Of the many things that continue to have a strong impact on my thoughts was the flaming Gulmohur tree that divided the small campus where we lived into almost two halves.The compound was small and had the tiny twenty one bedded hospital in one half and housed the quarters of most of its staff in the other half. Facing the small hospital building were a large number of trees including a large variety of hibiscus and the intoxicating champa trees.
Long after the easter lilies in the tiny left corner of our garden shriveled up the beautiful gulmohur tree would break into a red canopy with heavy and bulky buds .Late April would see it bloom in full profusion and every morning a carpet of flowers would greet me as I ran towards it longing to see the pair of elusive mynahs believed to be harbingers of good luck to the besotted. As the heat of the sun forced the flaming red blossoms with canary yellow centers to darken to a deep burgundy reflecting their age only to fall on the red soil in an effort to meet its destiny yet never failing to create a soft carpet to tread upon as a last tribute to a season known to be harsh and unforgiving , an experience which still lingers in my memories.The knights in shining red would emerge clear winners if colors and numbers were the criteria yet the lack of fragrance forced it to be incomplete.Also the fact that other red blossoms like the Hibiscus would preferably be used to adorn the gods in preference to the abundant flower would push it a mere second if not third because of other tiny competitors in white.including ,the Frangipani ,mogra and jasmine which spared no efforts to add fragrance to the hot air .
The rivals of our small but clean garden confronted each other throughout the season with the mogras lining the brick wall in the west and the fragile jasmine clinging on to a pillar built on the steps leading to the large verandah in the east keeping the entire atmosphere fresh ,enticing the senses to succumb to their fatal charms .
Every morning I would be awakened by the noisy duel between two koyals whom I could never ever see yet any attempt by one would be matched if not out classed by its competitor .As the day advanced their calls would die out only to reappear suddenly attempting to shatter the monotony of the dry sun baked afternoons.
Summers in Sambalpur ,my home town would mean temperatures generally above forty five .The season usually lasted for three months with its latter part marked with acute shortage of power and water.The water supply would suddenly lose its predictable timings only to cause distress among one and all .
It would be the from the sudden clanging of brass pots called garia and loud raucous shrill voices that announced the arrival of the cherished commodity. When I was very young I remember the inner verandah of our quarters would be washed and thick water soaked gunny bags would help cool the hot floors on which we would lie for long hours listening to stories being read by my mother.On other occasions we would play Ludo or sing songs till midnight and sleep only when the temperature would reduce visibly or when we lost the battle between the will and need.
Dinners would mean a thin watery soup of vegetables and fish called macher jhol and rice with a generous squeeze of the lime while lunch would inevitably have curd as a vital part of the menu.Mangoes of all varieties would be a part of breakfast lunch and dinner with watermelon usually served in the evenings.
A much awaited event would be the cutting the water melon into a half .Waiting with baited breath all eyes would focus on whether the redness of it matched the grand expectations of the buyer. If it was ,then the happiness that preceded before being devoured would outclass many other gastronomic pleasures .The boring chore of separating the numerous black witches from their juicy bed was indeed a challenge , much to the disgust of my mother who hated me for separating the seeds in the mouth rather than separating it manually before devouring it with a vengeance.
My Mother would always make serious efforts to prepare us for summer specials of rabindra sangeet and practice songs and accompanying dances with unmatched passion . Every summer our house would come alive as the venue for practice sessions . Guests choosing apt songs to suit the occasions would be one of the first steps with the event staged in the local bengali club called the Miloni club.
One event that eluded her till her death that she dearly wished to organize was Barsha Mongol as a Monsoon tribute for the bard of Bengal .
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