The Call of the Jasmine

Last year, this time, I remember, we were going around this small town looking for the perfect, cozy house to shift in. I had with me two days, by which I had to look at all the houses shortlisted by the agent, finalize the deal and return home to complete the process of relocation.

It was a hot and sunny afternoon with the sun being relentless with its shine. A bottle of Fanta and some water kept us hydrated as we moved from one part of the town to another looking for the ideal house. By 4.30pm we had seen three houses including an apartment, but none had impressed us. The sun had already begun its wayward journey, relinquishing most of its shine and taking on a reddish, golden hue, while I and the boy drooped at the back seat, too tired and exhausted! All my excitement and thrill of shifting into this beautiful place had faded as I realized that I had very limited choices left now.

The next two houses disappointed us and I decide to give up! We decided to sit by the Koel river for some solace before we headed towards our hotel.

It was 5.30pm when we left the riverside. The sun had already set. There was a power cut (which I found out later is a daily ritual. The power goes for two hours in the morning and for an hour in the evening) and this side of the town was engulfed in darkness. Tiny lights emanated from the little halogen lamps lit by the roadside kiosks. Oil lamps lit the mud huts strewn around the road. From far I could hear the steady beats of Madol (a wooden drum played by the tribals).

The driver maneuvered the car through the narrow lanes but kept getting lost in the maze. Finally he gave up and asked a paanwala for some help. One last try, I decided! I enquired the paanwala about the availability of any rented house in the neighborhood. He sounded very curious as he wanted to know where we had come from. Hearing Kolkata, his face lit with a huge smile. He promptly shut the shop, got into the front seat and gave the driver some directions. After a couple of minutes we reached another lane, much wider than the narrow ones we had been lost in. Lined on both sides of the lane were big villas which are unthinkable in Kolkata.

The car screeched to a halt in front of an old, rusty gate. But nothing could be seen from the road. A huge tree blocked all view from the road. Another disappointment! There was no point in looking at another dilapidated structure hidden by trees and dense undergrowth. I refused to get down. But the husband had already stepped out. He seemed oblivious to my grumbling. Even the little one, who is otherwise an obedient child, was already out, standing behind his father looking around. Well, I had no option, but to get out!

I remember rolling down the window, opening the door and getting out. The moment my feet touched the ground, I was hit by an extremely sweet fragrance which seemed to take over my whole body and mind. Something made me walk to my husband and child. We stood for long staring at the tree and what lay behind it. Somewhere the tiny voice inside told me not to proceed. But I couldn’t ignore the pull. Yes, there was something that was pulling us towards it. Ahh, the sweet fragrance! I have smelled it before, many years back, when I was just a child. I looked up to find that my boy had by then managed to remove the lock and get in. We moved in a trance, climbing one step after the other to reach a wide terrace. The terrace was filled with the overpowering fragrance. Bright, yellow flowers were strewn everywhere. It seemed we had disrupted someone trying to collect the flowers. I picked up one of them, smelled it and yes I was right. It was Jasmine! No wonder the surroundings are filled with its heady fragrance!

My three-year old found a little mug and filled it with the jasmine flowers he had found on the floor. The excitement of picking up flowers and counting them was evident on that little face. He reminded me of my days when I was a child too. The Kalboishakhi (Norwester) was always terrifying but I loved the aftermath of a Kalboishakhi. Picking up mangoes, counting them and competing with the ‘para’ (neighborhood) friends was always a delightful experience.

By the time the landlord arrived with the keys it was pitch dark. I was getting scared of the insects and snakes lurking in the dark. The villa seemed unkempt and ill-maintained. The landlord, a tired-looking man in his fifties, looked quite startled. He bombarded us with many questions. ‘Where are you from’, ‘How did you get to know about his house’, ‘how long do you plan to stay here’ were some of the many questions he asked us. All this while, he kept us waiting in the dark and showed no inclination in opening up the house. Irritated and tired beyond words, I took over the keys and opened the lock. But the lock refused to open. The shopkeeper decided to go back and get us a hammer to break the lock. Lights from our cell phone were all that we had. We were about to give up when the lock decided to have some mercy on us! The electricity also came in at that juncture.

It was a beautiful house, just the one we had in our mind. A huge balcony for us to sit and sip ‘chai’, big, cozy rooms for us and the child, a tiny corner segregated to house all the deities…it was perfect for my little family!

We did not waste time. We finalized the rent which turned out to be quite a meager amount for such a beautiful,spacious house and decided to move in by the next weekend. The landlord who had been irritable and annoyed, seemed too lost for words. I had remarked ‘lokter mukh banglar pancher moton keno’? (Why does his face resemble the Bengali numerical 5?) He should have been happy that he had found a tenant. He should have smiled when we accepted his terms and agreement. He should have smiled when my boy offered him a Jasmine flower. Instead the man had shrunk away from the boy, had stood in one corner shaking and chattering! I thought that he must be having a heart attack. We made him sit on the floor, offered him some water and escorted him home.

That night we had a fitful sleep. I had beautiful dreams of the house and the beautiful Jasmine tree filled with flowers. My boy woke up next morning demanding some jasmine flowers to carry home. To my surprise, the flowers that he had collected the day before, were still fresh and emanated the fragrance that had taken over us.

Life from thereon was haze of activity. We went back to Kolkata, organized our belongings, shifted to this small town in a span of ten days. All this while the memories of Jasmine and her fragrance kept us company. Settling down in this place took some time. We missed our apartment in Kolkata, our friends and parents. But this little house, with its terrace and balcony kept my child very happy and the mother very content.

Few months later after we had settled in and put the child in a play school, I realized that I had made no friends. The landlord and his wife maintained some distance which is quite common in small towns. ‘Tenants are not to be mingled with’, is what I have heard during my stay earlier. Mothers in my boy’s school watched me from a distance. My smiles were never reciprocated. My invitations for kid’s party were rejected. There was always some excuse or the other. The neighbor’s seemed to avoid me. My husband cajoled me that it was all in my mind. But I couldn’t be so wrong.

Finally one day I chanced upon another Bengali lady, an octogenarian who welcomed me into her home. She reminded me so much of my maternal grandmother. I finally had a friend and a well-wisher in this unfriendly land! One evening I dropped in at her house to find her in the company of another elderly lady. During our conversation I came to know that she had lost her husband recently. She was well past ninety but had thick, black hair which could put any young woman to shame. Her bottle-green sari was in stark contrast to her exquisite complexion. Her huge eyes had a steely look which one couldn’t bear to stand for long. She sat talking to me while her white, frail fingers continued counting the beads on her neck. It was an uncomfortable conversation. Before taking leave of her, she wanted to know my house number. I mentioned. She grew still. She asked me again. Thinking that she might be hard of hearing, I proclaimed once again. Her fingers stilled.

‘Is it that house which has the Jasmine tree’?  She asked me.

The unease which I had been experiencing for long grew. ‘The house has a Jasmine tree’, I mumbled.

‘Do you know what happened there’? I couldn’t bear to look at her anymore. I knew she was about to say something which would snatch away my peace for ever!!

She went on, ‘You should have done some homework on that house my dear! That tree is not a good omen. That tree has brought ill luck to all the occupants of the house’.

Then she went on to tell me sad stories about the house. She told me how an  young couple moved out after the heavily pregnant woman mysteriously fell off the terrace while trying to pluck Jasmine flowers, how the landlords father who lived there many years back had his eyes damaged by a branch of the tree, how a little boy committed suicide by hanging himself from its branches. And she ended her long discourse saying that the house is ‘cursed’! It’s the ‘curse of the Jasmine’!

I returned home scared and disoriented. Tell me who wants to live in a house which has so many sad memories associated with it. But I had no options. There were not many houses available on rent. Nor were all localities safe for a lone woman and her child.

I was frightened. Oh yes, those stories did scare me. I would never want to jeopardize the safety of my little family. But, as I said, there were no options.

Savitri Ma, my old tribal mausi who helps me with the household chores says that it was destiny that brought us here. The call of the Jasmine is tough to ignore. The only Jasmine tree in this locality, she bears flowers throughout the year. But she always warns people about the danger looming overhead. She sheds all her shoots and flowers when there is ill luck lurking around. Once peace and balance is restored, she starts bearing new buds. The fragrance, they say, gets stronger when good luck shines down.

My Jasmine tree did shed all her shoots and flowers when the woman fell off the terrace. She stood bare when the old man was pierced in the eye. She was stark when the boy died. Since then she had stopped bearing flowers. The house was branded as ‘cursed’ and left to the mercy of nature and insects.

My Mausi says that all of a sudden the tree started bearing flowers which heralded good news. Well, we followed in soon. After we shifted in, one fine February morning I woke up to find the tree bare. Gone were all the buds and the flowers. Silent prayers calmed me while my Mausi kept ranting that something was about to happen. She got some scented herbs from her community priest and hung it in the entrance. The evening brought with it the news of a family member’s accident. Strange it may seem to you, but the next morning when we were ready to leave for the station I found a freshly bloomed Jasmine hanging from a branch. My Mausi’s parting words were ‘The tree blesses you Ma. Your dangers are gone’. Yes the family member recovered miraculously and we were back in a week.

The tree started losing it bloom in April. Mausi kept warning me. Well I could do nothing. The last flower fell off on a very hot April afternoon. Ma called to tell me that I was about to lose a very precious person in my life. The buds started falling off. And I knew the wait would be over soon. As the clock kept ticking away, I maintained a steady vigil over my Jasmine tree. She lost all her buds on a May morning. I ran down the stairs to collect the bud as one last hope. But the phone rang to tell me that the wait was over finally. She was gone. I lost her.

The women in the neighborhood have built a circular platform around the tree. Every evening they come in groups and light Diyas praying that she continues bearing flowers. Every morning the women gather around the tree to observe the flowers and revel in its glory.

I know this is a strange note I am writing. But this is what the locals believe and I have witnessed it. I still refuse to believe in the curse but my Mausi urges me to accept the truth. She insists that I light a Diya every dusk and sing praises for Jasmine.

Since last week I have started lighting a Diya! No, not for Jasmine! But for the unborn child who died in a freak accident, the man who lost his eyesight and died soon after and the little boy who ended his life untimely.

I pluck flowers every morning despite the protests of the women around. I put them on a thali and offer them in remembrance to those who had lived here once. May they find peace!!

Small Town Chronicles; My Little Potter friend

We shifted from Kolkata to Rourkela in September and by October 1, 2012 all my possessions from the Kolkata house had arrived. Then began the arduous task of opening the cartons and putting my house in shape. It was tough with a three year old and no support at home. Every night before going to bed I would flip through the master list, strike off the ones that I had opened and mark in red the ones I would open the next morning. Mornings would begin early with a cup of chai and cookies followed by a light breakfast of cornflakes and milk. Lunch would be a simple affair of Maggi and fruit juice. Well that’s the most I managed with all the unopened cartons looming around me.

I started with the cartons for one room, opened them, set the room in a shape and then moved to the next. After having finished setting up the kitchen, it was now the turn for the master bedroom. I set to task immediately after breakfast with the boy busy with his Thomas, the engine. But repeated wails from him prevented further progress. The reason - a fly bothering him! Okay, so I shooed it off but it came back again and again pestering him. So I moved the child to another corner. Well, seems it was my turn then! The fly was back with full vengeance, circling around me, flying low, just above my head and it was getting quite irksome. I gave it up for a lunch break.  After the meal the boy went off to sleep while I decided to make the most of it. But, no! The fly was back again. This time it managed to bother the sleeping child and me as well. Thoroughly exasperated with the fly, the humidity taking its toll and fatigue setting in I bunched up some loose papers to strike the little pest. 

The wasp at work

It fell flat on my bed motionless. It was then that I had a long look at it. Ahh, it’s not what I thought…I mean not a fly! More like a wasp. You know the ones we call ‘bolta’ in Bengali. Longish and thin, they are red in color, they are ferocious little creatures and they sting very hard. Bolta took me back to one of the quips by my brother-in-law. I was 13 years old then. My newly married brother-in-law had asked me ‘tum bolta ko kya bolta hai?’(What do you call a bolta?) I had no reply and I did not know what to say. Well he had served me the answer,‘Hum bolta ko bolta bolta hai’. (I call a Bolta a bolta). It’s the multiple use of the word ‘bolta’ and the way Bengalis pronounce it that we find it funny! 

Another shot of my friend

Coming back to my little friend…it was lying motionless on the bed making me feel very guilty. After all it had become my companion on all these lonely, dreary afternoons. It spared me further guilt by suddenly fluttering its wings and flying out. No sting nothing! It came after a few minutes again and did not sting me but just hovered around my head, revolved around my son and then went on to sit on the window sill. I got busy with my work but I did count the number of times the little thing flew in.

The next morning while opening the window I noticed a clump of mud stuck firmly on the window sill. By the time I came back with the broom my friend had already made an entry. And I found it sitting on that very clump of mud. Now that was interesting. Stealthily I moved closer. The little wasp was holding between its legs a clump of mud which was wet and which it deposited on the older, hardened clump.

Done with the deposit it flew out, came back again with some more which it deposited again. This went on throughout the day while I kept a vigil on the progress. I managed to keep myself and the child out of its way lest it gets disturbed and decides to stop further activity.

By the end of the day, my little friend had created a round heap of mud which resembled an earthen pot. The round heap narrowed down into a tiny, circular opening at the top. The next morning I found that my friend was early, had sealed the opening and was busy building another storey on its top. Evening saw the completion of this layer and a hole left at the top.  Next morning I found my friend flying in. It seemed a bit off-balanced and had lost its sense of direction. It kept on hitting the curtains which hung around the windows or the window ledge. Closer inspection left me astounded. It was holding on to a green caterpillar which was twice its size and weight. After many an attempt the wasp managed to squeeze the caterpillar inside the unsealed hole that it had left on the second layer. She returned with some more mud and sealed off the layer. The next day saw her building another layer to the whole structure and then sealing it off with some more worms. 

The green caterpillar brought by the wasp

This whole affair was new to me. I had never seen such a wasp before and she took most of my time in those early days showing me her creative side. Perfectly built and symmetrical the nests were a wonder.

Later I got to know from my mother that they are known as ‘Kumirey poka’ in Bengali, ‘Kumhar’ In Hindi and Oriya and Potter Wasps in English. No wonder their skills are comparable to a human potter. They secrete a liquid which wets the mud lying around and moulds them into the kind of dough that they want. And they paralyze the caterpillars by stinging them. Otherwise how can a tiny wasp manage a caterpillar double/triple its size? To add on to this, they are harmless. They do not sting. I disturbed mine so many times but she never stung me or my child. Such interesting and magnificent creatures they are.

My mother also mentioned to me that visits of a ‘kumirey poka’ are considered auspicious amongst the Bengalis. It’s usually a harbinger of good luck. Households with no child consider it to be a signal of the arrival of a little one. And it’s sacrilegious to break/destroy such a nest. It’s bound to bring bad luck to the destroyer.

The three-storeyed nest about to be sealed

To add a note as an epilogue my friend had built two more nests in my house. They all remained intact for the next three months. One fine day I found tiny holes on each of those layers. The eggs that she had laid had all hatched, the larva had fed on the worms and caterpillars its mother had stocked for it, grown its wings and had then flown away. I have removed those nests and kept them carefully as display in my living room. No not for the fear of bad luck! Interesting and magnificent, such great works of art they are! I have kept their nests in a nicely decorated plate and show it off to people who visit me. Not a day goes by that guests do not appreciate my friend’s skills! This year I am still eagerly awaiting her arrival. Will let you know when she comes in!

Small Town Chronicles; Du chaakar goppo

The alarm goes off sharp at 4.30am. It rings on for another five minutes till Bhaiya shouts from the next room to shut it. Eyes tightly shut; she swings her hand towards the bed rest above her head, gropes for her cell phone and resets the alarm. It’s become a habit. Days of resetting the alarm has ensured that she no longer needs her eyes to guide her.

The alarm goes off again after twenty minutes and before Bhaabi storms in with her angry outburst Rama shuts it off. Studying till late in the night, waking up the next morning is a tough ordeal for her. This time she has her eyes open. No, she cannot rest the alarm anymore! She is already late by fifteen minutes which means she would have to skip breakfast today.

In twenty minutes she is ready and out of the house, catches the first ‘shared’ auto that plies on the road and is off to the TVS showroom in Old Rourkela.

Thus begins another tedious day in Rama’s life!

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My instructor with her Scooty

Atypical of most small towns, two wheelers rule the city. Convenient to ride around, enough mileage and easy on the pocket they are the best means of travel here.

There are autos and they are expensive. An auto solely ‘reserved’ for a passenger costs a minimum of Rs 50 while an auto in a ‘share’ mode (sharing it with other passengers) costs a minimum of Rs 5 per head. A small auto accommodates three at the back and two at the front excluding the driver while a bigger one accommodates six-seven at the back and three at the front. Well not all routes are covered by ‘share’ autos. Rickshaws are a rare sight while buses are so full that it renders impossible for people like us to board.  

Shops scattered far and wide, long stretches of desolate roads, groups of boys lurking about in dark corners, men gawking at a young mother and her child, extreme weather conditions and I decide ‘ No I just can’t walk around! I need a Scooty.’ The last time I had ridden a Scooty was some fifteen years ago when I was much younger. I would leave the house in a helmet and the moment Ma would be out of sight, I would stop, remove it, dangle it from the handle and off I would go at high speed, turning sharp corners at an impossible speed. Such was my spirit then! Well, not every day this would go as planned. Baba would often catch me in a race with my college mates, riding at a high speed without helmet. The punishment was unavoidable. No two-wheeler for a week! Instead I had to cycle to college.  What a blow to my zealously guarded prestige!

Well coming back to the present, age and years of lack of practice has robbed me off the confidence of riding a two-wheeler. And now I am no longer a young girl out to impress the world around. But a mature woman, who is also a mother and has a steadfast companion in her four-year old boy. That adventurous streak, the zeal and the fervor I was so proud of has now been replaced with fear, worry and anxiety. 

It was at this juncture when I was vacillating between the need to buy a two-wheeler and the fear of riding one that my landlord introduced me to the ‘Scooty School’. The Scooty school, an initiative by the TVS Company organizes training classes for all those who wish to learn two-wheelers.  And that’s how I met Rama, the Scooty instructor. We chatted over the phone and with some difficulty I got myself fitted into the 6am slot. Well on an average she has some six-seven students every day. 

The next day sharp at 6am, I find her outside my house on her Pep-Plus Scooty. I had in my mind a plump woman of my age. Well it was a big surprise! Young and slim, her face concealed by a snuff colored dupatta, she was a mere girl. Too young were my exact thoughts as I sat behind her and went off in search of a nice, big field for some ‘hard’ practice.

It’s a six-day course. Her classes start as early as 6am in summer. Every class is of 45 minutes. The first day is ‘know your Scooty’. It comprises of pedaling and trying to balance the weight of the vehicle. Now not everyone is familiar with the weight of such a vehicle. Many graduate from a cycle to a two-wheeler while there are some who have never cycled in their whole life and have no idea of what ‘balance’ means. For me who had driven a Moped some fifteen years ago, getting used to the weight of the Scooty was quite tedious the first day. Rama advised me before ending the class ‘Didi, raat ko soney ke time ek Paracetamol le lijiye ga. Bahut dard hoga aj’! (Sister have a pain-killer before going to bed at night as you might experience severe body ache. And she was right!!

Once the person gets a hang of the Scooty and its weight, it’s time to introduce her to other mechanics like the accelerator and speed control. 

The third day is all about riding the vehicle. Well, I had trouble in lifting my feet off the ground and keeping them on the Scooty. It was a fear of toppling over which prevented me from doing that. No soothing words from Rama helped. I kept my feet dangling so that I could drop them on the ground as and when the situation demanded. Rama finally sat behind me, held the handle from the back, controlled the accelerator and the brake all the while urging me to lift up my feet. And that’s what I concentrated on. I have no idea when or how but suddenly I had found my long-lost balance and was sitting on the Scooty with my legs firmly implanted on it. By the end of the 45-minute rigorous session Rama had ensured that I was in complete control of the vehicle.

The fourth day was another round of practice on the field involving circular motions and then sharp right turns, U-turns and left turns. The fifth and the sixth day I was on the road with Rama at the back explaining to me the traffic signals, reminding me to use the indicator, overtaking other vehicles and other important tips to be kept in mind while riding it.

The course ended and by then I and Rama were good friends.  The seventh day I had mustered enough courage to visit all the showrooms in Rourkela, opt for a test drive, purchase the favored one and ride it back home which is some 15 km’s from the showroom. 

Having lived in Kolkata for the last few years the sight of a Motor Training school in every locality or training cars in every major road is not an uncommon sight. But the concept of a two-wheeler training programme run by a reputed company is unheard of. The course is perfectly designed and reasonably priced (Rs 750/- for ^days) for a trainee to gather enough confidence. Rama adds on ‘there are many who have never cycled in their whole life. For them six days is not enough. I give them an extension of another six days.’

What really struck me the most was the young girl’s sincerity. Barely in her 20’s, she hails from a decent family where all the members have to strive hard to meet ends. Her father is an employee of the Rourkela Steel Plant and she has a brother and two sisters.  Three daughters is still a burden for a father especially in small towns like Rourkela. No matter how the world around has changed, certain taboos and customs never die away. The eldest daughter was married off early and Rama had to fight against this norm. Financial pressure, societal norms and her ambition has made her take a stance. She has always dreamt of making it big in academics, loaded with degrees and armed with a decent and respectable job. Somehow she has persuaded her father to delay her marriage by few months. Mean while she has joined TVS as an instructor and has also enrolled herself into a correspondence course in MA in Political Science. 

Her mornings in summer begin at 6am and she wraps up her morning classes by 10am before the sun gets fierce. She spends some time at the TVS showroom managing customers, talking to potential students and from 4pm onwards when the sun is on its way out she starts her evening classes which often end up at 8pm.

After dinner Rama retires into her secluded corner in her room. It’s time for her books, her chance at realizing her dreams.

 

While most girls of her age spend time roaming around with friends or watching movies, young Rama has no time for such frivolities. This young girl has a few more months to complete her education and be self-reliant. She has decided to fight back the system and realize her dreams. She is an inspiration to many young women in small towns.