The One Where Trees Were Witnesses

Eucalyptus

Eucalyptus buds are vase shaped with fluffy yellow to off-white caps (Stamens- at least that’s what I think they are called if my Botany knowledge doesn’t fail me), which if fall on the ground, give it an illusion of an amateur artist’s mottled yellow painting. Once the caps wither off, the hardened and lifeless buds in the right hands can be easily manoeuvred into spinning tops. Although very minuscule in appearance, they serve the purpose just fine enough.

Back in my paternal village, there was a pair of middle-aged Eucalyptus trees. About 50 meters away from the gnarly old Peepal, they swayed freely as if grooving to the honey soaked voice of David Bowie singing ‘Wild is the Wind’) along the roadside, near a raised platform. Elders who convened there, with either a hookah or a bunch of cards in their hands, used to talk about current affairs as the horizon would be busy swallowing an orange-red sun.

Trees are truly magnificent in that it doesn’t matter for how long, but they do make you forget about the world that exists outside their perimeter. Each tree has a unique character and a different story waiting to be told- be it Eucalyptus, Peepal, Banyan, Mango, Acacia, Jamun or any other, I find them all equally mystifying.

Afternoons saw a nearby Kikar/Babul tree (Acacia) proving useful to all those who would seek relief from the merciless noon sun and its soul-draining heat waves. Eucalyptus, although one of the tallest plants known, isn’t extremely useful when it comes to dispensing shade.

 On the contrary, despite being  more useful, Kikar tree could never garner a sense of respect in the community for certain reasons that I could never understand throughout my childhood. It has beautiful and more vibrant yellow flowers, its bark has innumerable medicinal properties, its thick enough canopy is all you are looking forward to while catching your breath on a blazing summer day, but in some ridiculous way it was seen as a jinx.

There was a folk-song as well that goes like “Kikraan de fullan di adeya kaun karenda raakhi ve!” which roughly translates to “O lover! Who protects the flowers of a Kikar tree!”

 Perhaps, it amounts to a disembodied melancholy around it, as there’s nothing more desolate than the sight of a dry, wrinkly and forlorn looking Kikar tree during the autumn.

Coming back to the lofty eucalyptus trees, unlike Kikar, their tops towered high into the sky. Keeping a dispassionate watch on the activities of the entire village and seldom bothered about what’s happening on the surface, time to time, they would take a transient interest in shedding off their leaves in the various shades of green along with the waning florescence. Apart from being a source of play for little children, frayed ends of Eucalyptus’s twigs served as an excellent teeth cleanser. Although Kikar could also easily, rather more efficiently serve the same purpose, it wasn’t chosen commonly.

Kikar/ Acacia

*****

It wasn’t nearly the festive season but the local shopkeepers had started displaying all the different fireworks outside their shops. Dussehra was almost a month away but as always, children were curiously stepping over to their shops for having a detailed look at all the new crackers.

Perhaps, Mitthu’s  appearance during winter was the only event in the whole year that could surpass the joy that we’d get from gathering all those new goodies.

 However, with each passing year, the innocent curiosity dwindles down so much that by the time your twenties commence, you are forced by your mother to at least burst a few crackers on the auspicious occasion. Well, that is definitely not the case when you are a child.

Just like the rest of the days would witness us sneaking secret jars of marbles or cricket balls, around this time of the year too, our entire pocket money was directed towards fire crackers, although the really big ones were forbidden, both by the parents and the shopkeeper.

 ~

One clear and breezy evening after the school, I was busy making black snakes out of the very popular snake firework pills and like many other children of that age (7-8 years), I hadn’t completely changed out of my school dress. With the shirt tucked out, legs dangling down the platform and face towards the road; I was taking turns to play with either eucalyptus buds scattered on the ground or the snake pills. It was just then I realized someone was sniggering behind me, and….”BAMMM….!!” It was a sudden blasting sound, loud enough to literally send shivers down my spine. I stood stock-still staring around blankly with ringing sensation in ears. Feeling a sharp burning sensation on my lower back and barely able to pull myself together I saw two boys whom I knew as not so friendly twins, laughing and writhing in joy. They ran away saying, “We attached a cracker to the belt loop of your shorts.” To my utter surprise, no one else was there to see what the twins had done. Although it happened right under the nose of the eucalyptus, it was Kikar that stood as a more promising witness. Alas, neither of them could speak for me. The sheer injustice and suddenness of it all welled up inside me so much that I wanted to yell with fury. Not sure whether to chase them or see what the damage is, I finally trundled back home.

Grandma, unsuccessfully trying to pacify me said it’s not as bad as it looks, just a little reddening of the lower back. It was excruciatingly painful. Grandpa was also there, he applied some kind of ointment and told me sternly not to fall in any kind of trouble with those children as their family was not on very good terms with rest of the people in the locality. With the fire of revenge seething inside and discomfort from the burns overpowering my body’s desire to sleep, I went to bed thinking of all the fool-proof ways to give it back to them, after all, the twins were a year or two older than me. The loud noise of that cracker was still causing a buzzing sensation in my ears as I tried to sleep in prone position.

*****

A few days passed by and much to my disappointment there was no development on the twins front, although I had seen them once or twice smiling devilishly in the distance and probably having fun describing their accomplishment to the others. One evening when I saw them playing on a dry sand heap that was unloaded there for construction purposes, as the ebbing sunlight fell on the brooding trees, I set off in the dusk toward the twins.  With their backs towards me, it was my clear chance for vengeance in days. And the thing that followed, I would probably never ever do that to the worst of my enemies (if any). Not rationalizing whether it was a right or apt response, it was something that was not at all less cruel than what the twins had done to me. Sizing them up from behind I sneaked up slowly towards the mound where they were playing, and not giving them an opportunity to realize what’s happening I grabbed them by the hair, whirled and bumped their heads into each other. Startled, they started crying, but wait, this was not nearly comparable to bursting crackers on the back of an unsuspecting person. With slaps one after the other, I grabbed both of them by their collars. It turned out they weren’t the big bad guys after all. “Sorry, sorry! Won’t do it again…”, they sobbed in a chorus. My back was still hurting from the burns and I was in no mood this evening to put up with the mindless frenzy of this loathsome duo, ergo they merely increased my sense of grumbling resentment. This is the part I am talking about that could have easily been enough to diagnose me as an IED child.

I took sand in both my hands and stuffed it into all their visible orifices, especially mouth, and gave them a butt-kick each as I was being taken away by some older boys who intervened about time. “How does it feel now?”, I asked the crying twins who were washing their faces from the tap under eucalyptus trees. They ran in opposite direction to their houses as I walked home with a triumphant gait.

It was not an hour since the ordeal that I heard someone shouting at the top of her lungs in an unpleasant shrilly voice. It was the mother of the twins. Hiding behind her, they still had red faces and ears from the beatings that they had just received.

 “Your boy has done this to my sons, is this what you teach your children?”, she almost, for the lack of a better term, barked at my mother who had just reached home after a long day of work at her office.

Mom knew that these were the boys who had exploded the fire cracker on my back.

“Do you know the whole story?” Mom asked politely. “These two lit a fire cracker on his back, show her”, mom lifted my shirt as she showed the incompletely healed burns on my back.

Not ready to listen, the lady started shouting again, “Your son put sand in my boys’ eyes and they were both bleeding too”.

Mom looked at me with an angry face.

“They are lying. They weren’t bleeding and I just put a little bit of sand into their mouth”, well, I had my own reasons not to cower down in front of the bullies who were just trying to act like smart-asses.

“Look, sister. They are just children. Fighting today, tomorrow they’ll be playing together. I know it’s his mistake that he did this to your sons but who started it first?”, mom gave a befitting reply.

Curling her lips and still mumbling something inappropriate she left our house with a warning, “If anything happens to my children, you will see what we are capable of doing!”

Mom and Grandma reprimanded me badly, telling me not to do anything of this sort again. Indeed, I never got into any altercations of such violent magnitude after that. But after it was all over, I experienced what I direly wanted to the day since their attack, sleep with a grin on face and dreams of contentment.

*****

 After the incident, I don’t recall those two ever trying to trouble anyone in the vicinity again. In fact, we were friends (sort of) for the remaining years that I spent in our village. With a feeling of mingled dread and anger, somewhere inside, the twins couldn’t digest the fact that they were beaten up by a younger child, but probably thought it’s better not to meddle in the activities that involved pestering unsuspecting people.
I was happy and proud enough that I had tackled two of them single-handedly. Only if starting from childhood, all such bullies in life could be handled appropriately, albeit, in a non-violent manner, it would be great. When I’d play by the platform for next few days, Kikar tree would give a hint of a gloating smile, as if only its testimony had helped me get my score even with the twins. Eucalyptus trees, as silent as they always were, never paid significant attention to the whole series of events. Perhaps, like my mother, who sort of knew that children will figure out these things on their own.

Signing off with these beautiful lines by Shiv Kumar Batalvi on trees. (Translated and slightly paraphrased from his poem Rukh.)

Trees 

Some trees are like sons to me,

and some, like mothers.

Some are brides, daughters,

and a few are like brothers.

Some remind me of my grandfather,

sparse and withered.

And some come across as my grandma,

feeding a little bird.

Few of them are like true friends,

I hug them whenever we meet.

One of them is my beloved,

difficult yet sweet .

Some trees I wish I could walk with,

carry them like a child on shoulders.

And few others I wish I could kiss,

and just evaporate from these boulders.

Their tops sway together as the heavy winds blow,

for who knows the mystic language of their leaves.

I hope that in next life, I am reborn as a tree,

My songs would echo from the canvas- an old craftsman weaves.

 *****

Time And An Eagle

Most of our summer vacations were spent at Grandma’s place. Ah! Good old summer, you’d expect. No. Even during that one and a half month of holidays, we weren’t spared by the fury of our beloved school teachers. An untoward amount of homework- filling up notebooks writing those mind-numbing essays, making charts, collecting flowers, getting some maps, completing the workbook and only the heavens know what not.

As a sign of resentment respect against the scourges of our dear school, homework was done only during the first and last few days of vacation. Every summer I’d go to school with incomplete notebooks as I knew my friends wouldn’t have done anything either. And together we’re primed to deal with all such terrestrial formalities. A ‘warm welcome’ would await us, as soon as the school reopened. After getting drummed out of the class, we’d be ordained to complete all the notebooks in the next 2-3 days. Right from the school Principal to the class teacher, it wasn’t uncommon that every now and then we managed to get on their wrong side, and enjoyed getting reprimanded from all of them.

*****

“Take tea for them”, Grandma would say in a fake-disgruntled tone. “Call me again when everything is tied to the Bicycle”, sitting in the next room I would also reply in an equally stingy manner.

Either granny or aunt would tie lassi, tea, some snacks etc., all in one bag to the bicycle. In my summer clothes, humming around happily on my bicycle, I’d reach the fields. After quenching my thirst with a glass of delicious lassi, I would dive into tubewell waters running nearby. With all my clothes completely drenched, I would get back on the bicycle and by the time I reached home, I would be completely dry again.

It was only after finishing my noon-time TV ritual of watching India’s favourite superhero Shaktimaan that I’d agree to take food for those working in the fields. Once again, everything would be tied to the bicycle. But 1 o’clock in the afternoon calls for an honest acknowledgment of the fact that there will be an acute exposure to extreme degrees of heat. Prophylactically, I would put a wet cloth over my head and set out for the little journey.

Going to the fields with Jamun tree (Black Plum) was my favourite part during the entire vacation. Outside ours, near to another village, swinging through the maze of muddy trails, hypnotised by the tunes of 44⁰C bright sunlight like a Cobra who has come out to bask, I would finally reach those fields. As soon as I would reach the place I’d take out the lunchbox and lay the bicycle in one of the trenches. Comforts of the thick shade of Jamun tree and hand-woven Traditional Indian bed were no way less than what you would experience in an expensive suite. Not caring about others, I would finish my own share of the lunch (Three cheers for my excellent manners since childhood!), plunge again in tubewell waters, sun-gaze and ramble carelessly through the fields, eat those nifty black fruits from the tree and finally- eluding myself from all the worries in the world, I would lie on that bed and experience something akin to moving through the stargate tunnel as portrayed in Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.

*****

One of the workers in the fields taught me how to make an Indian flute out of a plastic pipe. I learned how to play some of his folk music in the coming few days. During those afternoons while playing the flute, doing a bit of homework and looking at those sun rays trying to peer through the dense canopy, I would enter a truly magical world. A place where time wasn’t a caged parrot, rather, it was an unrestricted eagle that uses the raging storm to lift itself above the clouds, away from the hustle of earthly matters. Unbothered, completely lost in the vividness of moment, I would lie there and not leave the fields until the dim orange glow on the horizon transitioned into a tranquilizing reddish-purple sunset.

Humming all the way back to our cattle-yard after a blissful day in the fields, finally, my 15 year old self would participate in some productive activity. After hand-milking 3-4 cows or buffaloes (Buffaloes are difficult to milk), I would go back home for dinner. Grandma’s homemade food and a little piece of jaggery as a dessert would just turn out to be perfect. Aunt would offer some dazingly delicious milk afterwards. Betaking myself to bed under the sleep inducing influence of that magical milk, I would sleep soon, striding slowly into a world full of pleasant dreams.

It would be the same routine every day for that one and a half month.

*****

 

 

 

 

After Gourd Picking (II)

 Driven by the constant patronage of industries for a high-carbon world and loss of places to dwell, probably many bird species are facing a crisis of survival in what was once their natural habitat. Wood-peckers, house sparrows, peacocks or vultures, once a common sight are rarely seen these days. However, there is one species which is still growing at an unbridled pace and seems to be immune to the despotic regime of pesticide laden inharmonious conditions. But again, this is the species that I do not quite dote on as well. Maybe my views regarding Crows spring from some childhood memories mishaps. Waris Shah- the celebrated Sufi poet who immortalised one of the most famous love stories in this part of the world– the Heer-Ranjha chronicle, also acquiesces the shrewd nature of the crows when he writes-
“Ek baaj ton kau ne koonj khoi
Vekhaan chup hai ke kurlavanda-ee”
(which if not taken symbolically can be loosely translated to ‘A crow snatched the share from Eagle, I wonder whether the Eagle is calm or crying.’)

Stealing food, pestering other animals and making those unbearable sounds, only the celestial beings know what good Crows are for amidst vast assemblage of all other birds on our planet. Nevertheless, there’s one possible exception- The Thirsty Crow story, which enlightens the young minds of the elementary school.

*****
When my family moved from our ancestral village, it didn’t affect our studies much because our school was in the same town. The only change was the replacement of my school bus by a Hero bicycle. We had moved into a rented house, a regular building with an ample veranda on the 1st floor. With a medical store, hair salon and a small dental clinic filling the landscape, the house faced a not-so-busy road which was guarded on both the sides by giant eucalyptus trees. I celebrated my 10th birthday in that house. A new addition to our usual line-up were toy guns having yellow plastic balls as pellets. With their effect not more than a small sharp pinch and range not more than 20 feet, we could just nudge the eucalyptus trees. Staying on those trees, as omnipresent as they are, crows were ever-squeaky and unwelcome guests.
One evening while I was gobbling my favorite ice cream sitting outside, I left it on the chair just to get something from the kitchen. When I came back I saw my plate being  tumultuously attacked by a bunch of crows. They left nothing on that plate (Of course, if you don’t consider those contaminated slimy remains). Immensely perturbed by their act, I immediately fished out my toy gun to avenge the loss. “You bunch of ice-cream thieves……get ready to face it now”, I mused while stretching my arms out of balcony to aim at my vexatious enemies. Now I know why my parents never sent me to any archery school. Tens of shots fired but none of them seemed to even go near them. Then with the help of my brother and his knowledge of projectiles, we probably managed to hit a couple of crows. By now crows had thoroughly scanned their enemy’s face. Even though outnumbered we didn’t retreat & kept on firing ‘bravely’ from secure locations until our artillery was exhausted and crows chose to sit on the far-off trees that evening.

*****

Our maternal village is very close to the town. We would often go there on weekends and watch grandpa abide by his code of work on the bottle gourd fields. Encompassing various sensibilities of a zealous personality, watching him work made us feel firmly linked with the ethos of soil. In the vicinity of his vegetable fields were newly sowed Sunflower plantations. Sunflower plants during germination need protection from doves & crows because when newly planted, an outlaw flock always fumbles frantically in the mud for anything resembling a seed and scuttles away at the slightest hint of noise. Scarecrows are usually placed in the middle but they do not scare the crows at all. Children dread them more. Crows would come and sit on them, gossip for a while and laugh at the human stupidity that how humans think it scares their kind. Doves on the other hand always prefer venturing away from the scarecrows. Due to their etiolated grayish shade, doves camouflage well with the mud lines of the plants and sometimes need stone hurling slings to be shooed away.

******
After gourd picking, grandpa would usually sit by the fields waiting for someone to get refreshments before he left for town. Vegetables were just packed and done before I arrived that morning. With a considerable amount of sunshine above, I was day-dreaming while tooling along the moist sunflower fields, trying my best not to destroy any of the plants. Shortly afterwards, a chill shook down my spine as I was suddenly dive-bombed by a formidable object. “What on earth was that!….Crows?…Why would a crow attack you during yet another boring morning?…Oh No..!”, I thought in my head. There it was, a whole army of crows all keen on turning me bald! I ran hard and locked myself in the tube-well room. Holy Crow! I was out of breath. Grandpa came there to get some tools and was taken aback on finding me inside.

“What happened?”

“Nothing”, my chest heaved as I gathered breath.

“Then why are you hiding here?”

“I think the crows tried to attack me”, I muttered. Then through the window, I saw my brother coming with some tea and refreshments only to meet the same fate. And this time, Grandpa was a witness.

“Why are they only attacking you two? I have been working here the whole time and they didn’t so much as lift a feather at me! Do you have a past score with the crows?”, Grandpa sat down with his glass of tea, his tone tinged with sarcasm.

“What?…No!…we don’t know..or maybe..ummm..Yes” we replied almost in chorus.

“Explain”, he was visibly intrigued.

We told him how we launched an ambush against crows, about a week ago. These fields were more than three kilometers away from our house in the town.

“How could they recognize us?”, we asked grandpa.

“Probably they conveyed their secret message to all their counterparts in the surrounding areas with your facial descriptions, directing them to be on a look out for you two!”, Grandpa chimed in barely controlling his laughter. We were both clueless at how it was happening.

******

Paraphrasing these lines from ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’, I direly wish someone had advised us beforehand, “Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit ’em but remember it’s an extremely dangerous job to hit a crow!” While sipping his tea carefully Grandpa continued, “Crows are like those people in our village who are always ready to get into a fight. But they usually don’t initiate it, unless provoked.” Still tottering under the mindless blows of this demented populace, all we wanted at that time was to get out of their reach. As grandpa suggested we sneaked out of the fields with straw baskets covering our heads. My brother took our pesky buggers completely by surprise as he rotated the hand sling, hurling a few stones with such a skill and dexterity that it would leave Bruce Lee astounded. Their battle formation was completely strewn apart. Although they tried to launch a counter strike but failed miserably.

This little victory of ours was short lived though and brought no respite as it further angered the crows. We might have won the battle but the war was still on. Clearly, it was time for more desperate measures. Everybody at home got to know about our hilarious encounters which earned us the honour of being the laughingstock for a good number of days. But it was only my Naana who came to a sensible conclusion, “You have to undo what you’ve done!”. And I doubt taking any other advice more seriously in my entire life. He told us to feed the crows whenever and wherever possible, starting from our very own roof where it all started. From that moment onwards, for next few weeks or perhaps months, we followed our grandpa’s advice. We’d offer them chapatis, biscuits, bread crumbs and what not, I even went as far as keeping the same ice cream for them outside the veranda.  Although the attacks continued, their frequency and intensity decreased gradually. Now only a handful of the more vengeful ones attacked us in fields. Better sense prevailed amongst them and they seemed to be gearing up to draw the terms of peace. Grandpa also helped us to get along better. From his lunchbox he would save one or two chapatis, one he’d feed them himself and when they would be near him he’d ask us to join and feed them silently, thus a new sense of trust blossomed. Finally, they would start accepting our crumbs. The truce, so painstakingly achieved, stands unbroken till this date.

*****
Two lessons were learnt, albeit a little late. One, of course, that crows are darn good communicators with a massive backup support and second, grandpa’s advice, “Do not coax them. They are not innately vicious but sometimes you have to lose a bit of ice cream to have your peace of mind!” The whole escapade reminds me that certain things are better kept at a distance by all those who aim at revelling in a joyous existence.
Signing off with this beautiful melody from The Lovin’ Spoonful which sort of befits the mood. Ciao. 🙂

**
“What a day for a daydream, What a day for a day dreamin’ boy,
Dreamin’ about my bundle of joy.
And even if time is passin’ me by a lot,
I couldn’t care less about the dues you say I got.”

**

After Gourd Picking (I)

 

An incandescent orange-hued sky blemished by some shapeless glimmering clouds would herald the dawn in the silent backdrop of dew-stricken grass. Sunrays struggling to strobe through the horizon would soon make their way past the eucalyptus trees, just enough for us to identify all the gourds in the field. “This one also?” holding a halved Topaz razor in my little hands I would innocently ask my Grandpa if the bottle gourds that we had gone picking were big enough to be cut and put into the vegetable basket.

Vacations in my maternal village were a tad bit different experience- the sight of vibrant yellow mustard plantations, the early morning dew seeping from those grassy ditches, the fragrance of coriander, rustle of sugarcane fields, daily rides lying on top of the bullock cart laden with green fodder, watching a frenzied flock of white cranes roving behind freshly ploughed land which would emanate a geosminic earthy flavor, whiff of froth from the milk bucket, directly squirting warm milk into the mouth while milking cows and many more wonderful happenings. A day would invariably start with my Grandma shouting at 5 in the morning, “Get up, it’s already such a bright day outside, get up before it’s Noon.” Arghh! It’s 5:00 a.m. not 10. Although children were exempted from this martial drill, but who wants to miss out on an early morning adventure trip to the fields. Getting up blearily we would be welcomed by a huge glass of milk and some bread schmeared with freshly churned butter in the kitchen, where we’d all sit rubbing our eyes. God knows when Naani got up and did all these chores. Next thing I remember is landing up in the fields by some means.

Not that we were of much use there, cauliflower fields in winter and bottle gourds in summer would beckon our presence. “One more?”, I would identify a  gourd in a whole field of Gourds (Slow clap!). Although there would be at least ten other people around in the field, it was my dear Naana who had to answer my annoying query every time I spotted a gourd. (I would pick about 8-10 on a lucky day and expect a red carpet welcome at home for my feat). Even though it was exasperating for him, he’d still make a quick & unwavering reply “Whoa! You have become an expert at this.” We would all come out and sit by the tube well, wash all the yield. In no time, we’d go back home and have a tummy-exploding breakfast of Aloo-Parathas, curd, and Lassi. Leaving the fields by 6.30-7 a.m., grandpa would take the tractor-trolley to the town’s vegetable market and come back only to find his solace in that patch of land.

From shy mornings to gentle evenings, working for the entire day in fields was something that he had done for decades but for the past few years, he treated that piece of land like a newborn child. No one else would work on that land after ploughing and planting the vegetables, all that was done between two ploughs was my grandpa’s work. Every morning, a generous yield of the Gourd, Cauliflower, Brinjal, Coriander or Radish would be loaded on to the trolley depending upon the season. He would nurture and embellish that land with trowels to root out all the weeds, with a spade to chip off the grassy corners, irrigate it timely, the whole idea was so sacred to him that he would feel jittery when he was not working in his fields. In the afternoons, he slept in the tube-well room or under the Pilkan tree(White fig). Someone would get him his meals at that place. Prodding every inch of it from dawn to dusk, the sweat of his brazen fingers would somehow galvanize that bleak land into a meadow of fruitful plants by morning. (To be continued…)

Mitthu

The prospect of going to school during winters was a scary one. Owing to some cruel plan of the universe, we were the first to be picked and last to be dropped students on the bus route. The school bus would arrive at some ungodly hour before dawn and I remember being late most of the times. Grandpa would somehow keep the bus driver diverted with trivial talk until we arrived, barely surviving the early morning bath and our breath visibly making little clouds of fog in front of us. Being back from school by three o’clock meant replaying the daily routine of snacks-nap-waking up to watch the outside view turn scarily dark.

Fog with its companion darkness, was synonymous with no cricket, no fooling around, no hide n’ seek and no stories from Sadhu- the old story teller. Even our majestic Peepal tree was helpless in times like these. Occasionally we’d sneak out of the house as secretly as we could  to sit by the fire which someone would light underneath the tree but it wouldn’t be long before you hear mother calling in a mildly angry tone, “Come Home! Who ‘ll do the homework?”.

All in all, there was a lot that we’d miss out on, especially on the school days. So winter breaks were like an oasis in a desert. Holidays would witness the festival of Lohri, bonfires, feasting on roasted peanuts, Sarson da Saag and Makki di Roti, Pinnis and Panjiris, and best of all- snuggling all day under the cozy warmth of quilts. 

I remember one winter, it was so foggy that the sun didn’t show up for one entire month and when it returned to work, it made headlines on regional DD news. A Sunday morning walk with grandpa gave a better aerial perspective, with fog so dense that you could almost slice it with a knife.

The surface of the water-containers for birds would be covered with thin slices of ice. Right from the fodder kept in the cattle yards to the grass on the sidewalks, everything you see would be coated with a fine layer of frost as if nature has sprinkled icing sugar on them. On such days, the type of clothing that we were bundled up in would make a StarWars Stormtrooper feel ashamed of his attire.

*****

Apart from the cold and unclear days that winter brought, there was one thing that every child in our village was absolutely sure of- “Mitthu”.

That he will show up, this winter as well. There’s something interesting about the fog, that its movement is most appreciated at the periphery of the vision, just as ghosts are said to be noticeable only out of the corner of an eye. Now coming back to the winter scenes, suddenly one day out of the blue, a ghostly figure would be seen emerging from the folds of the heavy blanket of fog. When you cannot see more than 5 feet away, if something moving slowly appears in front of you, it should thoroughly creep you out but rather than the terrifying true discovery that one expects, seeing him clearly made us all feel ‘Aah! It was just a comic disorientation‘.

The cause of this happy momentary stir to the otherwise dull winter was a middle-aged man with a chubby face, small paunch, slightly protruding upper teeth, a perpetual week old stubble, sparse hair with a broad forehead and myopic eyes, owing to which he had this comical habit of blinking rather rapidly.

Armed with his trusty wooden stick, he would be seen walking across the street from one house to another. Within minutes, all the children in the locality would know that Mitthu has turned up. Well, I don’t remember seeing him showering gifts to the children but the fondness they had for him would rival that for Santa Claus, had they known more about Christmas. Indeed, Mitthu was a kind of Santa for our village, bringing cheer in times of cold and gloom.

Mitthu’s sudden appearance had a mystical quality about it. He would be in his ordinary traditional clothes- loose fitting light colored kurta pajama with a grayish-black jacket or sleeveless sweater and rarely a monkey cap with a shawl to round it up. Being always barefoot, his muddy feet had map-like cracks. Those cracks looked like they carried information of all the roads that he would’ve traveled throughout the year. But he was not at all as mysterious for all the adults in the village as he was for us.

Mitthu was always welcome to all the weddings and religious functions, be it in the Gurudwara, Mandir or even at someone’s house. And he made sure that he is sober, with his hands and feet properly washed before going to any religious occasion, he never talked inappropriately with anyone and ergo, wasn’t refused at any such events. He would find a seat in the front row and people always gifted him some clothes along with money. Without any distinctions of rich and poor, he always attended everyone with the same zeal. At times, his pockets were full of 100 Rupee notes and sometimes he wouldn’t even have a single coin.

As far as my memory tells me he never had any inhibition about having food at anyone’s place. He didn’t have a fixed dining routine but I assume he was welcome all the time, anywhere in the whole village. Breakfast at Headman’s place, lunch at shopkeeper’s and dinner somewhere else- he had quite a busy schedule.

*****

Mitthu’s visits to our place were all similar. “Maami, how are you?”  he’d first greet Grandma. She would reply with a smile ,“Mitthu, so you have come.?” After the greetings he’d say on his own without any reluctance, “What’s there for dinner?” and then ritually go to the hand pump, wash his hands and get seated on the mat placed on the floor, all set to be served dinner. He ate happily whatever people offered him. I remember he was particularly fond of chicken, and wouldn’t shy away from asking grandma if there was some extra salad, radish in particular. While waiting for food he would keep us entertained with some folk songs in his melodious voice.

I don’t know whether he liked it or not, but almost everyone in the village considered it was important to offer him some alcohol on certain days after dinner, as though it’ll bring some good luck for the village. Some men, whose only purpose in life was to play cards under the Peepal tree, in exchange for sharing their little bottles of country liquor, asked him for some numbers, numbers in lottery tickets I assume, and they believed that whatever he chose was extremely lucky and sure to fetch them some gains every time.

Customarily he’d be seen during extremely foggy days, as the days brightened up his jacket and shawl would disappear, and we would get a hint that he will leave much before the first kiss of the spring.

The slap of his bare feet touching ice cold road, either walking towards us or vanishing into the farthest trails of the village, still reverberates in my memory. I don’t know where he came from, and where his feet took him after he left our village. He used to sleep in the veranda of community hall or outside Shiva Mandir sometimes.

Mitthu would start his daily tour quite early in the day. Although any child would be scared of him because of his appearance, he would dispel their fears by playing with their hair, poking them or making funny faces. Occasionally he would even give them a coin or two if they pestered him a lot.

An ever-smiling face while talking, his manners were always non-pretentious, unadulterated and he had an innocent childish tone in referring “Maama” to every male that he encountered and “Maami” to every female, irrespective of their age. “Maami how is everyone, how are the kids?” would be his trademark question to every lady.

*****

Nobody knew what his actual name was, which place he belonged to; some said our village was his maternal place and he still had some old relatives in a nearby village. Well, it wouldn’t be right to say that he did not have any family. I have not seen a person who is more welcome to any place than he was.

But, what had happened to him? Why does he keep on smiling so serenely? Where does he stay rest of the year? Is he welcome to all the villages all around the year just like ours? Why doesn’t he have any footwear? Did they name him Mitthu just because he talked too sweetly? These were some of the questions that not even the elders could satisfactorily answer.

Amidst the noise that these questions make in my head, whose answers I don’t seek anymore, the thought of this pleasant but forgotten character redeems a faith about human relations that how everyone in the village made sure that he was well fed and fine. And in return, he was the source of so much happy energy in our neighborhood.

Sometimes, I close my eyes and envision myself replying, “They are all fine” to Mitthu’s question “Maama, how’s everyone in the family?” Now I don’t find anything comical about his eyes, I think behind the curtains of his blinking eyes was a piercing yet so soothing gaze which always seemed to relieve us of our curiosity.

A person free from paralyzing fear of being nobody and shackles of materialism, his face was so familiar yet so foreign. Remembering Mitthu and those days brings a smile on my face, a smile that encompasses the sweet melancholy for those streets that I left behind and excitement for the lands that I haven’t touched yet.

(Signing off with this singsong melody from Lord Huron that echoes my thoughts. Ciao.)

“I am not the only traveler,

Who has not repaid his debt.

I’ve been searching for a trail to follow again,

Take me back to the night we met.”

The Birds Are Happy Now (II)

“Yes, Mr. Ajit speaking.” He still had his Army ways although he had retired from service after the ’65 war. My Grandma would tell me how even after his service he would go to the nearby villages to offer medical help to anyone who needed it. “Yes, yes, I am fine. I have been discharged. You know your grandma has a habit of exaggerating my illness. I am not leaving this world so soon” he responded nonchalantly. Making a strained effort, he asked me, “When are you coming home?”, in the hopeful tone of a child asking his parents for an expensive toy. And I always fail to figure out why I didn’t have anything else to say but, “Don’t worry, as soon as these exams are over.” Life went on as usual at both ends.

After years of persuasion, my grandparents agreed to move to my uncle’s place in a bigger city. Grandma often used to complain over the phone, “He’s just out of the hospital, but no, he still has to go for a walk.” They had their share of bittersweet moments. But grandpa always had an apt comeback line, “I just go to the nearby community park, where else would I go here, there are no canal side fields or open-ended roads like we had in the village.”

 

****

 At the center of our neighborhood in the village, there stood a grand, and old Peepal tree. Elders said that the tree was more than 100 years old. Not only old, it was gigantic, frightening and cast a vast shadow with its twisted gnarled roots and majestic trunk. It seems silly when I write about it but there was something so vital about the tree that when I close my eyes it all runs like an old  documentary being played on Doordarshan. The Peepal had aged a lot over years but still it was always doing some or other thing in the vicinity. Its massive branches would shelter parrots, sparrows, owls, beehives sometimes even vultures and peacocks. Children climbed upon its branches, played hide-and-seek, hid marbles and put swings around the thickest and most horizontal of its branches. Nonetheless, the tree was young enough to support all the life and happiness around it. I was around 9 when we had left the village, and I would visit my  grandparents occasionally.

Sitting cross-legged on an off white plastic  chair  under the Peepal tree, wearing his dark grey trousers, a home-knit sweater and peculiar pumpkin brown velvety footwear, with ‘The Tribune’ in his hands, he used to bask under the bright Sunday sunshine which easily managed to pierce through not so dense crown of the tree. Although I am not sure what he enjoyed more, his newspaper or the sunlight on an early December afternoon. As soon as I would come into his line of sight he would jump excitedly out of his chair, rush to hug me and shout to my grandma, “See, who has come to meet us today!” He would not stand still for a moment and happily sneak out to the small sweet shop near the school  to get some sweets, Khoya Barfi in particular. Ahh! It was always so delicious. Grandma would prepare tea in the meantime and then the usual exercise of chatting would follow over the tea and sweets.

*****

“Hey, two years! Don’t you think two years is a lot of time? “ asked Grandpa, his voice firm and face cut with a lot more wrinkle lines than he had last time. The final year  of college was over. I was meeting him after a gap of almost 2 years. “Don’t trouble him with your silly questions,” Grand ma snapped. “I am not troubling him. I am so proud that my grandson is a graduate now,” he said, leaning forward to offer me some sweets. I had just finished all my exams and was  awaiting results but grandpa sort of knew that I’ll get through. Just like olden times, we both slipped out of home for a walk, but in the city this time.

The light was just short of disappearing and the scene was dotted with railway tracks, few coal-laden trolleys, haywire of electricity lines, rickshaws, cars, two-wheelers, reddish quarter buildings were blending away with the grayish hue of the skyline, everything was almost dull except for one corner of the  whole landscape, the park. As he was getting a little  out of breath, we entered the community park through a small revolving iron gate. The grass was not exactly like the type that you would see in a golf-course. It was uneven, unkempt yet lush green and very soothing in that it was soaking all the activities around it, leaving the noise of birds gathered nearby to be only noticeable sound in its surroundings. In the middle, there was a raised cemented platform, where the pigeons were feasting upon grains.

Grandpa took out a small plastic bag of grains from his right pocket. “Don’t you think  the birds are happy today? Maybe they are happy because you have come to meet me,” he mused as he sprinkled a handful of grains and shook the bag upside down . I smiled sheepishly and nodded in affirmation. I still think how even seemingly pointless conversations can have such a profound meaning. In the park he introduced me to some of his new friends, most of them typifying Shakespearean 7th stage from ‘All the World’s a Stage’ . Worn out yet smiling faces, they were all enjoying their time in the park. As I greeted them, one of his friends said, “Have you seen the  Old man’s face? I bet he is happier than he must have been on his wedding day.” There was a brief quiet moment followed by a thunder of laughter. Suddenly turning serious, the same person looked at me, “Keep coming  to see your Grandpa more often. He loves you a lot and always tells us about you.” I responded with an uneasy expression.

I glanced at the birds, paused for a second, and to my surprise, the birds did seem happy. The whole scenario was vaguely reminiscent of Iñárritu’s 21 Grams’ closing shots.

*****

 Last year I heard they cut the Peepal tree. They had to use machine cutters as it was too thick a trunk to be cut by mere human hands. To be honest, I have not gone there in last 5 years, I just have flashes of memory about rest of the things in the village, except for the Tree which I remember distinctly. The well on one side of the tree which had swallowed hundreds of our cricket balls and marbles, the Gurudwara, Ramleela plays in the Krishna temple during Dussehra & the lady outside who  used to sell roasted corn, mango trees, a crematorium nudging a large football/cricket ground where no one dared to go if ever our ball went that way. Although the tree has gone now but I still believe, like the sparkle in an infant’s eyes on seeing its mother, that somehow, somewhere it exists- nurturing and protecting everyone around it like a gentleman.

And  to complete the perspective on the birds, my last meeting with grandpa, life and everything that follows, I leave you with the protagonist Paul Rivers’ monologue from 21 Grams:-

“How many lives do we live? How many times do we die? They say we all lose 21 grams… at the exact moment of our death. Everyone. And how much fits into 21 grams? How much is lost? When do we lose 21 grams? How much goes with them? How much is gained? Twenty-one grams. The weight of a stack of five nickels. The weight of a hummingbird. A chocolate bar. How much did 21 grams weigh?” 

The Birds Are Happy Now (I)

I was wandering aimlessly through the crowded streets of M.G. Road when suddenly, I got a call from home and got to know that my grandfather had been admitted to a hospital. Although he had not smoked in ages now, he was always prone to chest infections and now more so than ever at the age of 82.

His face swam in front of my eyes. Both the wrinkled old one when I had met him last time and the handsome young one, from the photos that he would carefully show me from his old and lovingly kept brown leather bag. A charismatic man, in his all-white attire, ready to join as a paramedic in the Indian Army. This was  in the early 1950s. Well, he looked no less dashing than Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon.

***

Never in his life had he raised his hand on me. But he was, as I recollect, quite critical and strict  with others. The first thing that comes to my mind when I think of my childhood is the “Perfect Round Omelette” incident. So, my parents were not home  for some reason and my grandma had to make me breakfast that day. At this point, I should tell you that I was an extremely irritating and fussy six/seven-year-old with unusual demands. I told her that I want an intact and completely round omelette. My grandma said jokingly, “Yes, why not“…but while flipping it over she broke it into two, exactly in the middle. Seeing this, I flew into such a rage that even Jules Winnfield from Pulp Fiction would have felt scared, had he been standing in front of me. Without any further thoughts I just grasped a heavy spinach cutting knife lying nearby, and yes, as horrible and violent as it sounds, I threw it towards her hand.

Much to my regret, my aim was bang on target. Grandma immediately started shouting and crying, and my Grandpa rushed in to see the bloody outcome of my ‘Furious Anger’. He quickly got some bandages, stopped the bleeding and immediately pulled out his bicycle to take her to the nearby clinic. I went along, hanging my head in shame, eyes brimming with tears at the stupid act I had so thoughtlessly caused. She ended up with four stitches on her hand and many days of eating with left hand. My grandpa didn’t hit me, instead, he hugged me and said: “Let’s see who gives you perfect round omelettes now?”.

***

I remember the times when we would go on our early morning walks even during winters and I’d be wrapped up like Nostromo’s crew in their space suits as shown in the movie Alien. He would tell me all the stories about deities, his exciting adventures during Army days, excerpts from the Holy Bhagavad Gita or Gurbani, both of which he knew by heart. But I seldom understood any of those things at that time. Also, I remember the times when he would drop and pick me up from the school bus followed by a chilled glass of  Rooh Afza, which I would slurp up like a little puppy.

I remember the sadness on his face when my parents had decided to move to the nearby town, and the tears in his eyes when we went to meet him for the 1st time after leaving the village. I remember it all…