FRANGIPANI

Photo credit: Devabrata D Maitra
Memory tag: Durga puja and a visit to Alcha in Santiniketan, Birbhum, West Bengal.

Dear friends,
Travel suggests word pictures that flow at will. Like a weaver, they work warp into weft and create patterns out of individual threads that are seemingly unconnected. As I left the rain swept East Khasi Hills, and arrived at Guwahati, the Kanchenjunga Express waited to draw away into the holiday bound world. Barely had we bowed our heads in reverence at Kamakhya, the train started crossing the Brahmaputra over the Saraighat Bridge. Ritual coins were thrown in. They ensure a blessing! The sealed windows prevented the upwardly mobile AC passengers buying their blessings with a coin. I caught a glimpse of the train curving away into the night from the window. Then sat back, relaxed, took stock of my surroundings. The good, the bad, the ugly jostled for space, tickets, travelling rights, hawking. For a few discrete dollars more, one was debunked while another was up graded into a top air conditioned bunk! Then all of it seemed to settle into individual niches or spaces allotted by that passport to travel called a ticket. It promises that at the allotted time, wheel will mesh with wheel and safely carry you to any destination other than heaven. Newspapers were opened to be used as napkins, table cloths, all purpose wraps, fly swats, fans and of course as a source of news and views. It brought the world home before the radio, television and www. This is the third time the coffee vendor has crossed with his welcome drink that is not on the house.

I flipped open my new hardbound book, part of my personal puja largesse. Hot cup of coffee in hand, I began reading Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies. It began with a dream amid snow white poppy fields, moved into cameos of village life, impressed you with fluent lascar lingo recreated, but not for long. Pangs of hunger made me open my tiffin box. As trays of pantry car food arrive, we studiously look away, as if to look would be to covet! Perhaps we should ask Pavlov, if this too is a conditioned reflex? We seem to be uncomfortable exposing ‘tiffins’ even al fresco. Chai , channa and fast food are accepted chat overs !

The garden at home is welcoming in its glow of lighted windows and shrubbery trimmed drive. This is Sejuti, in Santiniketan. The red gravel crunch under my feet as I walk to the Shiuli tree. Its white delicate blossoms with orange red stalks carpet the floor. There seem to be more flowers on the floor than on the tree. Thereby hangs a tale. Both Satyabhama and Rukmini wanted the Shiuli in their gardens. So Krishna kept the tree in Satyabhama’s garden and let the blossoms fall into Rukmini’s garden. A case of perfect statesmanship!? Around the corner, I seem to have walked into a conversation between the large old plumeria and bauhina trees in moonlit eaves of the verandah. The air is heady with mingled fragrance of Shiuli or Prijat( Nycanthes arbor-tritis) and Plumeria alba . I wake at will on a lazy holiday morning and sip endless cups of tea. Glad to be a spectator to the busy world of foraging birds. A golden backed Bengal woodpecker climbs up the tree intent on grubbing! The tiny tailor bird flits around incessantly, looking for the right piece. The tree pie swings and whistles from high branches. The purple sunbird glitters in the winter sun. “All things bright and beautiful, the lord god made them all.” It is Mahaastami, the all important eighth day of the Durga puja. It is impossible to stay at home! Green rice fields beginning to get heavy with harvest stretch to the horizon. The road cuts a gray metallic line that takes us to a village famed for its unusual Durga forms. Here idols are not made but painted in on straw and bamboo scaffolds in the Kaligaht Pat style! Then decorated as a daughter would with small personal touches, that only add to her immeasurable omnipotence. A white egret standing in a pond overhung with a tree and surrounded by rushes, makes a memorable cameo to take home.

Then to Alcha where picture post cards rest in bamboo toast racks. The colors- warm terracotta reds, tea in customized earthenware cups; coffee, jug of milk, plate, bowl of sugar set against the background of a menu on a unpolished wooden table; still life montages that come alive the moment we step in for a chat or adda. Decades melt away with,’ Hey! don’t we know each other?’ The past and present simply link together over a cuppa. Perfect strangers bond over books, art, politics, fashion, weather and anything under the sun and beyond.. A simple hello is often the beginning of magical association. Bookshelves set among small tables for one or two give the bookworm his own space and victuals. After the Sea of Poppies in all its checkered glory, I wanted something completely different. A slim penguin volume called Bhaskarsitavali fits the bill perfectly! Over hummus, bread, fresh carrots and cucumbers served on a sal leaf plate, I discover a whole new world. It is a collection of verse epigrams that have fun, wit, the ribald, sarcasm and a wry commentary on life. That Sanskrit literature could so much fun was an eye opener! Yet it was an ageless commentary on human nature. The verses are collected from anonymous and illustrious sources and superbly translated by A.N.D Haksar. They remind me of another style that I love, the Japanese Haiku and I burrow in uninhibitedly ! An hour later , I am gentle reminded its closing time . I reluctantly close the book and take the last sip out of the brass tumbler that held filtered coffee. My walk back home is blocked by firecracker happy crowds taking Durga for immersion. I decide to wait under a tree and give the revelers right of way. The procession moves down this main artery towards the canal .Under its tree covered canopy, the darkness blurs all but the effulgent, ethereal Durga . She straddles the darkness like true conqueror, fulfilling her role in the cosmos even in this last curtain call.
Till next time, Fare thee well !