are you by the way?”

 I thought it’s high time I introduce her to my other three friends.  

**

Rangeela, Sandalee and Bonita were very shy and coy. It took some effort on my part to bring them closer to my new friend. Once the ice broke, we gelled. We melted in each other’s agony.  Agony of our past.  A life that once held plenty of promises. A destiny that finally landed all of us together in this beautiful garden.

“How sweet, cute all of you are, dear”, she smiled as she touched the cherubic Sandalee. Then her eyes again got fixed and her hands stopped…”Oh dear…!!”

I quickly diverted her attention…”Look, you’ll see it here on everyone. But do realize that this reflects our physical memory. We have all won over the scars. Here there is only love. No scar, no indignation. Don’t get conscious by our bruises. We have already won over them. You also have to.”

“It’ll take time, time for me, Juri. Give me some time.” She hid her face inside her palms and trembled. We all felt sad, our heart cried out, feeling the pain of hers.  Sandalee was the first one to move forward, gently, warmly pulling her in her warm embrace she started caressing her hair lovingly, till she stopped sobbing.

“You know…” she’s a bit composed now…”I thought that I was the most unfortunate one. But looking at you, I feel as if I’ve really not seen the worst. I’ve seen you all earlier, I used to see many of you where I used to reside and study. All of you were so nice, so lively, so cute like freshly bloomed flowers, full of life…how.. how one could even think of….” she again hid her face. Sandalee pulled her close. I lamented why we didn’t hide our face when we approached her. I know it’ll take some time for her to recover now.

**

It took time for us also. A long time for foolish, simpletons like us, who believed that this emerald green piece of land, this lush green paddy field, this small tranquil village, where our forefathers for eons have cultivated, sown seeds, reap the fruits of hard labors, slowly built up our nice little habitats, this land, our beloved land…it took time to realize that none of these belonged to us, neither we belonged to anyone.

It used to take more than 6 hrs for us to travel a mere 1 km away to go to our village school especially in rainy season as the only log-bridge connecting both ends of the river always got washed away during high tide when clouds used to open up on top of distant mountains close to the border, from where the river originated.

It took long time for us to realize that the elderly people, who used to visit our villages once every 4-5 years with folded hands and smile dangling from their lips, gamochas dangling around their neck,  to obtain a promise from our elders to cast a seal on a piece of paper so that they can do something for the village, will actually never visit the village again for next 5 years and leave our village as it is. Poor sanitation, poor communication, problems of flood, broken road, no power, no lights.  And our elders used to lament that they don’t get the price they should for their crops being sold by the agents in local market. The demon of inflation, though dominant at distant towns, at times, used to worry our elders. After all, their daughters were to be married off.

In spite of all these, it was a happy childhood, simple life for us. At the shadow of blue hills, running around the banks of sparkling rivulet, enjoying the gush of the first rain, the aroma of wet soil with the roaring norwesters racing down the hills at the dead of night in spring-time, the crashes of thunder, the blinding dazzles of lightning on top of the distant hills, the howling wind, the delicious pithas in magh-bihu, the rhythmic beats of drum in Bohag, our daily cycle-drive to the school wearing the green-bordered white saree and our tiny little innocent fantasies. Actually it took time for us to realize that this innocent joy of us was short-lived.

**

It all started with a huge bang, an explosion that momentarily, violently shook the earth underneath us and all four of us had to get down from our cycles while on our way to school in morning.

We were terrified to find dark black smoke and fires leaping up from the log-bridge side. Before we could even understand what’s happening, we found Nayan, our neighbor Nayanda rushing towards us…”hunkale ghorot ja…iate rukhibo na laage (go home quickly, no need to stand here)” and literally pushed us back from our cycles. Like a herd of terrified spotted deers, we sprinted back to the protective courtyards of our homes.

**

That night, a soft, sweet breeze carrying the aroma of the river was blowing from the riverside. It was a dreamy spring-evening, a typical pre-Bohag time when the whole village reverberates with the drumbeats and the songs that used to signal the welcoming of Bohag Bihu. It was the time to start preparing the Bihutolis, start reharsing for the Bihu-competitions, organizing the Bihu concert ensembles, taking out the Gamochas, all our traditional ensembles and start preparing for our happiest time.

But tonight there was no Bihu Huchoris, no drumbeats, no preparation. An uneasy silence and calm engulfs the small hutments. My father mumbles softly while taking an early supper..”this was not a wise thing they did..I’m having a bad omen now…why did they blow-up the bridge….”

“Was the army jeep also on the bridge when they did it?” Asked my mother anxiously.

“I heard so. I was in the market then. I heard they targeted it like that. To blow-up the bridge when the CO’s jeep crosses it from the outpost. Why did they do it? Now who’ll face the mad dogs? They will fall after us like a pack of wolves. The actual culprits are already in the mountains, they crossed the river already. Here we are..helpless with our families…should we send Juri away to her uncle’s house? I wonder.”

“Oho…you think too much that too in advance….such a big incident….I don’t think no one will dare to mess up here this time….and after all…are the boys entirely wrong? Who listens us unless the arms are taken up?”

I guess none of us could even blink that night. We could hear our own heartbeats. It was unusually quiet, with the chirps of nightbirds and the howls of jackals at distance. That uneasy night passed off silently like the lull before storm.  

**

The retributions came along fast enough to leave us numb and too petrified to react.

We woke up from our slumber by loud din and bustle outside. There were hue and cry in distance, sounds of some heavy boots, some loud unfamiliar voices.

My father went out, asking my mother to strictly guard me inside and not venture out. After an interval full of trepidation, he returned, looking visibly nervous, his forehead bathed in sweat.

“They have cordoned off the village. They did it very early morning, so that none of us could get a whiff. None of us can go out now, neither any one can come in here. Even the police are with them. We are cut off now from all sides, under siege.”

“Oh my God..!!” I think it was a spontaneous exclamation that came out from both mine as well as my mother’s voice.

“..and they have already started…” continued my father…”they have pushed Mehboob chacha inside the space between the rods of a bicycle right in the middle of the market…you know this is one of their favorite pastimes…two of them are holding the cycle straight…you know Mehboob is not lean and thin…he got stuck up inside the space…they all are making rude fun of him..one of them is kicking him hard at his backside and abusing him…another one is pulling him by his beard from the front and urging him to come out…he can’t as he’s helplessly stuck inside….they are worse than animals out here…?” His voice trembled with anger.

“..And what the enunchs of we villagers doing there? Enjoying the show? The circus?” My mother’s voice bursted out with anguish.

…”Juri’s maa…don’t you yell out…!!” My father almost jumped out to put his hand on her mouth….”they have fanned out everywhere inside the village. What can we do…? The entire area is cordoned off. Their sentries, snipers and commandoes are guarding the whole market complex with all their automatic weapons fully loaded. People are watching helplessly. Their officer is enjoying the show, sitting in gypsy, sipping something from bottle. Can we fight them all these only with our dao?”

…”Then where are our brave boys who blasted out the bridge..?? Let them come down now from the hills and save us…?? On one hand they will go underground, blast here and there, on the other hand, they will leave poor villagers like us as easy meat in front of hungry wolves…why shall we suffer…what’ll happen to Juri…??” My mother’s voice crackled with emotion, tears rolled down her cheeks as she held me tightly close to her bosoms…”if they dare touch Jury, I will rush and put a dao inside whomever I find first in front. I don’t care what happens to me…I won’t let them touch my sweet little, innocent flower….”

**

We heard two bursts of cracker after a short while from the market-side. It followed with a pin-drop silence. The hue and cry ceased suddenly. I found tears are welling up in my father’s eyes. I held to his hand hard. “Don’t cry, they won’t come inside this time, you see.” I gently wiped off his tears.

“I’m not crying for ourselves, dear.” My father caressed my hair. Even I could understand fully and felt tears welling up in my own eyes. The circus in the marketplace has ended.

We heard some heavy boots marching and advancing inside the village path. Mother closed all doors and windows tightly shut. There was a mobile public announcement repeated both in Hindi and our native language.

As the announcement and sounds of boots faded, I asked father what was being announced. My mother replied calmly..”they have instructed us to hand-over Nayanjyoti, Polash, Dibyojyoti and Kalyan latest by today 9 pm when they will come again. Or else we shall ourselves search them out by 9 pm and ask them to go and surrender in the camp currently stationed on the road going out of our village. They think we are hiding them in our village.”

I remembered Nayan, he ran towards us the soon after the bridge went off, pushed us away from the cycle and asked us to rush back home. I narrated the same now to mother, who looked hard at me and sternly said…”look, you have seen nothing, heard nothing, know nothing..OK? They believe Nayan is responsible for this bridge-blast and he is sheltered in this village. So do keep silent. In bad times, walls also listen.”

**

They kept their words. After all they were trained to be disciplined. Sharp at 9 pm, a resounding booted kick barged open our front door, leaving the door-closures flying in air.

The suddenness has left three of us stunned. Me and father have just half-finished whatever the supper was prepared yesterday (today no one was in the mood of cooking). Mother didn’t even start her meal. The two towering figures standing in front of us, leering at me and reeking of a peculiar smell (may be a mix of liquor and cheap perfume), wearing white PT sandow and khaki shorts with automatics in hand, didn’t waste much words. One of them pointed his rifle up, asking us to stand with our arms up.

“Come down to the field near the club”. The voice was unusually gruff, but calm, assured. They are asking us to move to the Bihutoli.

My mother was hesitating. I found goosebumps shaping up both mine as well as my ma’s forearms. It has resulted from the cold, steely barrels of their guns nudging against the backside of our necks. They pushed us ahead. My father silently pointed his eyes forward. We moved ahead.

**

It seemed the entire village is rounded up around the small field. It’s a surreal night. The gentle, moist wind carrying the aroma of wetland blowing under a dreamy moonlit night, chirping of nightbirds, rusting of tree-branches. My spell of dream-like hypnotic trance was rudely shred to pieces by a loud voice ordering to stop us.

The entire field is surrounded by automatics wielding soldiers, who surrounded the crowd both from inside and outside the field. They seemed to have planned everything well-ahead, they have even laid down multiple beds of hay and grasses on the field.

 A fierce-looking, cracked-face elderly man came out of the armed pack with the mike in hand and blasted out…”hum-e tumhara Nayanjyoti, Palashjyoti, Dibyojyoti chahiye. Abhi isi waqt. Bahoot time diya hai tum saaloko. Ab nahi nikaloge un saaloko, to hum tum sab saalo ka saare jyoti nikalenge yahaan pe…chun chun ke….ek ek karke. Us bistaare par letake.” He pointed towards the beds of hay in distance.

His slimy eyes along with his mike turned slowly over the silent mass of seething, angry, peace-loving village populace. Feeling helpless and unarmed, none uttered a single word, remained restrained. An uneasy calm prevailed over the natural sounds of night.

“Yeh aise nehi patkega major….”, a voice came from behind the mikeman. An unusually tall man with clean-shaven head, his face painted with fearsome dark shades that almost camouflaged it against the dim-lit backdrop,  came forward. “in saalo ke piche bahoot dum hai, ik dugo pichwaade nahi na todoge, to  dum kahan se niklega…saale kutte ke aulaad, harami ke pille…”

“Age baad…!!” I could only hear a painful scream as I could understand someone is flung inside the circle.

I heard stomping sounds of heavy boots on the ground accompanied with shrieks of loud cry as if someone is being kicked around on the ground. Unspeakable expletives were flying in ear as many of us had to cover our ears. The next moment I was startled as I heard a loud, shrill cry, a familiar, tender voice of a young girl begging pitifully for mercy.

“Please leave my father, please Sir, please, I catch your feet, my father doesn’t know anything, Sir….”

I couldn’t help but push myself forward thru’ the crowd…”Juri!!!” I ignored the loud scolding of my mother, I knew the pitiful cry is coming from the voice of my dearest bandhobi, my sweet friend Sandalee. At the open space in front, I found her lying prostrate at the feet of a bestially painted soldier, whose feet is dug deep inside the throat of her hapless father, whose eyes are almost bursting out.  

…”to bata re gori, kahaan gaye wohlog…?? Tere laundelog?? Kis ***me ghusake rakkha re tum un ****o ko….??”

Sandalee, still trembling, pointed towards the faraway dark hills at the border where thunderclouds are amassing with flashes of lightning…”pahad me chala gaya…” she could muster only this much and shrieked loudly as she was grabbed by her hair the very next moment and lifted straight up in the air from the ground like a rag-doll.

“woh log pahad me chala gaya, to gori tum kis ke liye idhaar baitha raha re…!!! Tumhe kis ke liye chhod ke gaya re…!!!”…”Major, inhe apna camp mein le chalet hai, is chamiyako hamhare liyehi chhod ke gaya lagta hai…!!!”

“Khabardar, kela…!! Maaak**ai!!” I was stunned by a furious angry roar of a female as I found my firebrand mother has torne herself away from the resistant crowd, pushed away my father to ground and with an open dao wickedly glistening in faint moonlight lunged at the gigantic figure that was holding Sandalee.

“Maaaaa”…I think my loud cry reached the peak of dark hills as I overcame my numbness and jumped in the middle of the carnage to save my mother.

I could only hear muffled sound that seemed like a pair of cracker-bursts ringing besides my ears as I clung to my mother’s body. The reassuring smell of my mother’s body, the smell of wet soil, the wafting aroma of rain-soaked stormy-winds from the hills got mixed with a distinct, acrid, familiar feral scent as a warm liquid gushed out of my mother’s body. She laid still on the ground, her eyes wide open, fixed, staring at the bright, starry sky of the dark night, her hairs spread, scattered wide on the ground.

A wide uproar rose temporarily like a wave of ocean only to be drowned by a thunderous bark….”koi saala apna jaaga se nahi hilega…!!! Nahi hilega..!!!” It’s followed by gunshots, heavy boots stomping on the ground, more agonized screaming, before I could realize I am under intolerable pain that almost brought tears in my eyes. One of them grabbed my hairs and lifted me up in air like Sandalee.

“In sab ko idhaar khara karke, in saalo ke aankho ke saamne, yeh dono chinkika raatbhar satyanash koro..jab tak yeh saale na bole ke kis khadan mein kaun chupa hua hai..”

I could hear pathetic cries all around..”major, aur du ko khich ke laya…do ke saath do free….aaj khel bahoot jamega…”

“Laaj na lage…!!! Hat, kela…!!!” It was Rangeela, Sandalee’s classmate. I didn’t know who the hapless other one was, there was no chance to know anything more.

I didn’t even get chance to grieve for my martyred mother.

**

My father used to narrate stories from Mahabharata. I heard of Draupadi, what happened to her in Kaurava’s palace.

She was the only one there. Here we were four. Here, the orgy continued night-long, simultaneously for all four of us. I heard them cracking dirty, obscene jokes with Rangeela’s name, one of them started playing a popular song on her name, another suggested her to dance naked with the beat of that song and promised to leave her if she does so.

Then everything stood still. Nature has nice chloroform, a natural blanket, that saves your innocent soul from all the dirty indignation that gets let loose on your body.  While the external blanket of your body gets ravaged and torne apart by a pack of mad dogs, you tend to detach yourself.  I fell unconscious, drifting half-dead, half-alive as they ransacked my body, but they could never touch my already-detached soul. 

I don’t even remember when it started drizzling, when it all fell silent, when the fresh drops of rain got mixed with the fresh blood of our bodies that soaked the ground of what was once, our beloved Bihutoli.  

The brilliantly colorful ceramic and bone-china art of Khurja

Khurja located near Bulandshahar on NH-2 (Aligarh-Delhi route) is otherwise a dusty western Uttar Pradesh town at the heart of wild-wild-west of India’s North.

But for ages, a beautiful cottage industry thrives in this place, which is hones and spreaded from here worldwide.

This is the bone-china and ceramic works. Beautiful, creative bone-china and ceramic handicrafts with painstakingly hand-crafted, ornate decorations, frescos, designs on its surface now adorns all exclusive properties all over the world. Its hard to believe that the poor artisans living in this dusty poor semi-industrial town for years have preserved this art.

Its true that you’ll get its variations in Rajasthan (blue potteries); its also true that you may get samples of this stocked besides national highways in north india (near Gurgaon so to say), its also true that near Malviya Nagar Metro Station in South Delhi there are 3 – 4 shops that keep stocks of the same stuff (at least that’s what they claim).

But to get the authentic design, widest varieties, the most colorful ones with diverse varieties of design and arts, the place of origin (Khurja) has to be visited. In Delhi they keep only the items that are preferred by Delhiites. So also in Gurgaon. In Surajkund crafts fare, the stock is only that much that holds in a shop.

But in Khurja, there is no limit to stock. And there is no limitation on its varieties. And it’s a pleasure to savor the local art from the place from where it has originated.

Khurja is now easily approachable after Yamuna Expressway. From Delhi, you come near Jewar Toll Plaza and go out of the YE through the side-cut towards Bulandshahar (green sign board on top clearly indicates the direction). 35 Kms from this cut along the Jewar-Khurja-Bulandshahar road lies Khurja. Once you enter Khurja, take NH-2. Bang on NH-2 just opposite to the Polytechnic (and that’s an important landmark) lies this wonderful shop.

For Agra to Delhi side, you have some trouble in hand. You need to cross the Jewar toll gate, then swerve your car on the left hand side itself for the entry/exit gap to get down from the highway through the side-cut meant for vehicle entering from the Khurja/Bulandshahar/Aligarh underpass. This means you have to adopt a wrong-side here. This is because on YE they have blocked all U-turn gaps from Jewar toll plaza onwards till Greater NOIDA. So once you cross Jewar and miss this wrong-side cut, you won’t get a single u-turn cut till Greater NOIDA for taking the Bulandshahar cut on the right hand side. I faced it first-hand.

USPs of this particular shop in Khurja are: 1.0> Fantastic stock and warehouse; 2.0> Bewildering varieties that you’ll never get, never see anywhere else; 3.0> Cordial behaviors of the Agarwals (owners). They are always ready to help you. In my last visit I was in fact fell short of cash by a few hundred bucks but liked an item a lot. He readily packed the item in my car and requested me to pay afterwards. I remitted the amount a week after my  return to Mathura. Of course trust and behavior matters. His boys do nice packing and nothing breaks. I packed them in dicky of my car and travelled all the way back to Mathura (remember this was pre-Yamuna Expressway day and I had to take the Aligarh Bypass-Hathras-Iglas-Raya-Mathura route). Still due to the nice packing nothing broke.  From this shop, supply goes to all major offices in western UP belt. I have seen their materials in display in all major petrol pumps and many other good hotels. The price is reasonable and the quality excellent. The utensils are brilliantly colorful and wide in variety.

Its advisable to come here preferable in own vehicle, bring adequate money (I suggest around INR 5000/-) as the nearest ATM is located in the main city market around 1 Km away from the shop and you have to again drive down there. And the market on the highway is damn crowded, dusty and may drive you mad. They don’t have debit/credit card facility at least when I visited last. And normally shops closes in evening; always try to visit latest by 6-6:30 pm. Then you can see with some time in hand. Packing also takes some time. Keep the car boot empty for space to keep the items. Also bring your food packed. I didn’t find enough good restaurants in Khurja as such. We had our dinner on way back at Hotel Royal Regency at Aligarh. However now this problem won’t be there as Jewar Toll Gate of YE is also close-by; so on way back you can have snacks at the restaurant on YE near the toll plaza.

Khurja art, like tha glass-work of Firozabad needs careful nurturing and patronization. UP Ceramics and Handicrafts are the flagship store that keeps the flag of this art high-flying on NH-2. Its strongly recommended to pay a visit at these unknown destinations and savor the hand-crafted wonders first-hand.