THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 1

The Other Son of Ganges is a Series that began almost a year back in an e-zine The Banyan Trees . It started out as an experiment and took shape as a 10-11 part series. Ganges, has always been a great inspiration. Of late, I have started to think that Ganges is in fact- a reflection of all life on Earth. Through her flow, here begins a tale- still new, still raw and yet to be lived...

PART 1 : GANGA, THE MOTHER

It all began with water. Even back then, it had begun with water. No, he did not remember it. But he had heard them say so. It all began, with water…

He was wet. But so was the dog. But the difference was this. The dog had soon found a shelter in a broken piece of wooden box. But he was still out there. Beneath nothing. He was wet. He was sad- a castaway. A man, whose life ceased to exist for him to live, still, he was wet.

It all began with water…

His life started at an end. People who were witnesses, told him about it- later. On the banks of the Ganges, he lay on his father’s lap. Through the tiny bronze nozzle, the clear water from the Ganges, poured herself down on his forehead. He did not remember it. But he might have sensed it then, that a bond of a lifetime was being formed there, with that water-the Ganges. His father laid him on the stone grounds of the Ghat. Scattered petals from flowers, the bits of black sesame, here and there, stuck themselves on his tiny body. Soon, he would be washed. Washed with the water from Ganges. Wash him of the sins from his previous birth, which had taken the life of his mother.

His father went ahead, towards the Ganges, to bid farewell to his wife’s soul. He did not remember his father taking the water from the Ganges on his hands, and offering prayers to the forefathers. The smell of burning flesh from the Manikarnika Ghat, remained fresh in his memory, as he had felt it, back then. People told him, all about it, later. Ganges was, now- his mother.

He grew up there, where people only came when their journey through life was about to end- Kashi. The streets of Kashi, was his world. The only world that he knew about. Ghats, water, prayers, fire and pyre. This was all he had seen. People of Kashi, he had later thought, knew more about death, than about life. The dusty streets full of Rudraksh and idols of Gods and Goddesses. Flower garlands. For the living, dead and also for those whose existence was not proved, yet. The sweet vendors. The kadaai outside their stalls where the yellow milk, seasoned with saffron and malaai and almonds, boiled forever. The begging Sadhus whose blessings were for sale!

He’d see people, sometimes, all white in colour, taking photographs of the Ganges. Why were they so excited about the river? He would wonder! Had they never seen so much water before? There was once a white man, who took a picture of him too, standing beside his mother. That was the only picture he had, of him with his mother.

His father was a teacher. He taught the kids at the local school. Every child of his locality learnt their first word from his father. But for a long time, he was never able to say his first word! His father tried and tried. Every doctor and Vaid of Kashi was consulted. But his first word never came out for a long time. May be he was thinking what that word should be. He just couldn’t start his life by saying any words, could he? His first word should be special. May be…

It all began with water…

It happened one day, when he saw his neighbour’s son, pampered by his mother. He did not remember what he saw, but at that moment, he felt that he should be with his mother. He too, wanted a mother to love him, to pamper and spoil him! That was the moment he decided his first word too. People witnesses to this had told him, later. He jumped into the Ganges, shouting “MAA…” at the top of his voice! He just needed to be with his mother…

People kept coming home for the next few days after that incident. He remembered this. They called it some ‘miracle’ and that he had ‘divine’ gifts! His photograph was published in the local paper. He still had the paper- preserved! His father was not happy about it. He was of course happy about the first word- but not the divine part of it.

He somehow knew after this incident that, whatever position he might be in, she would be with him. Help him. Love him, unconditionally. His mother… Ganga…

(..To be continued., Part 2: “Let me go, Mother…”)

MAAKKAAN

“…So children… What is special about 25^th December”? rang the sing-song voice of Sister Margret.

“… The birth of Jesus Christ”, chorused the class of Junior Kindergarten, section ‘A’.

“And what are we going to do on that day”? asked Sister Margret.

“…Dance”, squeaked little Gitu.

“Not just dance- so many other things as well. And who’s going to be our special guest’? Asked Sister Margret.

“SANTA…” shouted the class.

It was very exciting for almost all the children of Kindergarten. It was just I- who was not all that excited about “Christmas”. I could not see what was exciting about singing, dancing? I did neither of that. Nor was I excited about Santa or Jesus. For I knew neither.

“Now I would be coming around and taking down the names of all of you and what you are to be doing on the 25^th”

The class rejoiced- and I was left thinking- What would I tell Sister Margret?

“Mittu. What would you like to do”? asked Sister Margret.

A dead end!

“Child, what do you do”? Repeated Sister Margret.

“I talk”, I blurted out.

‘I talk’. Even deep down, these words sounded stupid. But it was partially true. I have always heard people say- “Mittu talks”! I have even heard Sister Edwina telling my mother- “Your daughter- talks”.

Sister Margret did not reply. She was looking at me for a long time. Then she said-

“Now you are just what we need. You shall be delivering the ‘votes of thanks’. God bless you, child”… and she left me sitting there, wondering whatever ‘votes of thanks’ was!

That evening, I told my parents that I was suppose to ‘deliver’ ‘votes of thanks’.

“We shall ‘deliver’ it, then”, said my dad, smiling at me.

My mom spotted my disappointment.

“What’s bothering you, Mittu”? She asked me.

“I don’t want to do anything on Christmas. I don’t even know who Jesus or Santa is”, I voiced out my thoughts.

My mother looked at me, smiling, and she said- “Well Santa’s Maakkaan’s friend”!

“Who”? I asked her, confused.

“Maakkaan! The black Teddy Bear you have with big brown eyes and big red nose. Didn’t you know”? She asked, surprised at my surprise.

I shook my head. I was excited. I knew there was something about the black bear, when I bought it. So it was ‘Maakkaan’, after all!

“Maakkaan watches you- all the time. And when you do good things- like helping me out and not taking out daddy’s pens from his case, he sends you gifts and lets Santa know how you have been a very good girl”, finished my mom.

“Really”? I asked her, amazed! “What gifts will I get”?

“Oh sweets, Chocolates or something big, on days when you are extra good”, said my dad.

“WOW”! I just had to see it! I decided that day- I shall be as good as possible!

That night, I ate all my food. Even the spinach. I did not pester mom. I slept early even! I was all the goodness, I was capable of!

The next morning when my dad woke me up- “Get up! Maakkaan has sent you gifts”, he said.

I was wide awake in seconds. My dad pointed towards the balcony. And I saw it!

I saw a big polythene bag tied on the branch of the Neem tree! There were chocolates in it! I could not believe my eyes! It was a miracle!

That day, I planned to be even better. I did all my homework. I helped Vinu in doing his homework. And when Sister Edwina wanted someone to lend her an eraser- I volunteered! That evening, I even returned all the pens I had taken earlier form my dad’s office bag.

The next morning, there was a bigger bag of chocolates, tied on the Neem tree!

In the mean time, my dad taught me my ‘vote of thanks’. I was, for the first time, excited about going to school on the 25^th of December! But I was a little unhappy. For the children, who were going to dance and sing- had new frocks made out for them! I- who was just going ‘talk’- got no new dress. My mom told me to ask ‘Maakkaan’ for a new dress.

“Try writing it down and placing it near him…” she said, smiling.

I wrote down what I needed in a piece of paper and placed it near Maakkaan. Nothing happened the next day. Nothing happened the day after, either. But on the third day, there was huge packet tied on the branch of the Neem tree! And when I opened the package I saw the most beautiful dress in it, just the way I had wanted it to be- Pink and fluffy!

That evening, I wrote down in a piece of paper- “I want a remote controlled car toy like the one Subho has”, and I placed the little note near Maakkaan.

The next day- I saw a huge package tied to the Neem tree. But it was empty. No- Not empty. It had the note I had written to Maakkaan, inside the package. I told my mom about it- and she said I should not misuse Maakkaan for anything I wanted. “Maakkaan might get angry”, she said.

That day- I finally revealed my secret to my friends. They had been pestering me to tell about who got me so many chocolates.

“Who Maakkaan? There’s no such thing as that. You are fooling us”, said Gitu.

“No”, I said. “I’ve seen it. It is true”.

“Then ask Maakkaan to get me chocolates, tomorrow”, said Kirti.

“He’s at my home- so he gets them just for me”, I said.

But none of them would believe me. Gitu even told Sister Edwina that I was telling lies to everyone! And no matter how much I tried explaining to Sister Edwina, she would not believe me either.

“Whoever teaches you such lies”! She scolded me.

“Maakkaan is like Santa Claus. They’re friends”, I protested. The entire class was laughing at me.

I cried all night. I did not have my food. School was no longer fun, as most of my friends thought I lied!

That evening, as I sat in my room, preparing my ‘vote of thanks’- I saw Maakkaan looking at me. Then I felt something. I wrote wish my on a piece of paper and placed it in front of Maakkaan.

The Christmas day arrived. It was more fun than I had thought it would be. Everyone looked wonderful!

And finally, Santa Claus came. He was so huge! And he spoke-

“… Just before I woke up today morning, I met up with an old friend. He had a request, for me that came to him from one among you”.

There were excited murmurs.

“… He told me, that one among you requested him, to get all of you gifts. But since he could not meet everyone else he sent over the gifts that he got for you to me and asked me to give it to you all…”

“My friend who got you gifts- is Maakkaan. The one who wanted him to get you all gifts is- Mittu”, he finished.

Everyone was clapping. Gitu even came to me and said sorry. Everyone got their gifts, except me! I went near Santa. He said, “Alas! You did not ask him for any gifts for yourself, did you”?

I had indeed forgotten to write that down in that little piece of paper! I was a little unhappy. But everyone appreciated me for my ‘votes of thanks. I even got a little pat from Sister Margret and a bag of chocolates from her.

We returned home. And as we neared our home, I saw a very huge package tied to the Neem tree. I ran towards it and took it to my room. And in it- was a brand new remote controlled toy car! A little note in it read, "To Mittu, who truly understood Christmas"...!

PS: 'Maakkaan' is very real... This story is-- well not entirely a fiction... :)

Image Courtesy- Google Images...

OH, SIGH!

Days and nights had been just the same,
There is not a word I would not like to say.
Miles ahead are the shores I would reach
Sighing, I wait- to say it all your way.

Of trees, you say; Of birds, not a thing
Of pebbles, you say; Of ripples, you never may.
Of seas, you do and oceans, no not
Sighing, I wait- to see it all your way.

Sighing, I wait- to say, to see
I wait for a life, not mine ever to be.
Off I leave, off away- I fly
Out comes my words, all mine- Oh Sigh!

Picture Courtesy: Google Images...

IN A NUTSHELL…

In an old shack of a building- on the walls there hung beautiful painting of two men playing a game of chess. Their shadows extended showing that it was night, and the light only came from an oil lantern lit beside one of them. There was also a painting of children going to school in a rickshaw, while the man who was pulling the rickshaw- was actually a boy, almost the same age as the other kids who were in the rickshaw.

May be I did not realize what these paintings were about actually- back then. I was busy copying my drawing homework. I usually had to draw a painting off the memory. That part was my nightmare. I was never good at drawing what was in my mind. Not that I wouldn’t try. But it usually made people think- I ought to stop watching Horror shows on TV!


It’s a case where parents think their children can do anything under the sun! Each and every parent believes that their child was a gifted one- that has been a painter, singer, dancer, scholar, a scientist and many other things in her previous birth. They are not to be blamed. Perhaps I’d be just the same when I have a daughter of my own. But the point is I had no real talent in drawing. I admired the paintings. I admired painters! They are such wonderful people. But me- I was not one of them.

Whatever made me stop going to my drawing classes, I do not remember. They were wonderful teachers. But deep down- I wished that if only I could draw! If only I could paint! What a gift it was to give a shape to whatever that you think! I’m trying to think of so many things. Some of those things just exist in me as just a memory. Something only I’ve seen. If I try to explain a huge iron container with one opening at the top to pour in the rice grains and the other- at the bottom to take rice out of it- I wouldn’t be able to explain it. But if I could draw it…

There are just so many things that one wishes to do. Like kids in school dreaming wild about their future! ‘Doctors’ are so out-of-place. I once heard a 6 year old say that she wants to be an Ornithologist! Why- even I have told so many people- I had always wanted to become a bus conductor! The dreams, these kids soon realize are just inane dreams. In fact, it is worse. They begin to believe that having such dreams is a mark that you have not grown. A grown-up knows what he wants. Ornithology becomes a silly dream that a six year olds mother once dreamt of when she was six!



I have silly dreams. Or rather- dreams that people think as silly. Now that would not qualify me as a grown up! I dream of taking off. Just board a bus and go. Carry nothing else but a pen and few sheets of paper. Take a bus- having no idea about the destination and be off! I wish to spend my days amidst sounds closer to Earth. Croaking of frogs, rustling of leaves, pebbles thrown into water.

Sometimes, there are dreams that I think am not meant to have. Rather- dreams that aren’t like me. In this dream, I reside on the 18th floor of a building. The room has a huge window that gives a terribly beautiful view of the world beyond. And I sit on the edge of the window- smoking. There is rain. But no matter how I try to wet my cigarette- the fire won’t go. And I mock the rain- as I pat off the ash.

Crowded autos to work, black and white monitors, coffee at the cafeteria. But somewhere along this humdrum of reality, I have lost myself to my dreams. And no matter how I try to ‘return’, I still prefer the painting of two men, both tired after a day’s work- playing chess while the light from the oil lantern, lengthens their shadows- far and long…


PS: Images used- my Doodles...

A WELL OF MOLTEN GOLD

A sack of wheat
A bag of rice
And a well of molten gold

All I need
Is just these there
Taken, stolen or sold!

A bottle of wine
Neat and fine
Mind, it better be old

All I need
Is just these there
Taken, stolen or sold!

Happy and gay
Party all day
Hugging desires, bold

All I need
Is just these there
Taken, stolen or sold!

I take it, I steal it
I buy it, I do-
But still I rot out cold

Left out to decay
Amidst smiles, so gay
In my well of molten gold…

PS: Image., Thank you, Google!

SRI PANDI VILAS

As I came out of the hall, I was trying to take in the things- moving and still all around me. Work tags, new goodies safe inside branded plastic bags, hand bags, coolers and tri-colour battered and pinned on shirts. For some reason these things did not enter into me. Something bigger was occupying my mind. A bigger question. Was I in it? The place around, the world around me?

When I saw the tri-colour on people- I wanted to have one too. My mind went back to the school grounds where I stood fourth from the first, singing flag songs and the National Anthem- waiting rather impatiently for the distribution of toffees. I used to get hold of the entire stack of tri-colour that was left over. The stack would find its place inside a big bag, along with other broken toys and tiny pieces of pencils and erasers where it would remain for the next few years until the entire bag would be chucked into the trash.

I wanted to ask one of them- from where they had got the tri-colour? I don’t know why I did not ask. I was just watching around and trying to take in the blur of colours around.

Be it the rain pouring down outside the window or a Baai’s daughter reciting Tennyson’s ‘Brook’. Munna insisting on his photos being taken in a studio or Arun washing the silver ring left behind by a house wife- Yasmin. From Shai’s photographs, Munna’s ‘Salman’ bracelet to Arun’s painting and Yasmin dissolving into light in her video letter to her brother. The fifth character in the film, Mumbai- left me with a bigger question deep down in me. Was I the sixth character in it?

The auto ride back home was all thoughts. A sun-lit Chennai had become a part of my life for the past two years. Its different shades never escaped my thoughts throughout. Yet, I’m a stranger trying to identify places around. The city was a part of me- but never became mine.

As the auto tuned in with the rocky roads beneath- my eyes were searching for tri-colour s around. School children and a teacher leading them around. A man making ‘parotta’s outside Sri Pandi Vilas hotel. An old man whose knees came in together while he bent back- waiting for his bus.

I did not get my tri-colour today.

Oh… and ‘Dhobi Ghat’? Of course… Please watch it…

SIMIYON

A point on paper. I sat there, leaning against the cold, hard wall- imagining myself to be that single point over that sheet of clean white paper. That was what I was. An atom. Years of life had taught me finally, to define myself. Place myself into that frame of life's camera. An atom. A closer shot, perhaps might give you an idea of how I look. The length and breadth or may be, even the depth!

He, however always believed that we spread out! We take shapes. Forms. "What do you mean"? I remember, asking him once. He would not know. But he was more than an atom. He believed it. Simiyon.

Villages. Now that I think about them- provide you spaces deep within- that later expand within you. Spaces- so vast, that the valleys in our heart- begin to fill with memories of the dust from the first harvest of the season. The bunch of Neem leaves in the hands of the temple priest. Bangles from the fair. The statues of silver and bronze in the temple. They held life in them. A life that came out of thoughts, beliefs and hopes of people- who believed that tomorrow could be a day that would end all their sufferings.

The music in the school bell. The era of black or white; no grey. Careless. Unafraid. An age characterized by its innocence. It’s a pity that the beauty in innocence is only realized after losing it. I now would wonder at times- "I was all that"! Some people, I've seen, are born old. Old granny says, ".. remains of the gone lives..". I don't know. I would imagine myself dying and being born. In flashes. A splash of colours. Cockeyed. But wonders, back then!

Our school was quite big. Children from neighbouring villages would also come in there- to learn. Just before the bell rings at four in the evening, we’d hear the coconuts, being broken and offered to the Lord, in the nearby temple. There begins a race- the first race of my life, the winner- collects the maximum coconut pieces off the ground. A rush of life, straight towards the temple, where the broken pieces of coconut awaited the tiny little hands to pick them up and dust them.

“Krishnaa….”

I turned to my left. Dark- yet his eyes, sparkling like diamonds- his forehead, sweating hard- his eyes knew joys unknown to others. His words, his voice, his thoughts- were all unlike those of the boys of his age. The shirt was torn- yet it held, in it- a small bundle, which he held close over his upper abdomen- his prize!

"Didn't you get any? Here.. Take some..", said Simiyon and offered me a few of those coconut pieces! He gladly shared his prize, with me.

A hero is someone who inspires. Kind, helpful and efficient - the one, everyone looks up to! Simiyon, I could tell, was one. His bright eyes- always looked for new paths to tread, new tasks to try. Often, between classes, he told me stories of his “work”.

“Giving shape to a piece of wood”- he would say. “You would see the shape grow in front of your eyes- it’s as though you create! Like God”! He would say. “Fetching the fallen vessels from the bottom of the well…”! I would ask him- in wonder- “But how would you go into the well? Aren’t you afraid? My granny says, there are ghosts down into the well”! “Afraid?” he would reply, “Why should I be? It’s a very simple job! And believe me; I have been there many times. There are no ghosts. Besides- the well is a step closer to Earth. Don’t you feel so”? I remember very well- how I could not sit for a week, after I was beaten up by father for trying to get down our well!

A pocket full of coins! A rarity. A symbol of richness. Especially for a school boy. When he showed me a hand full of coins, I could not help but wonder at his achievement. Simiyon was my Hero! He said he “worked”. He can do anything. He can be anything! I remember the autumn fair- in my village that year. I was a crying little boy- named Krishna, craving for the unaffordable sweets and cotton candies! And there he was- actually selling them! I secretly prayed that night- “Oh God! When I grow up, I want to be like Simiyon”!

May be it was my thoughts- that had outlined my life. Limiting my transformation- to an atom! Thoughts have been my hobby! I used to wonder, what he sought. I used to ask him- what he wanted to be. “Oh.. Many things..”, he’d say, smiling. “How can you be many things? You can be just one thing”, I would say. I wanted to prove, at times, that I can be impressive to him. But he’d just say- “Oh yes, you can be”! Just that. Nothing else.

Years had re-written my life into the pages of the city. A life I had not imagined back then as a small boy. A life away from all my friends- yet a life that gave me new friends, a better education, a job and a new family! But I wanted to look back- see the reflections of a boy Krishna, whom I had left behind. And last summer…

Simiyon knew me the moment he saw me. His eyes reflected the same joy as mine. He was just the same. Dark- yet his eyes sparkling like diamonds- beads of sweat upon his forehead. Yet, his wrinkles could pass him for an older man. His face was that of a man who had endured wrath of the Time. A family to support and money scarce- he worked round the clock- on jobs, countless. The hero in him lived, still young- though I realized that this time, it was my eyes that failed to see the hero in him.

Heroes- I realized for the first time- are a fantasy that kept human minds alive. My present eyes saw him as a kaleidoscope. An ever-changing pattern of colourful images, blurring the eyes with beauty beyond imagination when seen in light. Yet, deep down, they are, but broken pieces of glass. Heroes are just the same. The big screen shows only the white. No Black, no Grey.

I needed the eyes of a little boy named Krishna, whom I had left behind, long ago- on the sand and rocks of a small yet beautiful village. I had left him behind, hoping that he’d live there, forever- unblemished by the burning rays of a stubborn rat race. He, I knew would certainly to see things the way they are- uncontaminated by the ego of intelligence. I looked into his eyes and tried to see my friend again, to see him in the light, to see my lost hero, my Simiyon.

PS: Picture courtesy- Thank you Google!