JAMMIN'....JAMMIN' to the beat of my heart!

It would be kind of belittling if we say we had the time of our lives at the Loreto Convent Reunion. We had the BEST time of our lives when 30 of us(around 3 juniors, 3 of us from our batch and the rest all seniors) from Guwahati, Shillong, Nagaland and Mizoram got together and danced to the tunes of Abba and BoneyM. It was a frenzy as we clicked pictures, ate, drank, sang and screamed till someone said, "Our nuns back in school would have been ashamed of us girls." 

Oh, well, never mind all that now. We just needed what we would say, "Letting our hair down and putting our feet up (almost literally!)". It was tough for us to part at the end of the reunion where we sang the Anthem and got goose-bumps.  It was an evening we were all going to remember for quite some time now. 

However, when we hugged each other and bade goodbye, we knew we were meeting sooner than we said, "Loreto Convent."

The Anthem

To East and West of that fair Isle

Where the first Loreto stands,

Loreto's banner now doth fly in many distant lands,

In sunny Spain, on Afric's strand and

Under the Southern Cross

And westward ho, where rainbow hued

Niagara's waters toss.

Chorus: Loreto's banner gaily floats

In lands both East and West

Loreto's name each girl reveres

And holds it ever blest. 

But first Loreto found a home beneath our Indian skies

Where now o'er plain and mountain peak

The well loved banner flies.

Loreto's standard bearers we

In girlhood springtime gay

O may we e'er be loyal and true

To the school friends of today. 

Chorus:

And when our school days ended are

And our varied paths divide

O may the ideals of our youth

Still ever be our guide;

High ideals of purity, of duty and of truth

Learnt while we bore Loreto's flag

In the sunny days of youth

Chorus....

STARRY NIGHTS!

Talk about making the most of a vacation. Well, tell you what? For me, everyday is a holiday and everyday is a party. Innocuous attitude, I should say! I have never come to know exactly what being bored with life is all about, ever. Life has always been very beautiful, every moment of it. Of course, who doesn’t have downhill slides, lest we forget the omnipotent? It would surely be wonderful to be starry eyed, flying high and flashing the mercurial smile, riding on expensive carriages and what not. But then, if these were not to happen, what then? Well, that’s a different story altogether. I will leave it for you to ponder on. My travels have had very little travails and a lot more adventure coupled with laughter. Every one of them. I thank my stars for that. On a trip to Mumbai left me aching for more and how? Mumbai is everyone’s city. A city that never sleeps. The next Shanghai. Call it what you will but then it is truly Am chi Mumbai – My Mumbai. Everyone has an endearing urge to stay back in the city on reaching it, even if there were plans for a short stay. Like I had. My previous visit way back in 1999 was short, yet happening but then still kept the fire burning to go back. So, this time around, I decided to make it even more eventful. We had decided earlier to travel light and light we did. We just had two bags between us. Only the bottle-green airbag had our clothes. The other black and red bag was filled with ‘goodies’ for my sister. Now if that is not light, then what is? This obviously left me with a whole lot of scope and space for shopping. (Yippee!) I prepared for the trip just a day before leaving, packing just two pairs of denims, a whole variety of light cotton shirts to go with them and only a skirt. Of course, I had the audacity to carry five pairs of shoes! I promised to wear each one of them. I tell you, we Indians have it all. The fun and the hype, all at the same time, no matter where we go. The train trip was terrific. Three days and I had endless books and magazines to feed my gray cells, not hesitating to also lend them to my co-passengers. We had a hunky-dory journey right from the time we boarded the spic and span train at Guwahati. Two young fellows, Amit and Vicky, barely out of their teens, merchandising in clothes’, talked endlessly about all and sundry, often playfully slandering each other, much to the chagrin of everyone around. Kaushik, a 5’ 11” tall, bright robotics engineer from Guwahati, now married and settled in Mumbai, left us awe-struck, as he spoke of the strings of researches he has made in the field of robotics. He seemed to hold the reins of almost any subject we spoke of. Some genius, that! I simply love the journey by train and almost always wish I never had to get off it. The cacophonous harmony of the hawkers selling their ware, whether it is ‘chai’ or ‘jhaal muree’, all mesmerize me to wonder how awfully incongruous it would be to take all these simple pleasures out of an Indian. We are lucky, I can say! Well, speaking of luck, I felt endlessly lucky to be in Mumbai at a time when the Prithvi Theatre festival was on. The best plays, like Charandas Chor, written and directed by one of the greatest theatre icons of these times, Habib Tanvir, Ek Thi Nani casting Zohra Segal, her sister Uzra Butt already had a full house leaving me to rue over my ‘bad luck’. Ponga Pundit, directed by Habib Tanvir left me to wonder if there can be anything better than the exquisite and explicit emphasis he laid on simplifying a complex problem as ‘untouchability’. As is usual in Mumbai, the next day, we were miserably stuck at the evening traffic and missed Tanvir sahab’s Sarak, a powerful satire on development processes that keep those affected out of decision-making. I was at the opportune moment to meet a whole lot of theatre enthusiasts, actors, directors, folk-singers and not to forget, rare glimpses of Sanjana Kapoor, gracefully draped in simple bordered white cotton sarees and her father, the aging, yet strikingly handsome Sashi Kapoor, in a starched white kurta-pyjama, adding more glamour to the already gorgeous ambience of Prithvi Theatre. It was of course a little amazing to notice that very few people on the streets of Mumbai knew where Prithvi theatre was located. I had to direct most of the auto-drivers to the venue. Prithvi Theater is prominently visible from the road leading away from the Juhu Beach. The Barista Coffee house, the walls and the furniture splashed in happy hues, is just adjacent to a curios’ shop guarding the entrance, making the road leading to the theatre all the more colourful. Square orange lamps hung on the trees lining the road and also on thin wire meshes knit together to form a canopy, where coloured ribbons gently swayed in the breeze blowing in from the Juhu Beach. To the right of the entrance is the Prithvi theatre café, where people from all over India (I guessed!) sat close together and spoke in hushed tones. It is one of those places where every second person just waits for something to happen or some famous persona to pop in. “Ponga Pundit” was hilarious, yet had a serious touch to it. It was a full house and some people had to simply huddle or squat around on the ashen coloured carpeted steps leading down to an oval shaped amphitheatre. I sat amongst a whole lot of young, budding and fairly good looking theatre enthusiasts, who took great interest in me, more for the fact that I was from Northeast India. They had strings of queries about Assam and sundry, leaving me to speak more than excitedly about ‘home’. There were people like Sanam Kumar and Manoj, both actors in their own rights, who said they would love to come to the Northeast to perform, maybe as mono actors or as part of a full length play. “Ponga Pundit” had a lot of Chattisgarhi punched in with Hindi. So, often, during the show, I had to keep asking my new found friends the meaning of certain dialogues. They were more than willing to oblige. As my questions waned towards the middle of the show, lest I disturb my awe-struck friends; I was trying hard to decipher what exactly was being said by the players. It wasn’t very hard to understand, though and I got the feel of the play by the time it ended. After the show, Habib Tanvir made an appearance in an almost crushed, yet starched short khadi kurta and pyjama, amidst loud applauds of appreciation. He just stood there looking up at the people around him, frail, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, a shock of unruly graying hair, a pen and a sheaf of paper in his hand, waiting for them to settle down once again before he started speaking at length about his play. Walking out of the hall with a bevy of socialites from Mumbai was an experience not to be forgotten in a hurry. I waited till the last person strolled out of the hall, sipping all the time on my orangeade. And guess who I see with the friendliest smile? The singer with a husky voice-Ila Arun. Affectionate to the core, this minstrel of many a harmonious score gave me her number as soon as she heard that I was from Assam. I was beside myself with pride. With a swirl of a white crushed long cotton skirt, more like a ghagra teamed with a long white khadi kurta and just the right kind of costume jewelry to match her Indo-Western ensemble, walked in Dolly Thakore. Her large red bindi shone like a fiery setting summer sun. I instantly made up my mind to walk up to her and know her up close. And so I did! The other days were great. One of the days is still vividly clear in my mind. I had the tickets of “Khatijabai of Karmali Terrace”. But as was to happen, I was late getting dressed for the show and we had quite a distance to travel. And that happened to coincide with Chat Puja. There were thousands of devotees either walking, or driving or hanging on for their lives to the handles at the door of the buses, towards the Juhu Beach. And we in our taxi, which blared “Dhoom Machale, Dhoom Machale, Dhoom…..” were trying to coax the person driving to move faster, but he was helpless. He told us that Amitabh Bachchan was going to make a special appearance during the puja at the beach. Hence, the crowd! So, two crossings to Prithvi Theatre, we decided to make a run for the show. So we did. After we had paid an exorbitant sum to the cab driver, we literally ran right through the traffic, all the while hoping that somehow the show would start late. We almost felt like competitors at the Olympics, sprinting as fast as we could over some uneven patches on the footpaths, careful not to fall headlong and create a scene. Some people even bothered to stare at us, much to my indignance. We were sweating and our legs burnt like we had just done a hundred sets of sits ups, non-stop, at the gym. We scooted right through the entrance, almost knocking a few people down and were relieved that we had a few more competitors in the last leg of the run. Sanjana Kapoor, in her usual way, was waiting for theatre buffs like us at the grilled gateway of the hall, in a starched cotton saree, trimmed with an olive green border. We were more than relieved when she told us that the show was going to start late only because some people were still to arrive, all thanks to the huge traffic snarl around the area. We sat down, trying to hold our breath. The lady next to me gave me a toothy smile and told me that she almost missed the show too. I gave a faint smile, my head pounding and aching all the time. The show started and what a show! One actress, Jayati Bhatia, a show stealer of the silver screen, kept the whole hall enraptured with her movements and dialogues. My heart went out to her. I wished so hard that I too could some day act like her. For one hour and fifteen minutes, we were mesmerized by “Khatijabai of Karmali Terrace”, a Q Theatre Production. And after the show, we all stood there and applauded for a whole 5 minutes, while Jayati just smiled back at us thanking us profusely with folded hands. The show over and we decided to sit at the cafeteria outside the theatre. People of all hues were either sipping on coffee or just plain water. While some young girls were a little overdressed for the occasion in red and blue, some were more than carelessly donned in kurtas which looked like they had slept in them for days. We had our coffee amidst the loud babbles of some college girls who were half the time trying to catch the attention of some director in the crowd. Probably they would have been noticed more had they been more graceful and quiet. As we walked over to the place where a mono-act was being performed, who do we see? Why, who else, but the effervescent actor, Sashi Kapoor. He sat on a stone settee and looked on at everyone around him with a more than affectionate smile on his lips, his aging blue eyes still sparkling like it did in the heydays of his acting career. I touched his knees. He immediately asked me in a hushed tone where I came from. On hearing Assam, he told me how impressed he was about Ratan Thyam. He would love to visit Assam, he said. I sat next to him and happily got some pictures clicked. So there we were. Out of Prithvi Theatre and on the streets of Mumbai. We took a sharp right turn and found ourselves walking right down to the Juhu Beach. Even from quite a distance, we could hear the waves lapping gently on the shores. Young and middle aged couples either walked the whole stretch of the beach, hands intertwined or arms wrapped around the shoulders or simply squatted on the sands, speaking in low loving tones, often stealing glances and smiling We took off our shoes, strolled right up to the water, waiting for the waves to come and kiss our toes. The beach was buzzing with people from Bollywood. It was already pretty dark and we could hardly make out the Roshan family, all the five members dressed in white, until they had crossed us at a comfortable pace for us to catch up with them. But we decided to stroll back to where a vendor in a not so clean blue and white striped shirt, sleeves folded to the arms and an equally dusty pair of terry cot pants was selling raw coconuts. What a welcome after a fairly humid evening! We plumped ourselves on the red plastic chairs he had set out on the sands in front of his wooden ramshackle of a shop and ordered for our coconuts. We looked out at the sea-the cool and calm Arabian Sea. I would love to see it in high tide; I spoke my thoughts out loud. We were soon sipping on the plain tasting coconut water and looking at the already inky black starry sky. Blinking lights over the beach were followed by the droning sound in the distant sky of international and domestic flights taking off from the Santa Cruz Airport and then slowly disappearing over the sea. It was truly a memorable evening! We were so relaxed, far from the buzz of the city that we wished we could capture its timeless magic in some form or the other. But then, we had to go home! Again, we jostled ourselves from side to side to the rhythm of our taxi blaring “Dhoom Machale, Dhoom Machale, Dhoom…..”. By the end of our stay at Mumbai, we were sure that we would know this song like the back of our hands. Two days and we were again at the Prithvi Theatre. This time for another play, “Rishtey Natey”, an adaptation of Jaywant Dalvi’s Nati-Goti. Yatri, the theatre repertory and one of the most patronized cultural groups in the country has successfully staged over 3500 shows of more than 50 productions both in India and abroad. Rishtey Natey is a story of a middle-class couple’s struggle to take care of their mentally challenged son. The Katdares scrimp and save to provide enough for his survival, worried for his well-being after they are no more. A riveting story, leaving us wanting more at the end of the two hour ten minutes show. The next day, I couldn’t make it but then the others did. And were they lucky. It was a Rage Production titled “Two Steps Behind”, an adaptation of Frank McGuiness’ Someone Who’ll Watch over Me. A production house which is committed to encouraging Indian playwriting in English, their aim is to bring audiences to theatres, with plays that are relevant and contemporary; plays about a life we know…plays about our immediate world. The synopsis Kashmir 2004. Three innocent civilians, an Englishman, an American and an Indian, taken hostage by Islamic militants are imprisoned in a windowless cell. This play delves into the human side of the hostage issue – what a man, who has been unjustly kidnapped and thrown into a cell, experiences. The fear, the hopelessness and the helplessness in the face of an unseen enemy lurking outside… And yet he finds ways to live with humour, tenderness and fantasy. “Excellent script and acting par excellence”, the others told me more than enthusiastically, while I made a sour face! There were a lot of other plays as well but then we couldn’t make it to them. Like I really wanted to go to Luoghi Dell’Arte’s ‘Commedia Dell’ Arte Galore’, which was in Italian, English and Gibberish and also to Working Title’s ‘3, Sakina Manzil’ in English. The second play dealt in depth with the ravaging Indian struggle for Independence. All of India is on tenterhooks, in apprehension of an attack from Japan. 14th April, 1944 and a huge explosion rips Bombay harbour. The 7142 ton S.S. Fort Stikine has blown up and is raining upon the city an assortment of explosives, oil, timber, scrap iron, flesh, limbs and …gold ingots! Amidst all this, in an old apartment building near the docks, in 3, Sakina Manzil, a love story unfolds…! And come to think of it, I missed it. As I dragged myself to the railway station at the end of my stay, I promised myself to be back at Prithvi Theatre at the same time the next year for the festivals and of course to Mumbai, the place after my heart!

KRISHNA

A steel grey SUV roared past as I stepped out of my car, almost knocking an old woman down. I glared at the car and if looks could kill, the car would have probably gone up in smoke. Anyway, as that was not to be, I went about my work. Like Arjuna, my goal was pin-pointed and I barely had but a few seconds to ogle at the latest electronic gadgets on display. It was a Saturday and the book-shop was obviously crammed with book-lovers. “Sigmund Freud?” The man gave me one look and fished out the book I wanted. I hugged the newspaper wrapped “Interpretation of Dreams” close to me and walked back to my car.

It was a warm humid summer morning of 2005. I woke up from a deep slumber with a feeling of elation, confusion and satisfaction. I just had the most wonderful dream of my life. Wonderful because I saw someone whom many would love to see in their dreams.
I was walking in a courtyard, which had a two storied building built on all the three sides, similar to a digital C. There was an open space in front with some trees further ahead. The walls of the building were a pale blue colour and bore no ornamentation. There was a darker shade of blue which ran all around the rim of the walls. All the doors and windows of the building were shut and there was not a person to be seen in sight. I was not doing anything in particular but just looking around to see if I could find somebody.
Just then, in one of the verandahs of the first floor, I spied the cutest looking baby I had ever come across.
He had chubby cheeks, pink lips and eyes that sparked brightly, emanating a strange strength and power which I could feel even in my dreams. What captivated me was the colour of his skin. It was pale blue and glowed like the full moon on a dark night sky. While keeping his left arm folded on the edge of the verandah, he rested his chin on the palm of the other. He wore intricately designed gold bracelets and armlets. And of course how could I forget to mention the one ornament that impressed me the most; the peacock feather stuck to the decorative headband. I was past recognizing who he was more so because I was simply fascinated by the smile he flashed at me. From the distance that I was standing below him, I could feel a sense of warmth pleasantly radiating from this little baby. I simply basked in this feeling till I woke up to realize that I had just dreamt of baby Lord Krishna.
It was an ecstatic feeling, an elation that I could describe as an all time high. How could the Lord come to the dreams of a person who hardly even thought of him? But does it really matter that I had enacted the baby Lord as a child of nursery class? Maybe yes, maybe not. For me, what mattered was that my entire day went off in peace; no anger, no trouble, just plain blissful contentment. I even smiled at the person who honked incessantly for him to pass.
Both my Satriya Gurus became emotional when I related the exotic dream to them. With tears streaming down their eyes, they gathered that I was the chosen one by the Lord. But chosen one, for what? I asked. I was told to look for signs whence the Lord would gift me with a surprise. I was more than thoroughly excited!
A year passed since I dreamt of the Lord. Nothing actually happened but I secretly hoped that He would gift me the one thing that I craved for. Soon, my dream took a backseat and I got down to serious work. I toiled day and night on projects related to my profession. I had to move in and out of the city, visiting metros and meeting people. The hills of Arunachal and the rapids of Subhansiri too beckoned me for an escapade. Life was exciting.
On one occasion, while I was on stage speaking to a crowd of two thousand people, I had this strange feeling that something was just not right. With me? Yes. I could feel darkness enveloping me and I broke into a cold sweat. Beads of perspiration flowed like rivulets down my forehead, cheeks, back and my feet turned icy cold. My muga mekhela-sador felt drenched and I was on the verge of collapsing at the lectern. That night, I called home only to be told that I had had a ‘tiny’ angina of the heart. An angina? I was shell shocked!
Dejection took the better of me for the next two days. After the business sessions, I would be perpetually holed up in my room, taking care not to exert myself. I scolded myself for being so gluttonous during lunch and wished hard I didn’t take that extra piece of meat. I lived virtually on low cal fruit salads for the next few days of the conference, moped around and ate frugally reminding myself constantly that I was now a patient with a heart ailment. My friends were surprised. I, who was raving about going to the disc preferred to watch some baloney on television while I propped myself with fluffy pillows all around. Well, I had my reasons. However, Raki, a friend had a different explanation altogether.
On returning home, I was told to go for a Treadmill ECG. What the heck? I didn’t do it. But went about my work as usual. Not to be stupefied by anything, I even did a ‘war dance’ during one of the family get-togethers, only to be chided by my mother who thought I was going overboard with the whole thing and that I needed to be careful. Careful? For what?
And then, one day, I was all dressed and ready for a business trip to Shillong when I heard Mubin call out to me loudly, which could be said to be a concoction of a wail, a moan and a single guffaw. I rushed to the study room only to see him hold onto a small white instrument with somewhat of jubilation and concern writ large over his face. What now? This time, I definitely must be needing some serious treatment, I thought. Looking over his reading glasses, he said, “It’s positive. I need to talk to Dad.”
There was a lot of discussion downstairs and after some time, hubby walked upstairs only to tell me that the trip was off and I needed total bed rest. The rest as we all say is history.
Tirus, now one year and five months, wants to listen to ‘Gaang’ on the FM channels, his favourite singer being Zubeen. He loves to shake a leg to Bryan Adams and knows how to start the computer. He blows kisses at everyone and loves to sit on my lap and hold onto the steering when I am driving. And he simply loves to sip tea from his Dad’s cup in the morning.
When I look at his face, I wonder if the dream of 2005 has any reflection to Tirus. You may call it an incarnation, a Sigmund Freud explanation, a coincidence or simply a blessing. Tirus, my Krishna!

SUCH A LONG JOURNEY....BUT STILL STANDING TALL

“When I find myself in trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom; let it be, let it be……” This line is no longer an aficionado with the present generation who now know that they cannot be fooled by backmasking. Incidentally, backmasking is a way of putting secret messages on the song tracks by some experimental musicians. This song by the Beatles actually doesn’t mean Mother Mary in the true sense; they use it as slang for ‘Marijuana comes to me’. Then punch lines like ‘With a cigarette in my hand, I feel like a man’ no longer impress the matured young people.
Today’s youth has a mind of its own. Not likely to get caught up by fads, they are more health conscious, knowing the benefits of staying fit till the end. Likewise, the health pundits would rather recommend a steaming cup of tea for its antioxidant effects on the body than any other brew in hand. Tea is the new health mantra amongst the elitist and the fashionable, who can choose from a wide variety of tea recipes. Tea is here to stay for a long long time.
I often meet youngsters who opt for black, green or organic tea, cause they have probably read about their benefits in some way or the other. But very few, say around two out of ten persons know the history of tea in Assam, the pride of northeastern India and how it has been put on the global map.

Tea trade was an integral aspect of the East India Company. But tea trade was in barter of British silver, which became a vital concern. The political turmoil in China coupled with growing incidences of conflict between Chinese authorities and British traders aggravated the need of colonial tea pastures. The vast tracts of Assam’s tropical forest lie nearly in the same line of Chinese tea growing provinces. This drew the attention of the imperial scanner.
“The real purpose of the British was to turn Assam into an agricultural estate of tea drinking Britons and to transform local traditional institutions in such a manner as to suit the colonial pattern of economy.” Amalendu Guha (Planter Raj to Swaraj).
The endeavor started as early as 1819 by posting David Scott in Coochbehar and the saga began with planting Chinese seeds to the discovery of wild tea plants that grew in eastward Assam. In 1823, Robert Bruce met Maniram Dutta Barua in Rangpur, present day Sivsagar district of Assam, who appraised the tea drinking (Phalap in Singpho dialect) habit of the Singpho tribe and put Bruce in touch with the Singpho chief, Beesa Gram. After the death of Robert Bruce in 1824, his younger brother Charles Alexander Bruce took over the legacy of tea venture and became the government superintendent of tea culture.
In 1838, Bruce dispatched eight chests of Assam Tea to London which was auctioned on January 10, 1839 and fetched an exorbitant 21$ per pound. Prior to this, Europe knew only Chinese tea. The strong liquor and flavour of Assam’s black tea was unparalleled and created a furore in the whole of Europe. The wild variety got an official name, “Camellia Assamica”.
With the approval of private enterprise in 1841, there resulted a rush of British pioneer planters and a new era of tea in Assam. By 1862, 160 tea gardens consolidated their business.
Today, 750 large tea gardens and 43000 small tea growers of Assam have 17% of global tea production share. The present day tea industry reflects the legacy of the toilsome venture of the pioneer British planters and the painful sweated labour of the tea workers.
The perpetual green tea gardens along both sides of the mighty river, Brahmaputra, in the foothills and ever salubrious tea air envisages a unique socio-cultural niche that gives Assam its true identity.

MESSIAH IN DISGUISE

“Girls in blue ribbons and babies in soft diapers – these are some of my favourite things”.
It was almost two years and a half since we have been trying for a baby. I was keen on having one straight after my marriage but hubby dear was of the opinion that we need some time to ourselves. I of course thought that the difference in age between the child and the parents should be such that they are more like friends rather than having the conventional relationship. However, that was not to be with me.
So, I started where I had left off with my career before I was married. In the meantime, I had completed a full-length tele-serial in Assamese, a documentary in Hindi, and scores of smaller assignments. I always as a kid, had a fetish for acting or rather creating a niche in the media world. Back in school, I was always selected to enact some role or the other in the school annual day functions, which I enjoyed like anything. I remember Sister Rita from school, who would search and chase me down to join in the elocution competitions. It was a lot of fun, though I remember I would be shaking like a leaf when on stage. Now, looking back at those days, I laugh at myself for suffering from such bouts of stage fright.
School concerts were great too. Being from a convent, we were taught the proper intonations and modulations before we finally went onto the stage. Once, when I had to do the role of Fuji Yama, a character from the play, Cherry Blossom, I forgot my dialogues at the eleventh hour. Sister Rita was so sour with me that I was only a little short of being spanked. All said and done, I enjoyed each and every annual concert. The smell of powder, rouge and lipstick; the subdued voices and soft patter of feet as we got ready backstage, the touch of our satin and net frocks against our delicate fingers. And our little hearts pounding so hard that we were scared lest the microphones caught the beat. Everything was magical. We were like cute princesses on stage, making our parents look on proudly as their daughters made each calculated move, step by step to make the concert a great success, year after year.
College was great as I flew past with the Best Actress Award as a French gentleman. My career in acting, compering, and anchoring major shows took off with a lot of support from the home front. The yearning to get onto the stage once again made me take on important roles in plays, one after the other. It was one big mad rush to get to the top.
In the course of this ongoing commitment to acting, anchoring et al, I still felt the terrible urge to become a mother. Both hubby and I ran from pillar to post, doing all sorts of tests on me as well as him. If someone told us that one doctor was good, there was someone to tell us that there was someone even better. “It’s been seven years that they have been childless, now they have one because of Dr.X. You must consult him at once.” I got a little tired listening to all this jargon. Why I am saying it is because nothing was coming of use to us. We even tried some ‘famous’ god men in and around the city, thinking maybe the flowers and the holy water they gave us would work on us but to no avail.
Frustration, depression, hatred, meanness was all getting the better of me. I wanted a baby and I wanted it bad. I even started having dreams at night of having my baby, cuddling it to my chest and putting it to sleep. I would be so happy in my dreams that I always woke up with tears on my pillow.
I even spoke of adoption but then it has its constraints, hubby had told me. I kept quiet and finally accepted that if God wants that I should be childless, then that’s the way it will be. Some of my friends and aunts consoled me, telling me to be patient and have faith in God. I will have a baby one day.
One afternoon, as usual, I was out window shopping but returned with a load of packets. I had to drag my feet to keep my balance. It was pretty warm too and I could feel a long trail of sweat trickling down my back. As I left the shopping arcade and made for my car, lost in thoughts, a man suddenly jumped in front of me and caught hold of my bags. I almost screamed and pulled back my hands.
Before I took time to realize what was happening, I heard a loud guffaw and a friendly voice said, “Baidew, bhale ase (Sister, how are you?)”. I looked, squinting against the bright afternoon sun only to see the most unassuming face smiling back at me. It took me some time before I could recognize Nripen.
He used to drive our office car and wash mine once in a while. In return, I would send small gifts like a saree to his wife or shirts for him. He would take them as if they were some sort of treasure. I was the only person who actually treated him like a human being. The rest of my colleagues would behave as if he was some sort of an animal, more so because of his appearance – dry, unkempt hair and dry chapped skin to go with it, a disheveled pair of shirt and trousers and a toothless smile that made everyone avoid meeting his eyes, which of course had the sparkle of a clear mountain stream.
Nripen would keep me posted about his wife’s condition. They were trying very hard for a baby but she was having some serious problems. I would listen to him at length and suggest some names of doctors he can take her to. More than anything else, I saw my problem in them.
Incidentally, Nripen had to leave his job in our office and since then, I lost all contact with him. It was per chance that I met him again that afternoon. I was elated and also a wee bit embarrassed as he pulled at my heavy packets to drop them in my car. I am usually not used to anyone doing chores for me. I finally gave in to Nripen’s persistence. As we walked towards the car, he asked me how my hubby was keeping, if everything was fine in my work front and if my parents were well. Then he asked me, “Baidew, I remember you were trying for a baby. Have you had one yet?” I was shocked, taken aback and feeling dismal, all at the same time. “Not yet, Nripen. I am trying,” I replied, saddened at my own answer. He seemed apprehensive when he tried to convince me that his wife was being treated by some village quack and they were successful in having a baby.
When he was finally sure that I was not one person to go down to the village for the medicines, he suggested something that absolutely floored me. “Baidew, why don’t you do one thing? Take my baby. Guess what, he looks just like you. Nobody will say that it is not your baby.”
I was dumbstruck. Did I hear him correctly? Did he say he wanted to give me his baby? But why would he? It's his child.
Thank you Nripen. But I cannot take your baby. Your wife and you have had it after so much of patience and prayers. You are indeed my messiah in disguise. So, I will need all your prayers and blessings for me to become a mother.

A TALE OF LOVE

Hasna left us, rather unceremoniously, dressed in a fluorescent green salwar kameez embroidered in multi-coloured threads and my mother-in-law’s gold earrings and finger ring. While my mother-in-law cried silently and we went right up to the gate to see her off, she smiled brightly and even waved to her friend next door, as she sped off in the home jeep. Not a tear. Even her father who had come all the way from his village looked as if he would break down. We stood near the gate and pondered on what is to befall her. That was not the last we saw of her.
I remember coming back from work one day in the winter of 1997 to find a six year old girl, in an almost clean black polka dotted white frock and with the largest and brightest eyes I had ever seen, sitting on a low stool in the living room. She was to stay with us, help with the odd jobs around the house and also go to school. One look at her told me that she was partially petrified seeing so many people and then again this was her first visit out of her village.
Her father told us that he was too poor to sustain so many children, so he implored if Hasna could stay at our place. “Let her do everything, ma’am….the dishes, the dusting…she can even cook if you want her to. But please send her to school. I will never be able to afford it.” And he left, leaving a silently sniffing Hasna standing at our front door, while she wistfully looked at her father walk out of the gate, who visibly had a lump in his throat as he bade his daughter goodbye.
Hasna became a part of the family, more of a friend for me. She would hold onto my salwar like a kitten clawing its nails into a curtain or more still put her arms around me when I am reading a book in my favourite armchair. She endeared us with her actions, sometimes making us guffaw with her little village tales.
Soon, Hasna became the centre of all our activities at home. She would know exactly where to hunt for my father-in-law’s spectacles when he misplaced them. Even though she was lazy to the bones and woke up way after everyone had had their first cuppa, yet, she didn’t have to be told about what she had to do. Even when mahi, my mother-in-law’s sister made her regular visits to our home, Hasna knew that her milk tea had to be laced with a thick layer of butter milk. She knew that I loved milk tea only in the afternoon with an assortment of biscuits and she knew that I loved my egg curry cooked hot with a lot of chillies. She would be sure it was my car apart from the other cars when I honked at the gate. Hasna knew everyone by heart.
Soon Hasna grew up to be a fine young girl. It wasn’t only us who liked her but the neighbours too talked of her commendable work. My friends almost enviously commented on how lucky we were to have a girl like Hasna around the house.
Hasna started going to school from the very beginning. She fared pretty well in her class, with a lot of help from one of us or the other. I would make sure she worked at her English while someone would look after her maths. She was more of a family member than someone who had come to stay at our place a decade ago. We were all very happy, till one day Hasna fell in love! And headlong at it.
We couldn’t believe our ears when she told us that she has someone in the village who she really cared for and she would get married to him as soon as she completes (or doesn’t) her school leaving exams. Suddenly all of us became very concerned about her.
“Isn’t she just a little girl? How can she get married?” my concerned husband asked when I broke the news the next morning over a cup of bed tea.
What was the boy like? What is his family background? How much does he earn? More importantly, will he be able to look after her and shower her with the ‘undying love’ he now professes? To top it all, we were worried if she would be able to deliver a baby at all, which was most likely to happen soon, taking into account her frail body. We were all at our wits end.
I talked to her at length one evening about how important it was for her to complete her studies and earn on her own. God forbid, I told her, but if something was to befall her, she could at least be able to take care of herself, instead of being a burden on her already debt ridden father. But Hasna was adamant! She scowled at me and if looks could kill, then surely I would have turned to ashes where I was seated in my study room. I suddenly realized that there was no point in hammering on a nail which refused to budge into the wood. I left Hasna to fight the perilous sea of life!
One morning, she resolutely announced that she was not going to school anymore and that we were to call the ‘boy’ and get her married. This was the moment when we put our foot down and said that enough is enough. Hasna just cannot go on telling us what to do, as she had been after she had met her ‘one and only love’. And we were not going to partake in a marriage where both the persons were not even eighteen.
I again coaxed Hasna that she would have to face dire consequences of law if she were to get married now. I couldn’t believe my ears when she told me that the ‘boy’ had someone in the court who was capable of many things ‘at a price’. So be it, we said, but we will not partake of such a crime.
Soon Hasna’s father was called. He didn’t speak a word but gave his consent as he was made to understand by the ‘boy’ that he will not be taking any ‘gifts’ (dowry??) from him during the marriage. But he will get married only after a year, what with his financial constraint. Till then, Hasna was to stay with us.
My mother-in-law was in a fix. Hasna refused to go to school, stayed in her room, moping, didn’t answer when called, talked endlessly on the phone with her ‘love’ and tearfully sniffed when asked to help around the house. What was to be done? We just waited for a messiah to save us from this dire situation.
But wait! It was Hasna who fished us out of the trouble she had created herself. After all the moping around, the endless calls, she said that she has had enough. She could smell a rat! And the rat was dead and reeking!
Hasna could feel a ‘change’ in the version of the boy. He now ‘desired’ to marry after five years. Five years? Then where was the ‘desire’ gone?
One evening, she came home tearfully from her usual chat with her ‘love’ at the phone booth. No one dared ask her what had happened. She plopped herself on the bed and refused to move, talk or do anything for that matter. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she silently wiped, sniffing loudly now and then. We were scared lest the worst had befallen. Has the ‘boy’ deserted her?
Soon enough, she told us that her ‘love’ now wants fifteen thousand rupees in cash or he was not going to get married to her or else we have to arrange for some sort of a decent ‘job’ for him. The audacity of the boy, we thought. But who was going to tell Hasna that the boy had a devious mind and ‘other’ plans? None of us dared as we could well see the desperation in her eyes. She wanted to get married to him at any cost and that too immediately lest he changed his mind again.
So it was a fateful evening when we had to send Hasna off while we bade her goodbye with a heavy heart. It was a pity that Hasna was not able to decipher between the love and care we had showered on her for a decade and the falsity of the man who swore to ‘love’ her forever.
So the old adage that love is blind held true for Hasna. A couple of months back, Hasna called us to tell us that she was pregnant. With that frail body? Worry took the better of us. And who was going to take care of her? We heard from her mother that the ‘boy’ will not allow Hasna to go home until she gets the ‘fifteen thousand rupees’ or a befitting job from our end.
Quite like us, Hasna’s hapless parents are at their wits end, calling us occasionally on what is to be done. But we hardly have anything to say at a juncture where we know that anything we say or do might go a long way in hurting Hasna.
So, the least we can do now is to pray for her, hoping against hope that nothing goes wrong and that she remains happy. We will always love you Hasna.

COME AWAY WITH ME

The last time I was there, it was drizzling. It was getting dark and I, tired, huddled closer to Mom in the left hand side of the back seat of the sea blue Ambassador car while my uncle drove, fast, swerving carefully at the curves, commenting every now and then about how we should have got home earlier. My aunt, sitting next to him in the front seat kept repeating that ‘but the children ennjoyed, right?’ The car windows were rolled up tight and there was a light film of mist on them. Oblivious of everything, my cousin bounced up and down in the far right hand corner of the back seat and sang, “Rain, rain go away, little Johnny wants to play….hmm…hmm…!!!” I dozed off to the hum of my cousin and the rhythmic drone of the car engine while a slightly heavier downpour lashed the car windows.

A couple of years ago, in October, a couple of friends decided to just let down our hair. We left Guwahati at 8.30 of a warmer than usual morning. Kyan was at the wheels of our car and drove as smoothly as possibly, while I reclined in the front seat and listened to Boyzone.

A small prayer at the Ganesh Temple and we were on our way. A little ahead of us, was the other car. Ankita would roll down her glasses and wave at us. And Rishi as usual was up to his antics of slowing down, letting us go and then whizzing past us at break-neck speed.

It was a beautiful morning. I had probably travelled more than a hundred times on that same road but every time seemed like the first.The trees lining the highway were turning sienna brown with fading streaks of green peeping through, swaying to the breeze.

As usual, on entering Shillong, we could see little girls, colourfully dressed in chequered skirts, a jacket slung over the shoulders, dainty strappy sandals, with their pink faces fresh as the morning dew. Even the wrinkled old woman selling kwai(Betel nut) at the corner of the road exudes a strange sort of mystic romanticism.

We reached Shillong at 11.30am and decided on a quick lunch at Police Bazar or Khyndailad as the Khasis call it, after which we spiralled up the steep road to Cherrapunji, around 58 kms from Shillong. I so hoped it would rain. The weather was just right and I was in the mood to write poems. “Stay here!” the green hills echoed.

We were already at 4500 feet at Cherrapunji. With a Guinness record of having the highest rainfall in the world, Cherrapunji was transformed to a literal valley of rivers and rivulets when in 1861, it was lashed with a stunning rainfall of 22, 987 mm of rainfall. The annual average rainfall of Cherrapunji today stands at 10,871 millimeters. Now, it’s Mysynram, barely 10 km from Cherrapunji with a record 12,163 mm of rainfall!

The heaviest showers come in May through September. The tin roofed houses dotting the hills and the dales are literally whipped by the heavy downpour, drumming to a harmonic crescendo. This definitely reminds me of my all time favourite singer, Norah Jones as she hums in her atypical voice,

“Come away with me……

In the night…”

We were tired when we reached Sa-ya-mika Park Resort and I hit the bed immediately.

It was 5am and a soft rap on the ventilator woke me up. It was a small bird with a long beak before I could see it, it was gone. Ankita was already up and sipping tea with the boys in the verandah, which overlooked a small swimming pool and a basketball court.

A spirited young lad, Knew was to be our guide that morning. He took us through the road, where atop a small hillock we saw the Ramkrishna Mission Higher Secondary School. We crossed a basti, Khlisnong and noticed monoliths. Knew  rambled out quite a story about the stones. “These are Syiemlihs or graves in memory of our ancestors. Since they were heavy, every time they were required to stand erect, a human or an animal was sacrificed.” Our jaws fell open!

Next stop, the Nokalikai Falls. Knew this time started narrating about the falls; the spine-chilling story of the husband who fed his wife her baby when she wanted to eat meat. She jumped to her death in the falls. The water that goes down the hills is actually her hair!

Sohra market was brimming with exotic fruits and vegetables. Ankita and I went searching for honey and chanced on P. Parameswaran Elayath, the man who makes the best honey in Sohra. Unfortunately, he had sold out everything!

The Mawsmai caves close by are a fascinating labyrinth of underground passages, beneath age-old hills-an absolute dream for amateur explorers. The sights inside were breathtaking!

Once the clouds disappear, one can see as far as Bangladesh. And at the same spot, we chanced upon the Seven Sister Falls. Ankita squealed as she called us to see the rainbow over the gushing waters of the falls.

The mist was slowly coming in and we decided to get to the Elephant Falls as soon as we could. I went there as a kid. The cascade of waters was simply breath-taking. Even better were some young brave-hearts; girls who walked bare-feet across the slippery stones of the falls. Kyan was dumb-struck and Rishi’s jaw fell open!

We all sang “Hotel California” while we sped up the gently undulating road towards the Laitkor Peak. Shillong looked romantic from where we stood at the railing with the fog just setting the mood for a picture perfect scene.

This time I was at the wheels. Ankit was half asleep. Okay! It’s now a race between me and the boys. And I sped off to the tune of Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car”.