All is not dead and gone in this world…. I mean the humane stuff. When you start thinking that, suddenly a bright spot appears in the sky and makes the day.
Two years back. A different kind of a workshop. People from all walks of life, yet diverse communities poured into the seminar hall. A murmur, though all in hushed tones. The lights came onto the proscenium where the lectern stood and the secretary made his imperative announcement. This marked the beginning of a six-day meeting, where we were to interact with persons representing different communities of Asom and learn about their customary laws, their forests, soil and what not. It was a meet on documentation of community-wise customary laws organized by the Indira Gandhi National Centre for Arts, Delhi in coordination with the Srimanta Shankardev Kalakshetra.
For the next six days, there was no question of torpor. Our pens literally flew over paper. We worked on a war footing, documenting and collecting invaluable data from these very important people, who were imbued with a sense of purpose; to impart with as much information as possible. The ease with which they talked with us made me wonder if at any point of time my approach towards other people was impudent. Someone was a pastor; smiling and talking gently, another gentleman was the head of his community; he blessed us profusely, a seventy-two year old village elder did what was told to him; he read from the manuscript in Tai and subsequently gave us its Assamese translation.
In the course of this highly interactive session, acquaintance with my team grew from just associates to friends.
If I say impression, then it would probably be belittling Parinita’s enormous impact on my stream of thoughts thereafter. Perhaps, I would have never talked with her had it not been for this IGNCA seminar ‘cause I had met her countless number of times at the Kalakshetra but hadn’t felt it necessary to even say hello. And I thought I was the friendliest person around town. Anyway, I always had the idea that she was just not my type. She had this look on her face, which I just couldn’t relate to. I was so wrong.
Parinita exudes calmness in the face of adversity and that’s what I saw during those six long days. As cool as a cucumber, you could say! Parinita wears her hair short, yet often she would tie a small pony tail and clip it tight. She had large closely set dark eyes and a not so sharp but smart nose and a pair of lips that ‘spake naught’ nonsense. She knew her work well and actually completed it to a point of maddening precision. My mother would have been a lot happier if I was like Parinita. But that is not to happen. I am sanguine about who I am.
My behavioural pattern took a complete u-turn after meeting Tanushree, the other lady working with us on the project. She probably had a world of problems up her not so slender sleeves but she, uncannily has the habit of smiling and thwarting all tribulations with a scoff. I have never really stopped learning from her and wished hard that I have the opportunity to work again on parallel grounds. She is one lady who goes all out to be of assistance to everyone in spite of the odds.
And then, who would believe that I was to lose my way in one of the many lanes of Guwahati. But I did. I was at a crossroad in Gandhibasti when I didn’t know which way to turn. There were cars on all sides, some doing the usual u-turn on the wrong side. I obviously looked hapless and helpless for an on looker. But I kept my calm. I steered my car to the side of the road and tried hard to look for a person who could give me directions to the main road because everyone was just whizzing past. Suddenly, in this conundrum, an all-familiar sound made me turn around. It was a uniformed middle-aged person on a cycle, peddling and ringing his bell to get past my car parked in a tricky corner of the already overcrowded rundown lane.
“Excuse me, dada…. Olop Xunibone?” The man stopped a little ahead of my car and got off his cycle. He walked back and in the dim lights of the lane, I could barely see the red embroidered initials over the flap of his left pocket, which became visible only when he stopped near my door. “DTDC”. There were around four brown packets strung to the carrier of his slightly tarnished cycle. Jaded though he seemed, probably with the days work, concern was writ large over his face when he asked me, “Baidew, kiba Xudhisile?”
I couldn’t hide my embarrassment while confessing that I had actually lost my way. Without any hesitation, he glided onto his cycle seat and asked me to follow him. I was wondering if he thought I was mad. He peddled as fast as he could, looking back over his shoulder once at every turn to see if I was following him. At a familiar crossing, he told me to go straight to reach the main road, before vanishing into a dark tiny lane, his bell ringing incessantly to get the alley dogs out of the way. That evening, Pulok Kalita was my knight in shining armour.
Well, talk about being nice and this one took the trophy. It was one of those days in June when it was pouring cats, dogs and hogs. People were running helter-skelter to get to a safer destination. Oblivious about the fact of how the city looked like after two and a half hours of the summer downpour, my eleven-month-old baby and I started out from my mother’s when I realized that we were in for a stall. All the cars had slowed down to a halt, which I was sure, was not going to budge for a few hours. My panic got the better of me with my baby crying for his 7 o’ clock meal. I drove into the NRL Petrol pump on Zoo Road and that is when, to my horror, it dawned on me that though I had got his formula, I had forgotten the flask of boiled water. I picked up my baby, walked up to this grave looking gentleman sitting on a chair just outside the Quick Shoppe and asked him, “Dada, olop boiled pani paam niki?” (Dada, can I get some boiled water?) His serious countenance changed and his lips cracked into a friendly smile. “So, you want it for the baby?” He asked me in Assamese. I nodded earnestly, concern writ large on my face. He walked us to an office room and tried to make us as comfortable in all possible ways, while he asked one of his boys to get the water. Soon, after baby was fed, I thanked the gentleman and that is when he introduced himself as Robin Barua, the owner of the station. While driving back home after an hour, I thanked God I had met this gentleman on that fateful night. I wonder where I would have found boiled water on a road, which had transformed in to a swirling river. A true angel in disguise.
And then there is Raja, who appeared out of nowhere when my car broke down in front of my radio station on G S Road and that too at an unearthly hour of the night and got my car fixed. And how can I forget the auto drivers in Lakhtokia who revved up my car when it refused to budge an inch. And Zakir, the taxi driver in Itanagar, who took me all around town and called it a day only after he had safely packed me in the Guwahati bound Volvo bus. And lest I forget, Ritu, my friend from the Gauhati Stock Exchange, who stood by me and vouched that the discontentment expressed by the Assistant Director was totally unjustified, knowing perfectly well that he could lose his job in the process. Thank God for these people, I am where I am, contented, happy and more importantly humane.
Two years back. A different kind of a workshop. People from all walks of life, yet diverse communities poured into the seminar hall. A murmur, though all in hushed tones. The lights came onto the proscenium where the lectern stood and the secretary made his imperative announcement. This marked the beginning of a six-day meeting, where we were to interact with persons representing different communities of Asom and learn about their customary laws, their forests, soil and what not. It was a meet on documentation of community-wise customary laws organized by the Indira Gandhi National Centre for Arts, Delhi in coordination with the Srimanta Shankardev Kalakshetra.
For the next six days, there was no question of torpor. Our pens literally flew over paper. We worked on a war footing, documenting and collecting invaluable data from these very important people, who were imbued with a sense of purpose; to impart with as much information as possible. The ease with which they talked with us made me wonder if at any point of time my approach towards other people was impudent. Someone was a pastor; smiling and talking gently, another gentleman was the head of his community; he blessed us profusely, a seventy-two year old village elder did what was told to him; he read from the manuscript in Tai and subsequently gave us its Assamese translation.
In the course of this highly interactive session, acquaintance with my team grew from just associates to friends.
If I say impression, then it would probably be belittling Parinita’s enormous impact on my stream of thoughts thereafter. Perhaps, I would have never talked with her had it not been for this IGNCA seminar ‘cause I had met her countless number of times at the Kalakshetra but hadn’t felt it necessary to even say hello. And I thought I was the friendliest person around town. Anyway, I always had the idea that she was just not my type. She had this look on her face, which I just couldn’t relate to. I was so wrong.
Parinita exudes calmness in the face of adversity and that’s what I saw during those six long days. As cool as a cucumber, you could say! Parinita wears her hair short, yet often she would tie a small pony tail and clip it tight. She had large closely set dark eyes and a not so sharp but smart nose and a pair of lips that ‘spake naught’ nonsense. She knew her work well and actually completed it to a point of maddening precision. My mother would have been a lot happier if I was like Parinita. But that is not to happen. I am sanguine about who I am.
My behavioural pattern took a complete u-turn after meeting Tanushree, the other lady working with us on the project. She probably had a world of problems up her not so slender sleeves but she, uncannily has the habit of smiling and thwarting all tribulations with a scoff. I have never really stopped learning from her and wished hard that I have the opportunity to work again on parallel grounds. She is one lady who goes all out to be of assistance to everyone in spite of the odds.
And then, who would believe that I was to lose my way in one of the many lanes of Guwahati. But I did. I was at a crossroad in Gandhibasti when I didn’t know which way to turn. There were cars on all sides, some doing the usual u-turn on the wrong side. I obviously looked hapless and helpless for an on looker. But I kept my calm. I steered my car to the side of the road and tried hard to look for a person who could give me directions to the main road because everyone was just whizzing past. Suddenly, in this conundrum, an all-familiar sound made me turn around. It was a uniformed middle-aged person on a cycle, peddling and ringing his bell to get past my car parked in a tricky corner of the already overcrowded rundown lane.
“Excuse me, dada…. Olop Xunibone?” The man stopped a little ahead of my car and got off his cycle. He walked back and in the dim lights of the lane, I could barely see the red embroidered initials over the flap of his left pocket, which became visible only when he stopped near my door. “DTDC”. There were around four brown packets strung to the carrier of his slightly tarnished cycle. Jaded though he seemed, probably with the days work, concern was writ large over his face when he asked me, “Baidew, kiba Xudhisile?”
I couldn’t hide my embarrassment while confessing that I had actually lost my way. Without any hesitation, he glided onto his cycle seat and asked me to follow him. I was wondering if he thought I was mad. He peddled as fast as he could, looking back over his shoulder once at every turn to see if I was following him. At a familiar crossing, he told me to go straight to reach the main road, before vanishing into a dark tiny lane, his bell ringing incessantly to get the alley dogs out of the way. That evening, Pulok Kalita was my knight in shining armour.
Well, talk about being nice and this one took the trophy. It was one of those days in June when it was pouring cats, dogs and hogs. People were running helter-skelter to get to a safer destination. Oblivious about the fact of how the city looked like after two and a half hours of the summer downpour, my eleven-month-old baby and I started out from my mother’s when I realized that we were in for a stall. All the cars had slowed down to a halt, which I was sure, was not going to budge for a few hours. My panic got the better of me with my baby crying for his 7 o’ clock meal. I drove into the NRL Petrol pump on Zoo Road and that is when, to my horror, it dawned on me that though I had got his formula, I had forgotten the flask of boiled water. I picked up my baby, walked up to this grave looking gentleman sitting on a chair just outside the Quick Shoppe and asked him, “Dada, olop boiled pani paam niki?” (Dada, can I get some boiled water?) His serious countenance changed and his lips cracked into a friendly smile. “So, you want it for the baby?” He asked me in Assamese. I nodded earnestly, concern writ large on my face. He walked us to an office room and tried to make us as comfortable in all possible ways, while he asked one of his boys to get the water. Soon, after baby was fed, I thanked the gentleman and that is when he introduced himself as Robin Barua, the owner of the station. While driving back home after an hour, I thanked God I had met this gentleman on that fateful night. I wonder where I would have found boiled water on a road, which had transformed in to a swirling river. A true angel in disguise.
And then there is Raja, who appeared out of nowhere when my car broke down in front of my radio station on G S Road and that too at an unearthly hour of the night and got my car fixed. And how can I forget the auto drivers in Lakhtokia who revved up my car when it refused to budge an inch. And Zakir, the taxi driver in Itanagar, who took me all around town and called it a day only after he had safely packed me in the Guwahati bound Volvo bus. And lest I forget, Ritu, my friend from the Gauhati Stock Exchange, who stood by me and vouched that the discontentment expressed by the Assistant Director was totally unjustified, knowing perfectly well that he could lose his job in the process. Thank God for these people, I am where I am, contented, happy and more importantly humane.
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