Uttarkashi Diaries: Part 3

“It’s impossible for you guys to be able to reach Dayara”, smirked the middle-aged man managing the roadside eatery at Bhatwari, a village on the way to arguably one of the most beautiful destinations in the district of Uttarkashi- Dayara Bugyal.

In local language, Dayara means ‘high altitude’ and ‘bugyal’ is a meadow. Whatever that is supposed to mean, we had to kill time through our extended weekend (remember, it was the ‘Holi’ weekend and we had to come up with unholy plans for the day before). Believe me, breathtaking views on mountainous terrains are not worth it unless you’re out of breath. That calls for long, difficult treks. The length of the trek has been debated over the last week and no one has so far been able to guesstimate with confidence. (To give the readers some idea, a few websites claim that it is 8 km long.)

“Huh! We’ll definitely complete it” - reacted each of us in our own way, yet in unison, and marked by a confused blend of emotions which was dominated by disagreement, disappointment and disapproval. As Gi prepared to pay for the breakfast, the man remarked again, “You neither have the right shoes, nor the right clothes for the trek. There would be 5 feet thick snow. You guys won’t make it! What food are you carrying?” We replied, “Chips, biscuits, chocolates” to which he smirked even more derisively. Enough! We had gotten ready by 6 on a Sunday morning for this trek; there was no way he could demotivate us.

As the engine of the car forced itself to pull us through the hostile roads, we were overwhelmed by the first sight of the army of snow-capped peaks lined up before our eyes. As the wheels came to a halt, we realized we had reached the village of Barsu from where we were to start the trek.

We started off at quarter past 9, asking solitary villagers about Dayara and the path that led to it, and we were terribly disappointed by their vague responses. The beginning of the trek was made of steep, stony steps. “Is the trail entirely like this?!” Some villagers nodded; others- we felt- weren’t sure what we were asking. “Is there snow at Dayara?” One woman responded negatively. Confused, we started moving. By the time we had covered a kilometer, Pa had revolted against having to continue any further. Sa had managed to keep her part of our herd by employing some old trick. Others, who were tired themselves, chipped in to keep her (and in turn the group’s) morale high. We made sure we took frequent breaks in order not to wear ourselves out early in the trek. We rested whenever the view was good, and whenever it wasn’t. Having walked what then appeared to us a 20 km already, we had our lunch (a meager and unhealthy composition of chips, biscuits, chocolates and a few sips of water). Meanwhile, we were happy to see the first strip of snow, which then onwards appeared in more abundance than we would have possibly liked.

The crooked twigs we had collected on our way supported us through the slippery white floor. We kept moving past one patch after another carefully. By then, we had managed to keep the thought of exhaustion off our mind by focusing on short-term objectives of conquering small strips of snow, one at a time. There was no signboard anywhere and we had no clue how far we were from our destination. That didn’t keep us from moving, though. Often, whenever one of us thought we had walked enough and the scenery around was really admirable, we paused to decide whether we should stop going any further. We’d brought that old saying which had something to do about ‘the journey and the destination’ (and by the end of the journey had progressed to ‘the means and the end’) - up so many times that we feared being beaten up by the rest of the group for serving monotony on top of fatigue.

We were not even sure if we were moving in the right direction; the only footsteps to follow in the snow was the occasional trail left by some animal. When we had almost decided we had had enough after walking on snow completely, and not just on patches, something triggered us to look beyond the horizon of white which was visible to us then- something I still don’t know if we should be regretting or not, for after ascending the part that covered our sight, we could see right atop the mound of snow, a small tin shade (looked small from that distance). We instantly knew it was Dayara! Now that we could see it, there was no looking back. The next part happened to be the toughest. It was an exceptionally sharp ascent for the ones without any trekking equipment. Our shoes dug into snow badly at every step and we could hardly move. Still, we made short strides, digging a “knee-full” of snow every time, lifting the legs and heading upwards. What appeared to be the last leg of the trek wouldn’t get over; our energy had gotten drained completely. As each of us made our way to the tin-roof shade after a thrilling five hour long journey, we experienced elation and relief. We were surrounded by white; we had conquered the white!

We took “time-outs” in our own way. Gi chose to take a dip in the ‘lake’ there. I bet the water was damn cold. After having spent about quarter of an hour clicking pictures, eating, chatting, relaxing and drying our clothes, we decided to leave. We had to get down before dusk, to avoid the slippery surface of the snow in the dark. The trek downhill was almost a cakewalk, compared to the ascent, except that we had run out of water and had to fill our bottles with snow and wait for them to melt to be able to quench our thirst.

Not sure if we ran, were scared of the dark, followed shortcuts or were just plain fast, our sprint led us to Barsu where our car waited, faster than we thought: in almost two hours. We proudly shared with Sachin-ji, the driver, our success story! On our way back, overjoyed at having accomplished the difficult trek, we wanted to give a few words of advice to that “rude” man from the roadside eatery who had predicted that we wouldn’t make it to Dayara. Sachin-ji persuaded us not to get involved in an argument with an ignorant someone. In India, no one challenges a Sachin. Too tired, we let go.

About a half an hour drive later, Sachin-ji mustered some courage. “You guys didn’t go to Dayara. It was a different place. Dayara must have had more snow and you couldn’t have had made it without proper shoes and equipment.” Our jaws fell. It was like shattering a child’s dreams. It was like waking up someone from a beautiful dream, with the news of a death. Later, we confirmed with others that we had really not gone to Dayara.

That we couldn’t have gone due to heavy snow is another story but the way the castle of dreams, pride and achievement was first carefully erected and then brought down was painfully heart-breaking at that instant. After enough contemplation, I realize that I have no regret for not having made it to Dayara. After all, we did not know if it was Dayara, or not. We did our best, pushed ourselves to a point we can talk about in the future. If not Dayara, someplace else; but we created our own path in snow, out of nowhere. If that is not commendable, what is?

Uttarkashi Diaries: Part 2

Daily accounts are good only for a historian. Call me a pessimist, but I am confident that forty days and forty nights of event log would in no way result in a story as gripping as that of Alibaba. Not that it would otherwise, either. Indeed, I am caught in a dichotomy of having to shed the ‘excess fat’ of details like in meat and having to bring out the intricacies of trivialities that form a major component of any work of art. Here we go- walking the tightrope.

As I try to dig out of my inadequate memory what I (and perhaps, my readers) would think would be interesting enough to chronicle here, the most significant change that I am being constantly reminded of is the weather. From dark clouds to bright sunshine, from clear star-studded skies to light drizzle, from numbing wind to unkind heat- we had our share of all in just seven days. While predictability is boring, surprise is sometimes unwanted. For most people, that is. We knew we couldn’t afford to pay much heed to the whims of Nature if we were to make good use of our sojourn.

Well, there wasn’t ever any “to do” list. But, by virtue of local opinion and popular choice, it turned out that Nachiketa Taal was already impatiently queuing up for a place in that imaginary list. Sunday morning and we couldn’t sleep till noon- we would’ve cried foul had we not ‘salivated’ at the prospects of what was told was in store for us. Ha and Pa chose to stay back. Reduced to eight now (Gi made a late entry to the group the previous evening), we walked up to the stand to board a taxi which would drop us at Chowrangi (pardon the spelling errors, if any: our eyes stopped noting inconsequential details after our time with a local Babaji at Chowrangi, or whatever). Having stuffed our stomachs well with boiled maggi and hot paranthas, we headed for the Nachiketa Taal (henceforth to be referred as NaTa). A welcome board greeted us to the 3-km trek.

We chased the turns of the beautiful trail. Everyone has a different way of looking at such treks and sadly, I can only present mine. Like a bee rushing at the scent of a fresh flower, I kept looking for what lay beyond the next curve. The first sight of snow-capped peaks thrilled us. As I waited for others in the group to join me, I concealed myself in grooves, secretly appreciating the colorful coexistence of green, brown and white. Slippery surface of patches of white carpet occasionally slowed down Aa and Ma. In order to ski without the skiing boots for a good part of the latter half of the trek, we had to carefully mix the platter of joy with a dose of caution.

A momentary disappointment struck as we got a glimpse of the ‘lake’. Not sure what to expect at the end of a beautiful yet tiring journey, we were probably confused. The urban lakes had unconsciously created a new but contrasting perception of its primordial anatomy. With time, we started to experience the calm that was characteristic of NaTa. With remarkable serenity did it welcome our noisy team. This tranquility was contagious.

It started with interesting chats with a Baba. His answers were outright sarcastic in the beginning, somewhat amusing in the middle and relatively ‘proper’ in the end. Less interesting story (am I being too polite here?) about the inception of NaTa which blended mythology with history, followed. Next, we headed for Yamraj Gumpha. We found a snow-covered stretch beyond which there was a small streak of land in green. That was all. So, we assumed that the Gumpha lay hidden beneath the layer of white- moreover we were more concerned about returning before it got dark. We had little doubt that the snow would pose greater threat in the dark. As clouds turned darker, we knew it was high time we left.

The return trek being mostly downhill was relatively easy. Also, the confidence of already having traversed the same path once boosted our speed through the jungle. As we completed the trek before sundown, our stomachs begged for food. Maggi and paranthas were ordered. Egg, plain, vegetable, aloo, onion, mixed, everything. More chocolates were bought than anyone ever had. We gulped them all. The taxi sped through the bends at alarming speed as it took us back to Uttarkashi. We held on to our seats, too tired to ask the driver to slow down, as we looked out through the glass.

Uttarkashi Diaries: Part 1

Prelude: Thrown off the shelf

June to February. That’s nine months- almost the same time as human gestation period. On hindsight, there’s glaring similarity. Management studies had shaken us all of the many myths and clichés which were so ornately treasured by us before we took on the ride. The rollercoaster ride had to end with a jolt. They had conveniently named it DOCC: Development of Corporate Citizenship. For the uninitiated, it’s our jargon for Rural Internship! And six weeks, we believe (and I do so even as I write this piece), is a long time. If there was any relief in the whole story, it was probably the location. Pilgrimage was certainly not on my mind. Snow-capped mountains were. Prospects of treks were. A long holiday in a hill-station free from the cycle of assignments, deadlines and grades was what we were hoping for.

March 1, 00:05 HRS, Bandra Terminus Railway Station. As the wheels of Dehra Dun Express rolled reluctantly, we settled down, putting our bags and selves together, struggling to keep off our mind the thought of having to spend over forty hours inside the train. A grand description of the journey could get me a call from the Ministry of Indian Railways, and as such I’ll refrain from doing so. In short- trash talk, card games, music, funny songs on RaGa by Na, books, food, more food, sleep, more sleep, boredom, more boredom- sum up most part of our journey. Getting down at stations (and there were 98 of them!) was fun. Getting back on while the train had started to move was even better. [Kids and their parents: please read the underlying caveat]

Welcome to the North

March 2, 17:35 HRS, Dehra Dun Junction. Having braved the demanding (more in terms of mental health than physical) journey, we were elated to get off board what had been our home for the previous 41.5 hours. We split, as the girls moved to their relatives place, and the guys jumped into an Auto-rickshaw to find for themselves a place to stay for the night. Hotel Balaji got to host us. It turned out to be a decent place free from the hustle and bustle of the main city. Hot tea in cups and warm water from taps greeted us. After making full use of these, we had some snacks (the spring-rolls were freaking delicious! Fried chicken was great, too). We entered a small roadside restaurant (‘restaurant’, really?) named ‘Oberoi’ for dinner- we were the only customers. In little time, we realized that the guy at the reception was the cook as well! The food didn’t disappoint us, though. Butter-chicken, paneer, roti and rice- enough to put us to sleep after a tiresome travel.

The next morning, we gathered at Prince Chowk to leave for Uttarkashi. 2 Boleros with back- seats full of bags and front ones full of us! What was promised to us a 5 hour journey turned out to be 7 hours long. Our voyage was punctuated by a faulty rod between the wheels and had to be repaired. Music, gossip, a few lame games, football-munching (‘football’ here is a chocolate candy wrapped in football-like skin) - that more or less formed the major part of our journey. Oh did I forget the hot paranthas and maggi in a dhaba on the way- couldn’t have imagined a more perfect breakfast. As broken roads led to the town of Uttarkashi, we could sense the kind of damage done by the floods last year. The river Bhagirathi continued to accompany us till we got down at Joshiyara.

“Aap sabhi ka swagat hai. Hotel Relax me aap log aaj ‘relax’ kijiye”, said Gopal-ji, who is the project manager at the NGO here. The first time we laughed at the joke. But by the time he had repeated the same joke two more times, we were off to our rooms with our bags.

Relax: Grihapravesh, Day 0

We were not really expecting to be awed by either the interiors or the facilities. I must say there was no major disappointment. The warmth of hospitality covered up for whatever was missing. As I looked out of the balcony, my eyes absorbed the green of the magnanimous mountains that shelters the town. Still recuperating from the devastations of the flood, this town had tractors, earth movers, donkeys, men and women working incessantly toward making it as beautiful as it was before the calamity. The cold was getting unbearable before we saw the thick blankets arranged on our beds.

Food was simple but served hot. I cannot yet understand why I couldn’t get myself to like the food at my hostel (which was menu-wise better and possibly more hygienic) but loved every bit of the food cooked here. The hardcore non-vegetarian in me has no answer to the question of how I am enjoying the vegetarian food here.

Food is best served hot and sleep is best served cold. The latter with blankets, of course. That was one reason I always wrote about winter when they asked me to essay my thoughts on my ‘favorite season’ in school. Anyway, tired, we said- “Let there be darkness”- and we fell instantly asleep.

Day 1: Formalities & NIM

The meeting with the NGO people appeared bland before the hot Aloo-ka-Parantha breakfast that preceded it. Introductions occupied center stage; no majorly inspiring event. I have no intention of making the journal boring by repeated mention of the meal menu- therefore, I’ll skip. That gives me enough time and space to write about the biggest event of the day: a trek to Nehru Institute of Mountaineering (or NIM, as it is popularly called). They said it was 3 km long one-way. We’re in no mood to argue that it was twice as long- or so did our under-confident watches say. However, being in no hurry, our legs didn’t feel the distance as badly. The shutters opened and closed at the changing poses of Nature. Ashutosh Gowarikar’s crew was shooting for a television serial named ‘Everest’. Unfortunately, the main attraction was absent. Yesteryear actor Milind Gunaji was present though. There could be a separate blog post analyzing him, and it would, I bet, be a sorry tale. The cold ensured us of continuous refills of caffeine and theine in inappropriate quantities throughout the day. The walk downhill was easier. The trek however took its toll only as we got inside our blankets. Interesting or ironical? Or both?

Day 2: Change in weather

As if the falling mercury wasn’t enough- it had started drizzling. Dark clouds, like soot hanging from the ceiling, covered the mighty mountains. That meant we could stay back in our blankets longer without feeling guilty. Ru had to head for a field visit while it hadn’t started pouring, only to be deceived minutes later. Sa and Ka (and I don’t know who else, because I was sleeping) got us hot samosas in the evening and we indulged religiously in them. The night had real surprise in store. Some dark liquid with magical powers was poured into 8 glasses. If I knew what happened next, there would be no fun. And we wouldn’t be awed by the magic either. 

Vidyang dehi

Durga Pujo is definitely the biggest festival for Bengalis and the most elaborate one for sure. We- Bongs- look forward to this mega annual event in a particular year the moment the previous year’s gets over! Four days of intoxicating celebrations, and the long preparation preceding it! When I look back to the time when I was really small, all that was good. The vacations in school were even better.

But, it was Saraswati Pujo that qualified as my festival- it was closer to my heart. Probably because I was paid more attention to during Saraswati Pujo, and that’s all a kid wishes for. The goddess was part of the household. She never complained if the fruits were sour or if the Rangoli (or as we call it, Alpona) was asymmetric or if the size of the idol as so small that even I could carry it then.  There was a strange character of humble acceptance that Bengali households had attributed to this goddess. I haven’t really seen that with many Hindu gods, I must say.

Right from visiting the market with Baba to get the idol and the accessories to waking up early in the morning to help Maa arrange things neatly in front of the idol, I was an integral part. All my books were stacked right next to the Goddess of learning. And this was one chance to part with studies. Ironical as it might sound, this is truth. Of course, I always took full advantage by keeping the History book, and in the later years the Biology book, out of my shelf and next to the Devi for as long as possible!

Then, there was this green-colored variety of sweet plum called ‘Narkel Kul’ (literally, coconut plum) which was offered to Her. For some reason, students were forbidden to eat it before Saraswati Pujo. But no one dared take a chance in fear of affecting one’s grades. Mind it, the timing of the Pujo (late January or early February) is such that one can hardly keep out of the mind the thought that annual examinations are approaching.

As a teenager, I came to know of Saraswati Pujo being the Bengali Valentine’s day. Girls dressed in bright saris and boys in stylish pajama-punjabi (i.e. kurta-pajama) created an environment so amazingly colorful that there was no way you could take your eyes off them. This was one day when boys could enter girls’ schools and vice-versa without being questioned. Definitely, one of the best parts of this festival was the bhog served- it usually was a platter of melting khichdi, some spicy vegetable, fried egg-plant, chutney (typically made of tomato and date), papad, sweets and payesh (kheer). Believe it or not, even a hardcore non-vegetarian like me found this finger-licking delicious!

Along with my friends, I roamed all around the small town I grew up in, dropping by any of the relative’s or friend’s or teacher’s house to taste food- a wonderful exercise indeed. Being every household’s pujo, practically no one disappointed us when we visited. There are trivialities like this I can go on write about this festival but I’ll let it end abruptly- only to allow me to write about the rest some other time.

With time, Durga Pujo gained prominence. It’s probably been four years now that I could be part of Saraswati Pujo. Essentially, the trivialities of this Pujo by way of repetition every winter became so part of me that it hurts to divorce them now. This festival was simple, affordable, devoid of ostentation and very very personal.

Dream

Time and again, to the fluorescent beam from heaven,

When people rise from bed to pray

And leopards chase their hunts to prey-

When the rational lot washes to kick off the day

When optimists flip pages from the past,

To predict the future, after repeated blasts-

I sleep like a lazy dog.

That insignificant breath of outbound energy,

That trivial voice from the dry throat,

That force of gravitation which is so tough to refuse

Pull together a trick, in immersing me

In the joy of dreaming, a little longer-

Indefinitely progressing, waiting eagerly

For the next fight or the next love.

Never could fathom the pace of clock,

Never convinced that the past is past,

Never sure what’s wrong in coming last-

All that’s on the shelf and make me proud

Is fleeting in the crowd, lost in abundance,

 Trying to justify the next best step

To comfort and the meaning of peace.

The vision blurred, the fading jingle,

The beauty of imagination

To reinvent success, out in the real,

Clearly missing on the climax

Because I’m fighting, sweating out-

Continuously in sleep,

While others are trying to live.

The trip

As the green landscape bade adieu to the speeding car that wheeled through what could be used by high-school teachers as an example of oxymoron- the beautiful badlands, Barun experienced lack of oxygen. Psychologically. And a little later, biologically. Or may be, in the other order.

Too educated to experience the slowdown of time around him, he wanted the journey to end. It had been back-breaking. He had never driven so far up. And for so long. As trees almost disappeared from his rear-view mirror, he smiled at what was printed on it: Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Lies, his heart protested. He turned on the music to divert his attention from the reducing oxygen level. Within minutes, he knew it wouldn’t work. He undid one button of his shirt to let air in.

Barun slowed the car down in the middle of the road. There was no vehicle in sight. He killed the engine and heaved a deep sigh. Looking at the watch and then outside the window, he knew it was time for sundown, except that he didn’t feel darkness was imminent. His mind asked him not to trust the watch. He took a Diamox to fight altitude-sickness. Instant relief wasn’t promised. At least, he saw no signs!

For Barun, it was no longer a journey- it was a challenge. He had fought at home and at office to earn this break. He was escaping the pollution, the population and the games of probability he was tired of playing. He did not know why he acted like he did. You could call it madness. Or revolt. Or a burst of energy bottled only to be released like shaken soda.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone for almost a day! None except the tea-stall or dhaba owner where he stopped to get himself rejuvenated. He did not feel very good. He wanted to make a phone call. He knew he could not. There was an intense feeling of simultaneous push and pull- one forcing him away from the regularities of civilization to the world of unknown and the other luring him towards familiarity with utmost energy. This was a dilemma he hadn’t expected. Familiar triviality versus Alien grandeur!

As brain overruled his heart, he jumped into the car, tied his seat-belt and gave life to his engine. He was headed for the nearest village. As he approached, he saw houses converted to motels to accommodate travelers scattered here and there. A few, very few- were up to his ‘standard’. He checked in one of them. He badly wanted a hot-water bath.

“It takes half an hour to boil water here.”

Disappointed, he went to the bathroom and washed his face with cold water.

“Is there a phone here? An STD booth?”

“Yes, sir, there’s one down there but it usually remains offline.”

“What do you have for dinner?”

“Whatever we eat, we’ll serve you. Rice, dal, chapati, vegetables. It will be very tasty, I promise. If you want chicken, we can get it for you tomorrow.”

He wouldn’t wait to have chicken the next day and taste was the last thing on his mind.

Barun heard weird sounds all night and kept squirming in his bed. He wanted to run away. In the morning he left without even a cup of tea. As he drove through the curves, he lived in constant fear of death. What was happening? Was it because of the lack of sleep last night? Was it acrophobia? Was it loneliness? Was it his difficulty in accepting his new way of life?

As the tires rolled dangerously close to the edge of the road, Barun woke up in sweat, gasping.

On his bed. In his room.

The first thing he did was to go straight to the next room where his daughter was getting ready for school. He picked her up and hugged her.

“Papa, when are you leaving for your tour?”

“I’m not going. We are going”, smiled Barun, visibly transiting from a state of relief to that of happiness.

Father to his son

A little boy held his father’s hand,

As he passed by the statue so grand,

He asked his father, “Why is a crow perched

Atop that old man, why’s there no guard?”

Taken aback, the father replied,

“On 2^nd of October do we bring garland,

Sweets and flowers for this sage,

Who wished to see the tricolor fly with grace!

Political undertones that strip the mass of clarity,

Other hundred scars that mar the face of verity

Too critical of us we are, too many problems, dear?

Don’t our prayers the trillion gods hear?

That old man still believes in the power of charity,

The strength of self-healing, the valor of solidarity-

The crow wouldn’t mock his soul

If we could set the wheel of his ideals to roll-

If we could see what he saw, son,

If we knew Freedom was not free,

If we knew the old man needn’t a crown,

More than a poor traveler a tree! ”

Bad smell, good times…

[This article is my entry for "Smelly To Smiley!", held by AmbiPur and Indiblogger]

Seven days. That was how long I was to stay in my home. When I had approached my boss for a leave, he said he would approve my ‘vacation’. I was pleasantly surprised. I hadn’t asked for a vacation. I had asked for a week off. The word ‘vacation’ somehow still evoked images of fun-filled month-long summer holidays. When I was back to consciousness, my colleagues had a good time laughing at my interpretation of the word. I was bent on making the most of my hard-earned vacation. Yes, I had worked weekends. No, I didn’t tell my parents about it, lest they worry.

Anyway, when I got home, I was somewhat disappointed to find my parents fighting over small things. However, I soon found out that those small things were their idea of making me happy in those seven days.

Maa screamed at Baba, “Why did you bring chicken? Don’t you know that he doesn’t get to eat fish when he’s away? You should have brought Hilsa!”

Baba retorted, “What is wrong with you? You forgot that he loves chicken more than Hilsa…”

Arguments went back and forth as I lay tinkering in bed. No one thought of soliciting my opinion!

These little things stopped bothering me in a couple of days.

Now, one of these days, as my mother was away chatting with a neighbor, I smelt something. It did not take me long to identify the smell of scorching milk. Initially I ignored, thinking that the smell might have been from a neighbor’s house, and went back to reading the novel. As the odor grew stronger, I bookmarked the page I was reading, got up and ran toward the kitchen.

What I saw next was something I had seen all my life- milk left for scalding was scorched by overheating. The pan had turned black by the scathed milk, which now dry, held on to the container like an injured seeking help. The smell was not a stranger to me.

As I shouted from the kitchen, inviting Maa to witness the not-so-glorious sight, she came running, with her tongue stuck out between her jaws, having already realized how silly it was of her to leave the milk boiling for so long! She knew she would be forgiven for this misdemeanor. All her life, that’s what she had experienced.

I was angry. “You left it unattended again?”

She defended, “Aha, you see, I have so many things to do…I forgot about it totally! What does your father do all day...”
And then I knew what was to follow: an elaborate explanation of what all things Baba should be doing to help her out. I took my mind away.

Black and white frames zipped past me. Some fifteen years back, when I was a kid in school, my mother had kept me guard to see that milk didn’t get spilled from over-boiling. In some time, I was bored of this duty. A monkey chewing on a piece of jackfruit by our window had distracted me. I walked toward the window. It was immensely entertaining for a boy of ten. I observed it keenly. I was brought to senses only by the smell of burning milk. It wasn’t pungent. It was different. But it meant disaster. Since my mother was near, the odor got to her sooner than I had expected. She was approaching me. She admonished, “How many times did I tell you? Why do you get distracted so easily? Learn to be more patient or you’ll be in trouble later on!”

As my mother shook me up, I traveled forward in time to the present. Nostalgia had engulfed me completely.

I realized that over these years, there has been reversal of role. I had started advising and even scolding my mother. The odor of scathing milk was witness to my growth. Never did I feel so overwhelmed for having been rude to Maa. I wanted the roles to revert. I wanted to go back in time. To be reprimanded. And back to her caring canopy.

Faithful

The black umbrella swayed precariously as wind from the sea gathered strength with every dash of wave breaking on the sand. Awed by the jugalbandi of rain and wind, Shrishti sped up. The sun was already half-masked by the dark clouds. The last rays of sun whispered into her ears, “Fast! It’ll be dark in no time”.

Far way, sailors struggled in mid-sea as their dark outlines gave an eerie sensation about an impending danger. Muttering prayers her mother had taught, she strode with eyes half-open. As she was about to turn right to the path that led to the cottage, Shrishti saw something moving behind one of the rocks that separated the sand on the beach from the holiday cottages that faced the sea.

“Who’s there?”

There was no answer.

Half a mile away, Shrishti’s father moved impatiently from one corner of the lawn to the other, hands behind, all the while cursing his wife for having let Shrishti go to the beach alone.

“How many times have I told you not to let her go to the beach alone? Look at the sky! You just don’t care…What kind of a…”

The mother had not spoken all this while. Clearing her throat, she blurted out, “Why don’t you go and see?”

Here at the beach, Shrishti took tiny steps towards the object. She made an effort to recognize it but the fading light played spoilsport. It moved again. Her mind warned, “Don’t go there. There could be a dangerous man hiding behind the rock.” The inquisitive heart refused to comply. After all, her father was an army officer.

As she approached the rock, she could hear a groaning sound. The crashing waves didn’t let her make out clearly. Four steps later, everything was clear. Jimmy was lying there, one leg stuck underneath the rock. Shrishti immediately folded the wet umbrella and threw it on the sand. Then, with both hands, she tried to lift the corner of the rock under which Jimmy’s legs had got stuck. Soon, she was able to get Jimmy out without hurting him.

As she picked the puppy in her arms, Jimmy caressed her in gratitude. The next moment, Jimmy looked eastwards. He was trying to indicate something. Shrishti looked in that direction. It took her a few seconds to realize what Jimmy was trying to show. It was an ear-ring- the one that her mother had lost last morning.

The ear-ring was special. It was gifted to her mother by her father on their anniversary, three days back. The vacation had turned somewhat sour when she was not able to find the ear-ring after the bath the previous day. The father had said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you another one.” But mother wouldn’t listen. She had walked miles down the shore looking for it. After a futile effort, she had given up, but her mind was lost in the sorrow of having lost the special thing. For the last two days.

Shrishti picked up the ring and the umbrella and ran towards the cottage.

“Mamma, see what Jimmy has found!” , shouted Shrishti excitedly as she held out her right hand, while stooping to release Jimmy who ran through the lush green lawn and then up into her father’s arms.

The glistening ear-ring in Shrishti’s right hand was visible even in the dark.

The whole family smiled. And Jimmy clearly was part of it.

The Supermoon

Clouds are vying to conceal

The beautiful bright sheen

Adorning the night sky, pristine!

Full and round, bright and brilliant;

A lesson for all-

To be so powerful and yet silent.

The glass windows by my bed,

Allow the snowy rays to filter through;

I’ll leave the curtains ajar,

Shut my eyes and drown -

Like a cube of ice in wine in a bar-

While secretly appreciating

That my eyes can’t spot its scar!

The halt

A bottle, almost half-filled with mineral water rolled off the edge of the tray with a noise that was just enough to wake him up. Water spilled over onto the floor.

“Ah, Rashi, didn’t you cap it properly after drinking?”, the fifty-something man admonished his daughter, as he stooped to pick up the bottle with his left hand while using his right foot to shove the shoes away from the mess.

The man was not more than five-and-a-half feet tall. He wore an old-fashioned pair of glasses that concealed his mischievous eyes with an air of intelligentsia. Half-bald by the combined forces of age and heredity, this stout man had the appearance of a typical small-town businessman. His daughter, in her early twenties, was certainly not very beautiful but was pretty enough to exact lengthy glances from young passers-by.

The train journey hadn’t so far been very memorable. Nested in one corner of the compartment was the daughter. Just next to her was her father.  A nap between two stations ensured that time flew faster than usual, as they attempted to fight the ennui ensuing with every passing minute. But a sudden jolt had woken them up. The train had come to a halt. But there wasn’t a platform in sight.

“No signal yet again? The railways must be shut down! It’s already running so late”, complained a middle-aged gentleman to the left of this man, wiping sweat off his forehead by the stroke of his forefinger.

The daughter hadn’t paid much attention to the world outside her iPod. She was mindlessly tapping her feet to the beats of a song she played so loud that it almost got the boy opposite her tapping his feet as well! With the train now standstill, the breeze had stopped blowing. The girl removed the earplugs with a sigh of discontent.

A tall man with a mustache came running down the aisle. Startled by his panicky movements, the passengers exchanged confused glances. One of them couldn’t resist asking, “What’s the matter? Is everything alright?”

Paying no heed to the question, he walked past briskly, only to stop again at the same question by an old bespectacled man. This time again, he paid no attention but cared to reply more out of annoyance than courtesy-

“Someone pulled the chain.”

In a moment, all eyes turned towards the window. Men hanging from the door were shouting fiercely at a short young man running with a grey suitcase towards a village. Green pastures disappeared into the horizon. And apparently so did he plan to! Chasing the man would be a futile exercise, considering the fate of the thousand stranded travelers. The railway officials had given up.

Rashi was quick to recognize the suitcase the man was fleeing with. She quickly caught hold of her father’s arm, “Look, it’s that suitcase!”

In no time, the father realized that the suitcase that was carefully perched on the upper berth was no longer at its place.

The suitcase wasn’t theirs. Nor did it belong to any of the passengers in that bogie. They had lived in constant discomfort ever since they had discovered it after boarding the train.

“Let’s open and see if there’s an address of the owner”, a tall man who acted like a detective, had advised.

But before he could execute his plan, one lady had disclosed her concern. She'd complained to her husband, “Haven’t you seen those advertisements they show on TV? This might be a bomb. No place in this world is safe. There are terrorists everywhere!”

The husband had dutifully complied by engaging the fellow passengers in a discussion.

“Let’s throw it away”, proposed one. But he dared not bell the cat. In fact, no one would touch it. Some tried to get hold of a policeman in the train but to no avail.

“Okay, we should wait for the next station and inform the police”, suggested an aged gentleman. Everyone had agreed to the only seemingly feasible solution. The next station was an hour away.

“So, we’ll have to wait”, sighed a worried passenger, who embraced his kid, promising safety.

While they waited, the long journey coupled with the May heat had taken its toll on their body, inducing sleep from time to time, despite the cause of worry. The wait had come to a premature halt with the thief running away with the suitcase. The passengers did not know whether to thank him or not.

The father looked at his daughter, smiled at her and caressed her hair. Rashi reciprocated and soon went back to listening to her little device.

The Competition

It was barely early summer. Mr. Saha always thought that the education system in the country had become a farce. The summer vacation came as planned by the ‘academic’ calendar at the beginning of the year, irrespective of the cruelty meted out by the bright star light years away. And when it was time for schools to reopen, the sun was too strong that the government had to order them to shut down again. The erratic behavior of nature should hardly dictate the academic calendar, argued the officials in the education ministry. Irony was- it somehow did.

Almost every year, the two months of vacation had to be extended by another two weeks. Kids were happy. So were the teachers. Discontent showed only on the faces of the parents. Saha, for example, wanted his son Bimal to go to school simply because school would discipline him. Bimal was shy and introvert, disciplined and courteous. Saha, however, was never at ease, having seen multiple times on his way back from office, his son’s friends furtively puff cigarette at the paan shop near the school. Thirteen isn’t the best age for this, pondered Saha, himself a heavy smoker.

To put to productive use the long vacation that never seemed to end, Saha decided that he would arrange a competition for Bimal and his friends. Outdoor games weren’t an option. Snakes and ladders weren’t exactly for thirteen-year olds. Ah, how about chess? Saha went to speak to other parents.

History teacher Mukherjee vehemently agreed, “Nice idea, Mr. Saha. Chess originated in India…” He went on with a boring lecture on the history of chess.

Sarkar seemed uninterested. To Mukherjee’s embarrassment, he quipped in, “Is that why my son finds history so boring?” Others broke into a fit of laughter. He also added, “Not everyone might find chess interesting. My son Bikas likes football. I’m sure he will not like it. He will lose matches and quit. Our purpose is thus defeated.”

Dutta was listening intently. While everyone was debating, he hadn’t said a word. But now, while everyone else was trying to think of an alternative, he took a loud sip from his cup and then spoke up.

“Wonderful tea, Mukherjee babu. Do you know about the origin of tea?"

Mukherjee was sweating. Everyone else looked confused.

Dutta continued, "How about a quiz contest?”

Dutta explained, “Everyone will find it exciting. You can have questions on sports, Sarkar babu. And history too, Mukherjee babu. Films, geography, physics, current affairs and what not!”

The idea hadn’t struck anyone before. The word “competition” somehow always managed to conjure an image of some kind of ‘sport’. Quiz was never considered a sport. Now that Dutta’s proposal had gotten everyone into thinking about the merits of the ‘game’, Mukherjee nodded in soft approval, “Yeah, everyone would learn in the process.”

Dutta carried the discussion forward. “You like sports, you read about it out of interest. I am a movie-buff. I go straight to the movie section, first thing in the morning. But I don’t know about sports or science. How do I learn it? Barter system! Old school, yet very effective.”

He continued after another sip, “In quiz, you just cannot sit with your ears shut. Even if you’re into history, and the question is on politics, you’ll listen to the answers of other teams, discuss with others in your team to get the right answer. Guess it, at least. Even if you remember half the answers, it serves more than our purpose!”

The next week went into grouping the kids into teams of four- each with as far as possible, interests in a different area! The date of the event was fixed one month away from the formation of the group. Saha and Dutta took keen interest in bringing the kids and getting them to participate in the event. Most of the students readily agreed to be part of it. Those who weren’t sure initially were convinced soon since they only had to study about their favorite subject. Moreover, the sun was too brutal on them for them to play outside for long.

The next few weeks saw boys and girls spending their afternoons with newspapers, quiz books, magazines and often the internet. One of Mukherjee’s students, who was now pursuing his post-graduate degree, agreed to be the quiz-master.

Twentieth of June saw desks and tables being set up in the spacious garden in Mukherjee’s backyard. The evening happened to be a time that the entire neighborhood happened to remember for quite some time.

“Who wrote, The Picture of Dorian Gray?”

“Oscar Wilde”, shouted one of them.

“Which year was the first FIFA World…”

“1930!”, the answer came before the question could be completed. “Easy”, complained others.

“Name the capital of Norway”

“Oslo”, was the confident Ananya’s reply.

Prizes were given away at the end. A cricket bat! A music CD! A CD of a popular video-game! All sponsored by the parents.

The next year saw Sarkar’s football-freak son answer questions on science,  Dutta’s studious son jovially answer questions on sports and Bimal getting the questions on movies correct!

Two generations lived happily ever after.