"Jay!! We cant eat only faral. Let's make some pohe." I start slicing the red onions and idaho potatoes. Thoughts drift...
A blast. Damn those next door hooligans. Rassi bombs puncture my sleep at 5 am. I see the kitchen light on. The heavy thud in the head is taken over by the sweet realization of the occasion. I brush up quick, to wait in line for my turn at the ceremonial oil massage from Aai. Gentle curves of rangoli encircle the baithak (seat) and the light from a silver sanai (lamp) embellishes the oil-laden torso of my chubby brother sitting on it. He moves out for the holy bath, and I beat my father for the hot seat. I toy with the idea of lighting the laxmi bomb in the fresh dung cake a cow left in our courtyard, while mom massages my eager limbs and accidentally pokes me in the eye bringing me back to senses.
"Neel, let us make a kandil out of the Kohl box cover!" Inku rummages through the cupboard, wreaks the closet and begins the lengthy design process in the typical Inku excitement. I run to lower the flame on the burning onions...
The bath smells of fresh sandalwood soap and the royal 'utna'. Layer upon layer of fragrant ointments pile on my skin as I scrape off the remnants of previous night's firework soot. I dress up in wrinkled garments, gather my beloved fire-crackers drying up in the balcony and run off to ring my colony kids to join in the fray. Squeals of delight, pitter-patter down the steps and with the ferocity of a bull let loose; we find the safest corner in the compound to pile our crackers and the most unsafe one to light them up. A violent war with aapti bombs, ultra-pollutionistic snakes, damp chakris whizzing under everyone's feet, bright anaars blinding one's eyes and shattering blasts of laxmi and rassi bombs light up the compound. Hanging sparkling fulbajis on branches to look like flowers, throwing a lavangi with naked hand and the ultimate act: lighting a bomb in the cowdung; creativity hits the high notes! The wick burns down as everyone runs to hide from the imminent splatter. A resounding blast and the dung finds its way in the nook and corner of neighboring walls leaving a crater in its wake. As the dawn hits the skies, all leftover over fireworks and boxes are arranged in a neat pile and set on fire...
Bell screeches. Friends pour in with regional delicacies ranging from Vattu Kollam to kande pohe. Greetings galore, silver foiled diyas adorn the ledges and stairways. Everyone gather for a traditional aarti to appease the God(s) so that one can hog on the food guilt-free. Rhythm sets in.
We run back to get dressed in the finest of garments and visit the temple. Hair neatly oiled and parted, little powder-puffed faces set out to the nearest temple to seek blessings and good marks in the Unit Tests. A prayer, a pradakshina and a prasad later, we run back to soothe our rumbling tummies with tasty faral. I enter the house half-floating to the smell of fresh pohe and shankarpale, chaklis, besan ladoo, karanji and chivda. Happy faces beam at me urging me to eat my fill but I fail miserably at the task at hand. A loving hand caresses my hair and pulls my cheek and I brush it aside as I crunch on the karanjis...
The potluck paltan pounces on the food as hounds on a kill. All well-fed entities sit round in a amoebic circle to play a game or two of Mafia. The house soon turns into a fish market, with everyone testing their decibel limits on fellow villagers. Occasional punches of "Sshhh" and intermittent gasps at Rutgers' football match puncture the otherwise vibrant atmosphere. 12 am strikes and the folks decide to retire for the day. I wave and I smile as I feel a familiar wisp of air ruffle my hair and plant a good night kiss on my cheek...
The Ant Circus:
It was a seasonal affair, organized with much gusto. The first rain always managed to flood the tiny homes of the black ants and they came out from all crevices in the courtyard with swift agility. There were always these half-an-inch deep puddles which made an ideal base to set up the circus. All he needed were construction materials: bricks, stones and bridges. Four or five thick crumbling red bricks formed the stead posts with smaller stones forming intermidiate landings. These were connected by thin greenish brown tender branches which could be twisted to archways or just laid on the two platforms. Some had one of their ends dipped in water for the lucky few swimmers. He took the bigger branches and went in search of his performers: Ants and centipedes. Paper helped a lot. Scrapping a few slow ones, he dropped them off on a brick or plainly in water till they swam to the nearest brick post and joined the fray. Up a stick, around an arch, down the slope they went trying to find a way out of this small island. Some swinging branches made pretty sights when wind blew them and the ant managed to hold it for its dear tiny life. But there were some bold ones that jumped in the water, and swam to the shore. They were left alone. Winners deserve their share of success, dont they? Losers, well, they were stuck in this illusory world till the water around them dried up to make way or worse, were washed out with the next spate of heavy rain.
The Dog Naming ceremony:
Strays are an integral part of Indian streets, be it dogs or humans. But the former always found refuge in some child’s arms if it played its “cute-puppy-wags-his-tail” role well enough. He and his gang had adopted 4 such strays. And it was time to name them. So they gathered in a small park and sat in a circle. He picked up the first puppy and held it in his two outstretched arms. The poor creature rolled and licked with anticipation. He kept it on the next child’s palms and so it went on. Three rounds down, the pup was named “Pinku”. Pitoosh, Blackie, Rocky followed suit.
The Three Eye:
He and his two friends, formed the ‘Three Eye’ Investigator Agency. They had their headquarters, set up on the terrace: SAP1, the water tank: SAP2; SAP being the initials of the trio. They had a small pouch with all the emergency stuff packed in. Lemon Juice in Eardrop bottle, for invisible ink. Chilli powder in a Vicks bottle, for attackers. Small pieces of paper. Pen. They also devised a new secret language. Mirror image numerals. They wrote letters to each other, smirking furiously when some outsider tried to decipher it. They followed strange men on street to their houses, till they were sure that the person had no evil intention in his mind. Yes, it was always “his”. They learnt some smart moves too, like pinching the offender on his softest spot on the body with fingernails, kicking him in the shins. They learnt to cry out “Fire” instead of “Help” when in trouble. They read somewhere that it sounds more believable and urgent. If only the RAW found out about the budding agents in their tow, the engineering community wouldn’t have had to sufferfrom the burden, would it?
Ganesh Chaturthi celebration:
The mandap: 3 pieces of cardboards torn out of old notebooks arranged against the wall in the corner. The floor wearing the carpet of small green gulmohar tree leaves. A soapcase for the pandal/stage. A small lamp at the side with a grandma-made cotton wick wet with oil. A small halad/kunku kundi with rice grains for the ritual.
The idol: A small black stoned, intricately carved Ganesh idol with a self-made bead garland around the neck.
The procession: A small chariot emptied of its tea lids, and holding the Ganesh idol, making its way from the bedroom to the hall patio. Revelers, he and his brother, prancing and dancing around the chariot, much to the amusement of his folks, and nudging it ahead after every song.
The ritual: Prayers offered with much gusto with traditional kunku tilak on forehead of Ganesha. Coarse grained sugar in a small bowl as prasad. Rice grains sprinkled on the idol as akshada. Small white and red flowers adorning the idol and stage. The lamp lighting up the small mandap and oiled everyday for 10 days in a row.
The immersion: A small bucket filled with water, or better, a 1 X 1 feet blue colored square to act as the pond. The same procession carrying the idol to the ‘pond’ and immersed 3 times with shouts of ‘Jai Ganesha’. The idol safely washed and rubbed and kept in the showcase, to be taken out once again, the following year.
sure abt tht? not even in cargo??
