Of grasshoppers sparrows lady birds and paper boats

Of sparrows grasshoppers ladybirds and paper boats……

Out of the many things that have vanished from my rather cramped life are some simple pleasures brought by the sparrows that would rarely leave me alone in my room having four acute angles ,and merging with the fifth with extreme reluctance. The unabashed show of embarrassment was more than visible as each merged with the other at acute angle incidentally, all acute. Each had a window similar in size and fitted with ledges both on the inside and outside making the room almost free from free wall space.

The sight of chirping sparrows perched happily on the curtains, which began one-fourth from the top, added a lot of cheer to my life. Sitting in close proximity on the spring clasp from which the curtains hung, my extremely spirited friends filled my room with lot of happiness. Breaking the sanctity of the quiet gray hours of dawn with their incessant twitter and tiny shifting leaps, watching them became a habit. The varying time spells with which I watched them, mostly increased or decreased in length the intensity directly proportional the difficulty level of each academic hurdle I encountered. A welcome distraction, they mostly helped me to think creatively and constructively. My interest in their activities grew as I saw their innocuous and playful exchanges graduate into noisy duels with the aggressive males easily differentiated by their deep brown coats, exhibiting their prowess with admirable fierceness while the females in softer brown coat forming the intense audience taking a well deserved break from their regular pecking on flowers or from swinging on delicate branches .The timely appearance of my feathered companions each dawn and their equally surprising disappearance at dusk with matchless precision still remains a mystery difficult to unearth. They remained a part of my every day life with their numbers multiplying in spring and summer. Their small and well made nests in the tiny nooks on the wooden roof support outside the room always notified me of the additions in the family .The softer twitters of hungry tiny inmates and the fierce screeches each time a predator   encroached upon the privacy announced in no soft tones ,of hungry babies, and apt parenting skills.

The whirring blades of the electric fans sometimes mercilessly snuffed the life of some brave hearts who ventured inside the room to challenge the might of modern technology. Dada always closed the windows in the summers and even switched off the fans to ward off the intruders, yet the mishaps were not exactly rare.   In case of an eventuality he would even offer droplets of water fetched by me close to their tightly shut beaks. I remember casting furtively glances over his shoulders hoping for miracles that never happened.

The gasps of the helpless victims still remain etched in my memories forcing me to realize of the intense pain that plundered the small bodies and I lost no time in passing a silent judgment inadvertently blaming technology. The fact that a single act of recklessness can lead to horrifying consequences probably laid its early seeds in my thoughts, then. To watch their tragic end, and life ebbing away from the lively creatures was sad indeed. Some times the steady and determined queue of red ants notified us about the untimely demise of the little baby sparrows. The lack of wings or the tiny gray vestiges of the so-called wings tightly clinging on their pink skin provided no inkling of their future looks. Though it took me some years to master the skills of putting the lifeless bodies of the hapless victims on old newspapers and throw them away, as a child I would call out to one of the maids to take over the course of actions in case of the eventualities. It would `not be without remorse that I saw the tiny creatures being thrown away with a casualness which I never agreed upon .The precise action of the maids always left me speechless. Many a time noni our maid would ask me to leave her trailing sari pallu alone with my tight clutches significantly reducing her pace. The floor would be always swept clean as an aftermath .The strong clinical odour of phenyl refusing to leave the senses alone and yet failing hopelessly to wipe off a deep sense of despair caused due to the loss of a precious thing often called life. Sometimes weekend cleanliness drives to sweep off cobwebs by Alekh the peon, of Ma`s clinic would dislodge the nests and cause the fragile shells to break. More than the fatal consequences, my mother would grimace at the fishy odour that emanated pervading the clean atmosphere of our home masking the fragrance spread by the jasmine and the mogras arranged religiously on flat saucers especially in summers. I found the strong refusal of the odour to leave the rooms alone despite the caustic treatment that followed, especially in the monsoons as distinctly unpleasant. As I grew up the incidences lost their gravity and became commonplace. It was only later when I saw similar reactions from Koustubh , my nephew, that made me realize the loss of sensitivity which probably maturity  had sown in me irrevocably replacing innocence with callousness ,well at least almost.

I never realized of their steadily dwindling numbers, or their total disappearance, till one day I could `not find any while I was wondering about them much later in life in another house in another city. It was until much later that I realized the loss of innocence that probably work, situations, and occurrences caused making deep inroads into my existence encroaching upon my life, and robbing it of some if not many emotions and feelings, mostly unannounced and determined working upon their unsuspecting victims.

The vivid image of the swiftly flying dragon flies in their vivid blue and green colours adding life to our garden and the field outside it, will always be an important part of my life. Of the many things that I would be envious of apart from being thin, fair and beautiful was the dexterous ability of some members of a group of children of which I was probably a non-happening member of. Their enchanting capacities of ensnaring dragon flies in flight or while they were sucking nectar from flowers always reminded me of my deep inadequacies. While the blue ones were the prized catches, the regular and plentiful green ones were the common victims probably because of their large numbers. I was a member of this group before I was five, which boasted of having experts who would win the number game of capturing fifteen twenty and some times even more flies. By a swift cupping of their palm they trapped the unsuspecting insects shocking them into captivity exhibiting their fiercely determined and peremptory intentions. In one flash moment the depravity of freedom was more than visible in the desperate fluttering of their gossamer thin wings during captivity. The experts would never stop at one but go one to catch more and follow it up by the painful act of tying threads in their tail supplied by non-performers like me more so an overt effort for acceptance than the consequence. I would watch the fierce struggles that would ensue between the hapless victims and the powerful captors and their final inevitable surrender. The painful process of tying a thread on their segmented and frail tail remained a distant memory The gnawing fear that arose after each act mostly arising due to hearing that each harmful act begets pain were probably were my first lessons on retribution, divine or otherwise. My exit from the group was not only because I realized of the futility of the entire enterprise but more so to escape Ma`s fury. Her extreme disapproval of such misadventures made clear from the very nature of the deep tone she used to show her displeasure whenever she caught me in the wrong was more than adequate to make me desist my efforts. Her presence forced the champions to fleeing away the scene too with promptness difficult to match. It was during one of my bedtime confessions that Ma explained the selfishness of the act that helped me to outgrow the habit swiftly .I always look back in my yesteryears thinking of what must have become of the champion attackers. Long after I grew up and that I realized from the dwindling numbers of playing children and play grounds of the marauding effects of modernity, champions of corrosion eroding the vestiges of childhood, forcibly evicting innocence from its tiny cocoon.

The advent of the monsoons would inevitably bring back memories of the tiny velvety beauties called ladybirds. Between the dark ominous clouds, thunders, lightning, erratic electricity supply, crisp pakoras and steaming hot khichudi roasted bhuttas and the red velvet coated beauties. Adding the much needed colour and gaiety to the lush green foliage and luscious undergrowth with their slow yet sure footed crawl and strong colour these daintily dressed individuals made their presence more than felt with their satin smooth coats accessorized perfectly with symmetrical black spots. Innocently crawling into traps the unsuspecting victims mostly were treasured in small empty matchboxes. I sometimes came back home from school in my early years with such matchboxes and watch the captive inmates in wonder as I opened them secretively during sleepy afternoons away from the prying glances of everyone.  Once Ma caught me doing this and explained the sad outcome that could befall the attractive creatures that made me understand my mistake. I still remember my reluctance transforming into amazement and happiness as I saw the slow crawl becoming faster as I released the hapless victim from its entrapment. As my respect for the captors turned into indifference and still later into a pain I understood how Ma taught me my first lessons of compassion and empathy. Many years later Koustubh my nephew bought a toy a lady bird one of his favourites , which forced me to recess into the past and remember similar acts which were small yet made  a deep impact in my life.

Sailing paper boats just after a downpour were another inevitable extension of the monsoons. Synonymous with the season they broke the moist humid interludes and the monotony with their appearances. Narayani Mausi`s undeniable expertise in making the boats still remind me of my failure to do so. Generally made from old newspapers, cast off prescriptions discarded papers, and some time old pages of copies these frail creations were two types and while one was ordinary its pocketed version was undeniably exotic. The sight of these floating beauties after a downpour in every available source of flowing water was common. They spared nothing and their progress in huge old iron buckets, overflowing tubs of stored water or drains left an indelible impression on me. Mausi would happily make them for me every time I asked for it and the miniatures from prescription were always on my table waiting for an opportunity to break free into the uncertain and forge ahead without even a glance at the past and forging ahead with a surety difficult to emulate. I never mastered the art of making one ,despite some trials but the innate sense of happiness, which the floating creations gave me, remains prized and something to cherish my childhood.

Childhood Memories Contd..

Durga Poojo or the ubiquitous Poojo, happens to be an annual phenomenon yet rarely leaves most Bengali domains free, despite its autumn advent. Either because of the anticipated guests who would join the family revelry or the clothes that would require preparations much in advance or the food that needed to be prepared during and after the four days of celebrations or the beautiful idol of Ma Durga with her four children resplendent on her Bahan or the fragrance of the shiuli and sthalapadma flowers which blossomed in the season poojo has been dear to all Bengalis.

Soon after Ganesh Poojo, often in late August or early September before the fury of the Monsoons abated ,Ma would start planning for the annual ritual much before its actual advent. Being credited with her dexterous abilities to plan and manage both micro and macro amidst other things, clothes and their preparations forcefully seeped into her daily routine. Her planning helped her to finalize specific numbers, colours, and designs for the gifts and the frocks that would be a part of my wardrobe.

 As the clearer and cooler nights  sharply contrasted the  hot days with clear skies which  enticed all stored blankets and razai`s to be sundried alongside the silks and woolens in the inner  concrete veranda ,Bachu Bhai remained a messiah  for my fall collection with his silky catalogues full of enticing fantasies flaunted by skinny models. Though much frayed at the corners and pages the catalogues were a storehouse of lacy, silky temptations and catered beautifully to appease our frugal needs with consummate ease.  The design catalogue always mesmerized me as the fair brunettes and blondes in frills and sheers stared at me through their hazel, or blue eyes with an élan which was impossible to emulate. Ma would select some designs from the catalogue and make a tour to the tailor shop to ask for the required length of cloth that needed to be purchased   for the specifically selected designs. The religiously noted specifications in her characteristic writing on a neat piece of paper with her Fountain pen were treasured in a specific place in her black bag, her constant companion at work. Little did I know that she selected specific designs and cuts which desperately tried to flatter my as deeply tanned skin and bulk.

 Custom made us take a small walk to her trusted shop Anandilal Patwari &Sons ,an establishment which still stands today in its original place in the city. The walk would always be through a narrow by lane with a huge peepul tree. Interestingly a huge house built under its shadowy boughs was called Peepul Taliya House which in the local dialect meant the house under the peepul Tree. The trips which happened  between  four and six in the evening were specifically planned , which not only prevented the loss of precious time reserved for her patients but  also  allowed her to see the colours better  by the little day light  before it was engulfed by the  swiftly descending dusk. 

Numerous greetings smiles and namastes later we would arrive at our destination and be greeted by the characteristic strong smell of new rolls of cloth .At the entrance we kept our slippers neatly and the rows of colours ,texture, forms ,and print would greet us warmly . The first half of the rectangular room with two square pillars and a wall full of neatly arranged textiles segregated the similar inner half from the outer. Lined with mattresses and round pillows on the left, on which the fat owner patriarchal owner would always be deposited, his overwhelming girth invariably managing to drag every ones attention effortlessly. Always clad in a white vest with a few holes which failed miserably to even cover one third of his fat torso he always greeted us with a radiant smile which more than adequately compensated his ennui.  His equally fat son and his much slimmer brother eagerly showed wares to my mother with a matchless enthusiasm as she selected the things she wanted and thwarted any attempt for forceful or extra buying. Years of habit had tutored them to cater to her specific tastes.

She trusted the entire clan as she claimed that they had never ever sold her anything which would bleed or pale off in colour or texture in the long run. In fact she narrated instances when they asked her not to purchase some materials warning her about its faults. While the younger ones would expertly show things that the older ones often tried to engage me with stupid innuendos most of which remained a jargon. The muffled conversations were the result of the dual role of the lips which tried hard to do justice to the constant chatter and sealing the mouthful of paan which would meet its inevitable destiny after every few minutes. Many a time a lozenge would be offered to me to ward off my boredom. I was coerced to refuse it though, as my advancing hands met Ma`s disapproving glances. As Polythene bags were not much in use in the seventies the thick brown paper bags with bold imprints of the names of the store were sent back home filled with the purchases only to be labeled and kept till the gifting season arrived.

Ma`s list included friends colleagues’ servants’, house hold helps,  drivers ,peons, washer man and his faithful wife who she firmly believed in and trusted as a vital part of our lives as they made it beautiful by doing the mundane chore. I would pay very little or no attention to the numerous  dhotis some with broad borders others with narrow ones some fine shantipuris or the red bordered sari for Ma Durga or the other saris and dress materials she purchased. A staunch believer of the fact that people who helped us should be given gifts rather than ones who were only related  she even parted away with her favourites without even a blink much to my consternation a habit she practiced till she breathed her last.

If the purchases were quick she would utilize the remaining time for finalizing furnishings for curtains mattresses and pillows and metal trunks too. After probably what seemed to be an eternity she would either select something or prefer to wait for the next available opportunity where the shop keepers would promise the arrival of new fabric. Even the foot mats below the bed and the piece of cloth to be put on pillow covers while we rested our heads on them would be cast in their new avatar.

She detested dirty pillows and the still dirtier pillow covers. It was much later that she revealed that her mother had instilled the cardinal belief that clean pillows and their clean covers were one of the criteria  to finalize marriage alliances as the poor hapless objects rarely lied about the state of cleanliness practiced in the household. The fact that sparkling clean pillow covers were indicative of the goodness and eligibility for a probable bride and of good family values continues to elude my logic. My mother would mostly stick to white pillow covers generally embroidered and frilled  crocheted edgings  which would be religiously changed every Sunday before the weekly visit  of our washerman Purno or his wife Bharter Ma (Bharat`s Mother) after our afternoon siesta.

Some saris were purposely bought later, from other Shops. I grew up listening about the virtues of giving rather than receiving and I had to forcibly agree then for my joys knew no bounds on receiving and numbers never failed to impress the group of friends that I was a part of. It was only years later, that these practices made deep inroads into my psyche and then the memory of Ma`s smile reflecting the joy on the faces of those who received gifts from her vindicated that true joy of giving.

She was seldom impulsive. She always preferred to buy cotton of light colours and small prints and intelligently steered me away from dark coloured fantasies by saying that once washed they would lose their sheen. Some silks or satin would also be seen before being touched only to be finalized later. To the others she would give money to buy something for the oncoming festivities.

My average wardrobe was dominated by  pale monochromes ,  dainty flowers in blues, pale cream, and whites also had  an overpowering smell of naphthalene .With materials purchased in advance and designs chosen from attractive catalogues but rarely delivered on schedule, Bachu Bhai`s  tailoring unit formed an important part of my pooja celebrations. Often fitted and refitted for a perfect fit on many an occasion the dresses would arrive only hours before they had to be worn putting to rest the anticipation that preceded the delivery. Often adorned in the  collars and cuffs with delicate edgings painstakingly crafted after dinner in the thinnest of the reel threads instead of the thick crochet threads my outfits would be transformed into the extraordinary because of her artistic abilities. I still treasure a few of her beautiful creations which stand mute testimony of her creative genius. She had even tutored Noni our trusted maid to dry laces on old newspapers after being washed taking care not to rub them vigorously.

It never mattered to most citizens of the tiny city that patterns, furnishings, or coverlets wouldn't vary in colour texture fabric unflinching of the commonality of their origin .It would be rather fun and never a matter of concern that I wore the same prints with Runu and Munmun two of my closest allies and friends which probably more than asserted the common threads of love and care that bonded the Bengali community and assumed an important part of my life.