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!!