Gram Banglar Pujo; Bhandarhati

Pujo maney thakur dekha….raat jege thakur dekha…line diye thakur dekha….

Durga Pujo is synonymous with pandal hopping and staying up the whole night visiting pandals. But, these days I seemed to have had enough of this pandal hopping. The traffic snarls in Kolkata, the long queues, trudging kilometers on foot is no longer a good idea. And, after staying up the whole night, the next day is spent in a haze of lethargy!Also with various awards and competitions, Pujo in Kolkata has become highly competitive, studded with celebrities and quite artificial. But, I do appreciate the skill of the artisans, the theme of the Puja and the wonders that they create.

So these days, we run away from the city during Durga Pujo. We run away into the rural interiors of Bengal which is known as ‘Rarh Bangla’. Therein lies the true spirit of Pujo; a proper Dhaaki who has the sense of taal and loy and doesn’t beat or sway to meaningless Bollywood numbers, more emphasis on the customs that make the Pujo grand and yes the ‘Bhuribhoj’. 

It was a couple of years ago that we chanced upon one such Pujo during our adventures in ‘Rarh Bangla’.
 

2009: We were the proud parents of a baby boy. Pujo Dorshon in Kolkata was ruled out that year. Ashtami morning we stepped out in search of a Pujo with a ‘distinct flavor’. Cruising down the National Highway towards Burdwan, we decided it was time for a ‘chai break’. As we sat down for some ‘cha-biskoot’, we learnt from the ‘cha-ala’ about a ‘bonedi barir’ Durga Puja (belonging to the aristocracies) in Bhandarhati, a village 1.5 hours away from Bardhaman.

Driving past lush green fields, mud houses, Anganwadi centres and Panchayat offices we reached this nondescript village. Many years back this village was ruled by the Chowdhury’s, the Zamindars of the area. The Choudhury’s are still there and are a highly revered family. 

The Pujo was started 195 years ago by the Chowdhury patriarch. Today there are two Chowdhury’s in the village who are siblings but, markedly different in their tastes and way of life. While one lives in the ‘shohor’ (city) and has adopted the city way of life, the other has chosen to stay back in the village and embrace all the villagers as his kin. The former has a huge house from the bygone era, which leads the way to the Pujo mandap. His house is opulent and well-maintained. The driveway to his house remains crowded with luxury cars. It’s known in the village that this Chowdhury babu entertains ‘only shohurey’ (city - bred) guests during Durga Puja.

The other babu whose name is Dhiren Chowdhury is just the opposite. Bare bodied and clad in a simple, white dhuti, he is the epitome of simplicity and humility. It is this Chowdhury babu who has continued with the age-old tradition of celebrating the Bhandarhati Pujo. He has chosen Bhandarhati as his home and stayed back to maintain what his forefathers left for him. Despite various hurdles, mainly financial, he has tried his best to maintain the Durga mandap and the Pujor dalan on his own. His quarters are adjacent to the Pujo mandap. They also date back to many years and lack the show and grandeur of the other ‘babu’s residence.
 

Utter strangers, we were given a very warm welcome by Dhiren babu. He served us fol proshaad (fruits offered to the Goddess) and took us on a tour of the Pujo mandap and the dalan, all the while regaling us with stories of the Zamindari system. That year the Ashtami Pujo had been completed in the early hours of the morning while Shondhi Pujo was scheduled to happen at the usual late hours of the night. Hence the gate to Ma Durga’s mandap was locked. The heavy grill gate prevented any view of the Goddess. But Dhiren babu ignored the norm and threw open the gates for us. On hearing that we had a newborn baby with us, he acted as the purohit and did an ‘abhishekh’ in front of the Goddess. His pronunciation of the mantras, the bass of his voice and the purity of his attire is something which remains firmly engraved in my mind for ever. 

The most striking aspect of this Pujo besides the historical touch is the Goddess herself. Decked up in gold (Known as the ‘Shonaar shaaj’), she is a beauty, you would keep on gazing at. Devoid of any of those wonders in the city, she is simple, divine and beautiful. Adorned in traditional jewellery, she is a glorious sight. The unique feature about this Goddess is that she doesn’t have an Asura. Mahishashur and the lion are absent. White and ethereal, there is no violence depicted here.  The Goddess appears in her ‘borabhoy’ (non-violence) avatar. 

Another interesting feature is the bhog offered to the Goddess. It is ‘aamish bhog’ (non-vegetarian). It is mandatory to serve the Goddess a variety of preparation in fish besides various kinds of vegetables, dal, shukto, labra,chutney and payesh. While the members of the household sat down for the feast in the Pujo dalan, the villagers (proja) sat down in the shed that leads to the mandap. Women of the household, bejeweled with traditional heavy ornaments and clad in red sat down with us. The beautiful women in red and gold were a sight I would never forget. You can mention any kind of traditional Bengali jewellery and they had it on them.

I would recommend this Pujo to all if you want a way out from the cacophony of the city. But, yes there is a big BUT! This is a ‘ghoroa’ pujo. They are not commercial. If you decide to participate in their Pujo, do get an introduction from me, offer a dakshina which would be a donation for the Pujo and please do not travel in a large group.

My little miracle man; Ganpati Bappa Moraiya

My paternal grandfather passed away leaving behind the huge house and the pond to his two sons. As per his wishes, the house was divided amongst my father and my uncle, while the pond is co-owned by them. 

Hatipukur

Known as Hatipukur (the elephant pond), it is quite large in comparison to the other ponds in the area. Regarding its name there are various theories floating around. The lane around this pond is also known by the same name. Baba believes that Burdwan, with its rich legacy of kings and architecture has many historical places scattered around. He thinks that this pond might have belonged to the Raja of Burdwan and was used for his elephants. Hence, the name Hatipukur. This theory, in fact, corresponds with the other stories pertaining to the lakes and ponds in Burdwan. We have a ‘shuli pukur’ in Burdwan where the convicts were punished. The convicts were impaled on the ‘Trishul’ planted on the pond. Hence from the term ‘shuley chorano’ (impaling them on the shul) comes the name ‘shuli pukur’! 

This pond which is considered sacred by our family has over the years become the garbage disposal area for the locality. People from the adjoining neighborhoods dump their daily household waste on the bathing ghats. It’s strange that while ‘sraddho’ and immersions still take place, the same people dump human excreta in the pond. Many a time we have seen carcasses of animals floating in the pond despite the fact that the locals are aware how passionate my father is about the pond. Once I remember seeing ragged dolls floating in the water. Curious I picked them up. The dolls were burnt beyond recognition and had pins sticking out from all parts of their body. Mallika Mashi had shouted at me to drop the doll and rush to the Mandir to seek blessings of the Lord. Little did I know that someone was practicing Black Magic in the neighborhood. Well, no matter what kind of rubbish it was, my septuagenarian father made it a point to clear them, trying his best to preserve what his father had left to him. 

It was one such morning, when the pond was full with the remnants of idols immersed the night before. Baba and Buro, our helper from a nearby village, had been busy since morning fishing them out and setting them on fire. It had been raining since morning and the ghat was slippery. Baba noticed a black polythene packet lying on the edge of the ghat. Despite sticking notices on the ghat, forbidding  people from throwing poly packs, no one cared. They made it a point to dump waste after dark or in the wee hours of the morning when they knew we would be in our bed. The sight of this black poly pack annoyed Baba and he raged how polythene was ruining the pond and the fishes. Buro was immediately dispatched to remove the packet. But it lay on the slope that led to the water. With heavy rain since the last few days and with our ‘notorious’ neighbor blocking the drainage, the water in the pond had gone up to dangerous levels. It was not safe for Buro to get into the water. There were snakes too. And they could be venomous. If not venomous they can bite off flesh! After repeated attempts at pulling up the sack, Baba and Buro gave up. The packet remained there for many days. Baba would look at it, sigh and curse his helplessness. 

In the next few days monsoon was on her way out. The ‘notorious’ neighbor had been cautioned by the police not to block the drain. And the water had gone down. Baba was pleased that he could now get his fishing rod on the black poly bag. But the bag proved to be quite bulky for a fishing rod. Buro was sent for. He clambered down the steps of the bathing ghat and descended into the dense undergrowth which now hid the bag. But the muck and the water made it impossible for him to lift up the bag. Another boy was sent to help him. Finally with a whoop of delight, the bag was free. The packet was slit to reveal a huge idol of Ganesha in black stone. Never have we seen such artistry. Never have we seen such a fine carving. We were delighted. Ma was surprised and excited that the Ganesha had found its way to our house. But our Purohit advised us to keep it away from us. A Ganesha which has been immersed in the water should not be retrieved. It might bring us bad luck, is what he declared. After much deliberation, the beautiful idol went back into the pond. 

Our miracle man

But we never forgot him. Months went by. Years took their toll on the pond. I was married and had come home to consult a physician. After many years of marriage I was still childless. Thamma had left us after a prolonged and painful battle with cancer. My sister was also home. In a fit of rage she had quit her job. She spent all her hours sitting in front of the computer submitting her resume to various firms. Baba had gotten older and was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain the pond. Ma spent all her time cooking or worshiping. If she was not in the kitchen we knew she would be in the Mandir. There was a strange sense of disquiet in the family. We were all trapped in our own miseries silently crying out for help.  

It was a crisp, wintry morning. That morning was no different than the rest. Baba had just come back from his morning walk and was having his second round of tea. Ma was out in the garden plucking flowers for her pujo. I had just woken up feeling queasy. I decided that the rich mutton curry I had last night is the culprit! Sister was still sleeping having burnt the midnight oil checking mails. Somehow it seemed like the ‘calm before the storm’. I had a premonition. Something was going to happen which would change us forever. I dashed downstairs with a cry only to be met with a longer, shriller cry. That was Ma. She was there somewhere in the garden. The snakes, I mumbled to myself as I rushed out towards the bathing ghat. Baba had also heard her for he came out running from the living room. 

It was a strange sight. Ma stood in the garden motionless. Her ‘shaada-laal perey’ sari (white sari with a red border) billowed in the breeze. The flowers that she had plucked with care lay scattered around her. I remember shaking her and calling out to her. ‘Ma, Ma’! But my mother refused to react. I looked at Baba who stood equally bewildered. After a while Ma raised her trembling fingers, motioning me to look at something. I followed her gaze. 

The Ganesha was back. He sat under the mango tree. It looked as if someone with great care had hoisted him out of the water and placed him under the shelters of the tree. It was a sight indeed. The mango leaves and flowers plucked by Ma lay around him. Unknowingly Ma had offered her first Pujo to him.

This is a moment which is etched in my mind forever. There is no logic that can explain how this huge piece of stone had resurfaced. Nothing can explain how after so many years it had come to rest under the mango tree. Well, certain things are inexplicable! 

Ma and Baba carried the idol into the house. Keeping in mind the Purohit’s warnings the Ganesha did not find a place in the Mandir or the pujo room. He stood high on a wooden shelf in our living room. He stood at a vantage point so that whoever visited us would have his darshan first. It is mandatory that the first pick of the day has to go to him. 

In contrary to the Purohit’s prediction, no bad luck visited us that day. The next morning I came down with severe fatigue and nausea. Weakness, is what the compounder suggested. But I knew better than that. The pink blot proved my hunch. I would be a mother soon. The day passed in a haze as phone calls went around informing all about ‘the good news’. Ma had skipped the kitchen and her pujo and seemed in no hurry to end her telecom with Dadima. Baba had spent the day listening to music and smiling to himself. After many years the house was again throbbing with energy. I wished my little sister had her share of good news too. After an early lunch, we retired for our afternoon siesta, when the rude calling bell awakened us. It was a courier for my sister. Trembling in anticipation, we hovered around her waiting for her to open it. It was her appointment letter to a prestigious job. 

That evening we sat down thinking of how our life had changed in a day. Too many miracles in a span of twenty four hours! Too difficult to soak it in. 

Yes our Ganesha brought us luck and has been doing so since then! I am a proud mother today. My sister has scaled heights to become a Director of the organization which employed her. Ma spends more time designing saris. Baba has lesser troubles managing his assets and controlling the ‘notorious’ neighbor.

Ek Do Teen Char...Ganpati Ki Jai Jai Kaar..!!!
Chaar Paanch Che Saat..Ganpati aaya hamare Saath..!!!
Ganpati bappa Morya..!!!

Taaler goppo with Dida

Dida; Didishashuri; My grandmother-in-law

Janmashtami is around the corner. In every Bangali household ‘Janmashtami manei Taal’ (Janmashtami and Taal are synonymous). And Taal always brings back fond memories of a very special person in my life. It takes me back to those days when I was still a new bride.

My grandmother-in-law was alive when I got married. But we met when I had been married for a year. I had heard stories of her beauty, her personality and the way she had brought up her children.

I met her when she was well past 90. I was extremely scared of the whole idea of meeting her. Well…I was only 26 then! These days girls get married as late as 34 while I had gotten married at 25! Unimaginable isn’t it?

She lived in a village called Saraihat which is a few hours away from Malda in West Bengal. This was the place where she had shifted after marriage and had started her 'shongshar'.

We reached Saraihat around 9am after a tiresome journey and made our way to my husband’s ancestral home place in a white Ambassador car sent by one of the uncles. Throughout our drive, children followed us shouting ‘notun bou esheche’ (the new bride has come). People looked around twice to check out the new 'naat bou' (granddaughter-in-law)in the car. Once in a while the car would be stopped to get a better view of the 'naat bou'. The 'naat bou', that’s me, had by then shrunk into one corner of the car, gradually growing uncomfortable with all the attention and curiosity around. Finally we reached our destination.

I could hear from outside a shrill voice barking orders at everyone inside. Images from many a Bengali movie flashed across my mind. They were mostly of old, wizened grandmothers-in-law driving their young granddaughters-in-law to hell. I wondered why had I ever agreed to visit my husband’s ancestral place. I cursed myself for expressing my curiosity. I wanted to slap that tiny voice inside me…that tiny voice which had often reminded me that I should go and pay my respects to my husband’s grandmother.

Well, now that I had reached, there was no turning back.

Gathering up all my courage and the 'pallu' securely over my head, I fell in step with the husband and followed him like the dutiful, obedient wife.

I saw her. She was thin. She was frail. Stooped with age, she sat in a high wooden chair bent at an odd angle. Her hair was shorn till her scalp could be seen. There were patches on her scalp indicating the clumps which had been shaved off unevenly.

Nowhere could I see traces of the luxuriant hair I had heard about from my mother-in-law. A fly kept bothering her while her nearly sightless eyes tried in vain to shoo it off. A mere shooing of the fly seemed to take away all her energy. This was the woman I had been scared off. This was the woman who had once been celebrated for her beauty and hair. I felt ashamed of myself, of my fears! I realized how age works on one! This could very well be my future some day.

She must have sensed our entry for she turned around to look at us. The moment I looked at those grey eyes, I lost control of myself and rushed to embrace her. Probably this was the first time in many years she had been shown such affection. She stilled for a while. I think she was surprised and quite bewildered. She looked at me for long. She then traced my chin with her unsteady, bony fingers and clasped them tightly. And then she cried. She cried for long. I remember sitting there for a long time holding her tightly while she cried. I weaved my fingers through her bare head thinking of those luxuriant tresses that had adorned her once. She looked so helpless and old.

We were there for two nights. For two days she sang so many songs, she would break into whoops of joy, she told me so many stories about Dadu. Wish I had written them down somewhere. They are so precious!

One evening I remember my uncle-in-law had got taal for us. She must have seen it for she burst into a song 'Taal er bora kheye Nondo nache re/digbaaji khai chele gulo mathai taal niye. Ke dekhbi ai re. Ke dekhbi ai re.’ She kept on singing the song while the sap was extracted, 'taaler bora' made and served to all.

We left the next day. That was the last time we met her. June 25, 2008 while I was celebrating my grandfather’s birthday I got a call informing me that we had lost Dida. She was free at last, free of all the pain and suffering.

She is gone but every Janmashtami and with every taal that I bring home I still hear her singing…’ Taal er bora kheye Nondo nache re/digbaaji khai chele gulo mathai taal niye. Ke dekhbi ai re. Ke dekhbi ai re.

What memories do you have of Taal or Janmashtami? Do share them so that I can share with all who read my blog/page.

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!!