Glimpses of life in North Bengal

1. May 2015

Village life starts early...very early. What woke me every morning ....no..., every daybreak, ....at first

light,... which is about 4:00 am....is the cacophony of birdsong! About 20 different birds sing their

songs, at the top of their voices, each trying to give its best performance and drown out the others.

So there is no way I can continue sleeping even if I want to. A mynah knocks gently on the long

French windows. For a moment I think it wants to come in, only to realise that it is pecking at its own

reflection. I look out of the window and see a bullock cart pass by my gate, slowly, leisurely.....the

cart swaying from side to side carrying fallen branches from last night’s storm.

Yes, I was lucky to witness a ‘kalboishakhi’ (cyclone) one night. Fierce winds tore through the village

for 30 minutes. Lightning flashed and the electricity went out. It was pitching dark! I had not seen

that kind of inky darkness in a long time. We were about to sit down to dinner. My son and I ran to

the balcony above and were humbled by the ferocity of the storm! Sheets of rain came down heavily

and the wind flung it around carelessly! We were drenched to the skin. Amidst frantic calls from the

rest of the family to come back downstairs, I took a moment to admire the beauty in this

catastrophe. The tea gardens behind the house became visible occasionally as flashes of lighting lit

up the sky. Even though, at the back of my mind, I was aware of the damage it was causing, I could

not help but find the storm beautiful. I felt a little guilty.

I drove out as soon as I was awake next morning to take stock of the damages. There was no life

lost. A few roofs were blown away and some trees broken into two from the middle, like they were

matchsticks! I felt particularly sad for a jackfruit tree, laden with fruit, broken into two. It did not

seem to bother the owner. “I have many jackfruit trees”, he said. “Nobody eats the fruit. We feed it

to the cows. I can use the wood. Nothing will be wasted”.

Returning home, I realised that a branch of my Gamari tree was broken and my fledgling Gulmohar

tree looked all tossed up. Not much damage done. I felt a little less guilty for admiring the storm

now.

2. May 2015

What I absolutely love about Ambari is its sounds. All one hears all day is birds, cows, goats, dogs

......and at night, the crickets ,owls and the occasional train passing by. Not a single honking vehicle!

Not one!

Village life is slow and languid.....like you transported yourself into the pages of a Tagore novel. Even

though the day starts early, no one seems to be in a hurry. The day unwraps itself in slow

motion....one fold at a time. Green is the dominating colour. Green grass...green trees....green tea

leaves.....I catch myself before I say green cows! But yes, the green is so .....well ...green.. that even

the cows seem to blend in. People seem to be drinking life slowly, sip by sip, without a care. I drop

into a neighbour’s. Meshomoshai (Uncle) is 90+ and was a freedom fighter. In return of his services

to the nation he was given a few acres of land and a meagre monthly pension. His 3 sons are tea

farmers. They live off the land. Their simple meal that day comprises of ‘kochu shaak’(colacasia

leaves and stems), dal, ‘thankuni paatar chatni’(a chutney made out of brahmi leaves, garlic, chillies

and lime) and rice. The entire family eats it with relish. In spite of being a family of ten, they do not

hesitate to ask me to join in. I happily agree. The simple food is so delicious!

After so many years of city life, I feel transported to another planet. Villages were what passed by

my train window when I travelled. And with so much air travel lately, even that was rare! To actually

be a part of one is what I used to dream about during those train journeys. I am slowly seeping into

it....or is it seeping into me, this life? Whatever it is, it feels good.

Yes, this is the life I choose. It is not everyone’s cup of tea, but it is definitely mine.

3. August 2015

Monsoons bring along their own magic to any place they visit. Ambari is no exception. It is the same

place...and yet not the same. Every shower makes the place cooler....a light cool breeze floats in

through the windows. The little stream that flows behind my land is overflowing its banks. It almost

looks like a small river. I can now see it from my terrace. And there is water everywhere! The ponds,

the wetlands, the puddles....including one in front of my door! Last evening, I saw some frogs

swimming in it.

The bird population has not changed. Flocks of parrots fly by the first floor window. For a moment I

feel they are going to fly in....and just before they reach me, they change direction and soar up into

the sky .Apart from two types of mynahs, doves,kingfishers, parrots and crows, there are a lot of

birds I do not recognise. I have to buy myself a book to identify them.

The electricity went out one night and was restored only in the afternoon. In the morning, I longed

for a cup of tea. Armed only with an induction cooktop, I am helpless without electricity. As I looked

around to see what I could eat without the use of fire, I see someone at the gate. My next door

neighbour, Babun, walks in with a huge glass of tea and luchis. “I knew you would not be able to

make tea without electricity, so I brought this for you” he says. People drink tea in small cups here,

but his family knows I like large cups of tea because I am from Shillong. I am touched! Because the

grass in my compound has grown tall, he leaves four goats inside to eat it up. I have not felt so cared

for by neighbours in a long time.

Strange, isn’t it? In spite of owning a piece of land with a house on it in Ambari, I still say I am from

Shillong (capital of Meghalaya, where I grew up). In spite of being surrounded by good people, my

heart still aches with the pain of displacement. What does it mean to belong to a certain place?

What do we mean when we say I am from such and such place? What does it feel like to ‘belong’? Or

do we really belong anywhere at all? I guess, at the end of the day, I am a soul with a body and it

belongs somewhere else. I find solace in that thought. It makes this relocation easier.

4. August 2015

I am the talk of the town...err...village at the moment. My ‘para’, Noi nombor colony (Colony

number 9) is abuzz with the fact that I stay alone in this house. Last evening I had four women come

visiting me. After some small talk, they got to the point. ‘Aren’t you afraid to stay alone in this

house?’ asks Mashima (Aunt)from next door. ‘Afraid of what, Mashima? My house is securely built

with a ten feet high wall surrounding it. Who will come in?’ I ask. ‘And the villagers are good people.

Why would anyone want to harm me? I feel surrounded by so much warmth and care. Why should I

be afraid?’ ‘No, no. I don’t mean people’ she says. I know perfectly well what she means but I feign

ignorance and give her a quizzical look. ‘Don’t you hear sounds at night?’ she asks. ‘Yes I do’, I

continue, ‘I hear the rain, the fan, the crickets and the owls. I just love the sounds of Ambari’, I say,

bemused. Her daughter-in-law gives up! ‘She means ghosts’, she enlightens me. ‘Aaah’, so that is

what you mean’ I say. By now I am smiling and I can see that Mashima is annoyed. The rest of the

women keep staring at me like I am a sight to be seen. I still haven’t decided if that is good for my

reputation or otherwise.

So I counter this situation by telling them a cock and bull story. I tell them that when I was a little

girl, my grand aunt Arati Dida had taught me a mantra which would make ghosts go away. And

before she died, she had promised to make a deal with all ghosts to leave me alone. So there, I was

safe! They stare at me is disbelief, but I stick to my story. After a cup of tea, they get up to leave as

they have to take their grazing cows and goats home. I don’t know if they are coming back!

5. September 2015.

Friday is ‘haat’ day in Ambari. It is like a farmer’s market; apart from carpenters, potters and

local confectioners selling their wares. I buy some vegetables, snacks and a fan made from

palm leaf. When electricity fails, such fans come to ones rescue.

As I slowly walk back home, it is dusk and I hear frogs croaking and crickets calling

everywhere. I pass by a bamboo grove and see at least a hundred fireflies dancing in the

dark. Some insist on following me home! As I proceed in this royal entourage, I feel no less

than a queen and wonder if paradise could be better than this.

When I reach home, I tread carefully on the grass, as I know that the frogs come out after

dusk, and I would hate to step on one. Surprisingly, today, I don’t see even one! Entering the

house, I am about to shut the kitchen window and guess what I see? A snake! About 6 ft

long with black and yellow bands, much like a zebra crossing, in the drain. Shutting the

window quickly, I make a frantic call to my neighbour. ‘Let it be’, he says.

‘It will go away’. But I am not at peace, so I open the window again to see it. The snake

keeps slithering along the wall, unperturbed. I keep watching it. A passing mole brushes

against it and at once it hides its head in its coils. Either moles are not in its menu, or it is too

full from the meal of frogs. The mole escapes, to die another day. The snake continues its

journey and goes out of the opening in the wall to the tea garden behind. I heave a sigh of

relief.

A quick search on Google tells me it is a banded krait, a shy nocturnal creature, rarely seen.

It feeds on frogs, rats and other small snakes. Though venomous, it rarely strikes, unless

provoked. That was proved by the way it hid its head in its coils when the mole bumped into

it. I was lucky to have seen one at such close quarters. And, luckily, my house is snake proof!

Although, I doubt it would want to come in.

After I put off my lights to retire for the night, I see a lone firefly glowing outside my

mosquito net. I watch it as I drift off to sleep.

Next morning, I tell Babun and his brothers I have seen a ‘Shankani shaap’. They say they

wished they had seen it too. In all these years they have just heard about it, but never seen

it. ‘It was beautiful’, I tell them. That is what remains in my memory. The beauty of it.

Snakes are terribly misunderstood creatures. Our primitive brain rings alarm bells at the

mere sight of it, and often our reaction is “Danger”!!! “Kill”!!!! Although more people die in

car accidents as opposed to snakebites, we still do not panic at the sight of a car!

6. December 2016

Ambari! How many faces do you have?

As I drive into the village, my eyes search for the greenery I had left behind . Most of it has

disappeared and I see shades of brown and yellow wherever I turn. The trees have lost their emerald

lustre. Except for my Gulmohar! I had left it at about 4 feet tall and now it greets me proudly at

almost 10 feet. Leaves intact, it sways in the wind , as if saying ‘Welcome home’.

Winters are mild in Ambari. It gets chilly in the mornings and evenings, but in the day, most of the

time the sun is up and it’s pleasant. It is kind of strange for me because I have stayed here only in the

summers and monsoons and it gets pretty hot during those times. Although rains do bring a lot of

relief, but the winter temperature is just amazing. So I roll out a chattai (mat) in the brown grass

and make the most of this lovely weather. Armed with a good book and a tall drink, I am having the

time of my life!

The bird life has dwindled too. I wonder where all the birds have gone. But there are still a few

interesting ones and I managed to photograph some too.

The haat is full of fresh greens and winter vegetables. Broccolis are going at Rs 5 a kg. I am still in

shock as I sit eating it. Freshly picked cabbages, cauliflowers and brinjals abound. But what interests

me most is the freshly made khejur gur (palm jaggery). I have to buy enough to last the whole year,

as it is available only in winter. The quality of the gur here is excellent! The earthy smell takes me

back in time to my grandmother’s thatched roof mud wall kitchen in Dhubri (a district town in

Assam). That, and the freshly harvested noonia rice, a type of fragrant joha rice grown in these parts.

These are must haves, to take back with me to Shillong and savour in leisure.

By evening the mist comes in and sometimes reduces visibility to zero. It’s interesting to stand on

the balcony and watch the mist come in, slowly, softly and cover the tea gardens in a sheet of white.

It hangs around, lazily, till dawn and then suddenly lifts, and disappears! And the sun comes out and

all is well in my world.

7. July 2016

The Gulmohar tree sways in the breeze as I drive in. It is at least 3ft taller than the last time I

saw it. It is always the first thing that I look at every time I arrive. I have a strange

relationship with this tree. I have watched it grow from a sapling into a strong tree and have

somehow started treating it like a child. I hug it sometimes and talk to it while watering it.

For those of you rolling your eyes at this, it feels good hugging a tree. Try it sometime.

I am here for a very short visit this time. The house needs a thorough cleaning as dust storms

are common during the dry months of April-May. Anu lives close to my house. She has been

informed that I am coming and materialises within 5 mins to help me clean up. Within a

short time, the house is sparkling clean, the floors mopped, the shelves dusted and beds

made. The fragrance of freshly steeped tea fills the kitchen. We sit down and drink tea

together.

Anu lives in a house with bamboo walls and corrugated tin roof. She has a husband, three

daughters, a son, one cow and two goats. She is the only earning member of her family. Her

husband is ailing and cannot work anymore. Her 2 daughters are married and her other two

children go to school. Her husband was married before. His first wife passed away leaving

behind a daughter. Anu lovingly refers to her as her eldest daughter. She has managed to

pay for the weddings of the two girls and looks after the education of the younger ones and

puts food on the plates entirely by herself. She works as a tea picker, construction worker,

household help….whatever is available to sustain her family. When I had first arrived at

Ambari and was looking for a help, someone sent her to me. We got along well from the

very first day. She never found it hard to believe that I live alone here sometimes, or that I

walk to the haat and back on my own after dark. Sometimes, we walk back together and she

would tell me about her hard life. My own minuscule complaints hang their head in shame in

front of her. In spite of her hardships, she holds her head high and looks life in the eye every

day. I am happy to make a little difference in her life by paying her well and offering her my

friendship. I wish I could do more.

It is hot and humid this time of the year in Ambari. Although the rains do bring some relief

along with the breeze that accompanies them. A black and white cat is often seen cooling off

in the shade under the teak tree near the well. I try to befriend him with food offerings. He

accepts. Soon ‘puss puss’is a daily visitor. He comes in and goes out of the open windows

whenever he feels like it. I often wake up at night to see him looking at me through the

mosquito net. Sometimes he lies down on the cool tiled floor and sleeps there for the night.

He is a good cat, this ‘puss puss’. I wonder if he will miss me after I am gone.

Meshomoshai from next door is not in good health. He has difficulty sleeping at night. At 92,

he has good days and bad days. On a good day I find him sitting on the tarred roadside

beside his home. On being asked how he is feeling, he says its a little weakness and nothing

else. I have a strange feeling that I am not going to see him again when I return. I hope I am

wrong.

October 2016

This is the first time we are going to celebrate Durga Puja in Ambari. We decided on a road trip by

our car and arrived Ambari on Saptami evening, just before dusk. At our parar more ( lane entry),

where the parar pujo (locality Puja) should have been, we see a small mandap (makeshift canopy)

with a small Durga idol in it. There is also a flex poster next to it with the picture of an old lady and a

child. Lamps are lit in front of this poster. We drive home, wondering what all this is about. The gul

mohar is taller than the last time I saw it, at least by 3 feet. The weather is pleasant and a dull breeze

blows constantly. It is good to be home again.

By evening, we know what is up at our parar pujo pandal. A grandmother and her grandson had

been crushed to death under a lorry that had lost control at the entrance of our goli (Lane). The

child’s mother had told her mother in law several times not to stand near the road with the child in

her lap. But the old lady had always disobeyed and now, all was lost. Two other people had also

been injured at the same time. They were admitted at the North Bengal Medical College Hospital

and were critical. Both came from very poor families, so the club that conducts the pujo of out

colony had contributed the entire collection for the pujas to these victims. Hence there was no big

deity and the pujo was low key.

I wondered how many Pujo committees in big cities would make such a gesture?

July 2017

I was reading in a room on the first floor or dotalar ghor as the Bengalis would say, enjoying the

breeze from the Gulmohar tree which almost reaches in through the window, when my muse

walked in. ‘Oh hello’ I said. ‘I don’t particularly plan to write anything this time,’I said. ‘I am reading

this wonderful book and I plan to finish reading it during this visit. My son has been teasing me

about how many years I am going to take to finally finish reading it and it belongs to my friend

Indrani and I have to return it, so….like I said, I don’t plan on writing this time…so…’. She smiled and

sat down beside me. ‘You could read it when you go back too…but…that’s all right, suit yourself ’she

said,and looked out of the window, following my gaze. ‘They have cut that tall Gamari tree at

Meshomoshai’s place , I can see’,she said.

Its been a year since Meshomoshai from next door passed away. It happened two weeks after I left

last July. He did not suffer and passed away in his sleep one night when it was raining heavily. His

son Babun called early one morning to give us the news. The gentle old man with a hundred stories

to tell will no longer be seen on the tarred road outside his house. It is a huge loss!

Meshomoshai would be heartbroken to know that a tree had been cut to be sold to pay for the

expenses of his first death anniversary. He would also be sad to know that his large joint family was

going to be broken into three units and his sons would live separately now. His property will be

divided between his three sons. His wife, Mashima as I call her, and her widowed daughter will live

in the small hut he occupied and live off the family pension. His daughter will not inherit any share in

his property. It is a sad state of affairs in this household.

My muse looked at me sadly. ‘I know it is painful, but you have to write about this’, she told me.

It is dusk and I could already see the fireflies dancing in the fields nearby. The summer heat is

bearable here with occasional showers that bring down the temperature considerably. There is a

wedding next door in a few days and the rituals before the wedding have already started. The air

rings with jokar ….ululululululu……many times during the day. The bride is all of 18 and has decided

to not continue with her education and get married instead to a boy of her choice. I have been told

that he lives by the river Teesta in nearby Gajaldoba. His family and he are farmers. The bride will

also be an extra pair of hands in the fields. ‘She could have waited’, I said. ‘She could have married

after completing her 12 th board exams’. ‘He wouldn’t wait for her’, she told me. ‘He needs a wife.

And he has studied only up to Class 9. She is already overqualified for him. Not a good thing for his

ego’. She sighed, sadly.

I shut the windows and turned around to see her at the door, ready to leave. ‘You will come back,

wont you?’ I asked. She gave me a wicked smile. ‘Finish reading that book’, she said, and

disappeared round the corner.