From My Closet…

Recently, I was dusting my cupboard at home.  Papers, pencils, birthday cards, notes, school diaries, textbooks, teachers’ signed examination papers tumbled out of the cupboard. I was actually thinking that how stupidly sincere and stereotypically ‘good girl’  I was over the years. I was flooded with texts and small things that took me back to school days and early college years.  Hunting through the dust, grime, and brown-pages I was rather surprised how your past gets preserved in some closet of your present. It also amazed me how our own handwriting changes as we mature through the stages of life.

While cleaning up these stuffs, I came across many birthday cards that were given to me over the years by friends at school, college and university. One of the cards possibly given to me in class 7th or 8th has a picture of the kids in the then popular series ‘Wonder Years’. Came across the first Friendship Day card that I  got  possibly during college years — was trying to remember the name, who it was (the card was anonymous as expected) who gave the card, but just couldn’t recollect the name. Found an old CD with a calligraphic handwriting, mentioning in zinc-laden pen, ‘It’s only words and words are all I have…’.

Some of the gifts wrapped in the covers also kind of amazed me — a writing pad with water-mark of roses still remains unwritten, a small scrap-book with signed statements from friends regarding how bright our future will be and the forever-ness of our friendships; some of the junk earrings given to me by friends at school remain so carefully wrapped, that they have got dark and soot-laden with time but are still beautifully preserved.

School uniforms, hair-bands, dolls, all tucked up inside the closet tumbled at me one after the other, filling me with a strong desire to re-live my past, with a wish to set those things right that I have possibly messed-up as a part of growing-up.  But, time as and when it goes, remains irretrievable.  What did I do with these things that came off the closet? Well, this time I donated a lot many of those that could be used and the rest I just destroyed them — memories in the form of materials and objects can be disposed off if they are causing you pain.

One of these days, I was back in touch with an old friend, a very close friend of college years with whom I had been out of communication for years.  After a few days of happy reunion and old-timer recollection, we realized that it was not working out — we all are very different people now who should lead our lives and keep ourselves as memories to be cherished in each others’ thoughts rather than  as real people trying to be present in our present.

From the old closet, I found a poems diary of my school days. Those were the times when I seriously dreamt of being a poet — while friends were dreaming of IITs, engineering, medical, I lived in the dream of being a poet, and seriously took-up the task of writing. In fact, in 10+2 when the rest of the class was struggling with coaching and preparations,  I sat dreaming, of what, I have still not been able to figure out, and those dreams found an expression in my diary through poems.

Feel like sharing with you, a poem that I must have written during my class 12th summer vacations. If I look at it now as a literary and linguistic expert, it would appear plain silly. However, what struck me in that poem is the feeling of a search, which is strikingly similar to my inner-most search even now.  It was possibly titled as ‘Unseen Presence’ and following are the lines:

When the rose like red lips of the last sun-rays,

Give their final smile and close over the darkening horizon.

When a strange fragrance of summer flowers,

Weighs heavily in the air.

When the dark night,

Plaited with moon and stars,

Shows its mystery and magic.

When the light breeze,

Sings to an unknown music-

In an evening as such,

I dream of You so much!

But You! Who are You?

I’ve neither seen You,

Nor have I ever heard You!

But who are You,

That is my hidden strength?

You- who are always hidden in the darkness of the night,

And in the glamour of the hot day.

I can see You not-

But can feel You,

Like the perfume of incense in the air,

And like the sweetmeats,

Sold in the village fair.

You! Whoever you are!

Whether very near,

Or too far-

I crave for You in the temple of my heart….

I must have been only 16-17 years when I wrote that poem, but the feeling seems so organic and  unsullied. Interestingly, am yet to figure out the ‘you’ that I was searching for from those years.

Recently, a student mentioned that I should be writing some spicy-masala blogs, not the usual boring things that I write — something that has sports, love, scandal, movies etc. as its theme. He suggested that the TRP of Iris needs to improve with time and there should be a change now with an emphasis on the commercial appeal of the blog. What do you all say? Should we change the track of Iris? Add some commercial stories? Let me know your thoughts.

The Tale of Dawk-Bungalows

In India Government servants must be  well acquainted with terms like Dawk bungalow, Inspection bungalows and Circuit Houses. Varying on the basis of  the department they were maintained by — especially P.W.D and Forest departments, these bungalows were basically built prior to independence to cater to the traveling needs of the government  officers. However, they are also often rented to travelers if vacant and not commissioned. The name of dawk bungalows and Inspection bungalows (I.B.) arouse a sense of old-world charm when the bade babus or  officers came in their rickety jeeps and were received by the cook and mali of these bungalows. For the traveler,  dawk bungalows were not only places of comfort and rest but also full of  “adventurous possibilities”.

Thinking of  Dawk bungalows and I.B.s remind me of a Kipling/ Corbett world. These bungalows were built in the European fashion — mostly situated outside the small districts/ towns, single-storied with only one or two suites having high ceiling   roofs, large round-bellied fans making a scary noise with every turn, creaking beds , large black dinning table  with a huge glass jug-full of water, a small-closet library with books of Hardley Chase or books having themes like “Botanical research” and “Colonial legacy”, these places could well be amazing settings for Alfred Hitchcock movies.  Situated in lonely landscapes, far away from the “madding crowd”, they have a distinct charm of their own. Ah yes! The bathrooms — most of the bathrooms in such bungalows have either malfunctioning taps or huge broken bath-tubs or a single leaking tin-bucket with which you have to adjust. Usually, a bearer carried water balancing two buckets on his shoulder tied to a long bamboo pole, and once they fill up the tubs or the buckets, the guests are ready to take a bath.  However, the bungalows are accessible only if you travel by road.  Being situated in the “interiors”, they remain hidden from busy public communication systems especially railways. Circuit Houses as far as I remember are more towards the center of the town or the district, but Forest I.Bs and dawk-bungalows are lonely and situated  far away from the town.

These bungalows had huge spaces, acres of land dotted with mango trees, jack-fruit trees, papaya trees, wild flower bushes, rose shrubs and some berry bushes. The compound walls were distant from the main bungalow and one had to walk or drive almost half a mile in order to reach the main gates.  The main entrance had  large wooden gates hidden from public view by creepers.   Sometimes, the gates had sign boards like : “NO THOROUGHFARE” or “TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED”, written in bold letters. Basically, privacy and seclusion were the content of these bungalows. There were some out-houses little away from the main building but within the compound, famously called “servant-quarters” where the watchman-cum-cook-cum- mali usually lived with his family.The bungalow opened into a wide portico and a veranda facing the main entrance and there would be relaxing-armchairs kept on the veranda, waiting for a lazy languorous evening.

Having traveled extensively with my grandparents, I remember the thrill of staying in some of the most unusual I.B.s and dawk-bungalows. Especially, during the vacations grandpa drove us  to these bungalows away from the humdrum of the city life.  The dawk bungalows and I.B.s  had their own kitchen and the watchman/cook/mali used to be also a government servant, who lived all his life in a particular bungalow serving the guests. The moment a  guest  settled in a suite, the watchman would take his cycle and drive to the town to get  provisions and rations for the kitchen. Usually, in Odisha and Bengal the dawk bungalows have a supply of eggs, fresh water fish, rice and potato. These are the places where you cannot expect to get biryani or chicken tikka or palak paneer. The culinary skills of the cook/watchman is limited to humble homemade rice, pulses and curry.  In some coastal places of Odisha like the bungalows closer to Behrampore or Balasore or Bhitarkanika,  serve prawn and crabs for its guests.

Personally, I loved the dawk-bungalows in the hilly regions of Odisha like the Koraput dawk-bungalow.  The beauty of these bungalows were their exclusivity and seclusion.  Nights were especially happening in these bungalows. The croaking of frogs, tuk-tuk of the woodpecker in the large trees closer to the bungalow, crickets creaking — suddenly the nights get alive with unknown and undecipherable noises. I remember as a child I had exclaimed at the huge troop of glowworms that invaded the trees in the Rairakhol I.B. and created an illusion of thousands of small light bulbs lighting up all the trees near the bungalow.

The Gothic architecture of these buildings also add to their scary nature.  I remember a story of the dawk-bungalow near Hirakud dam which my grandma had narrated to me on one of our trips. Apparently, the bungalow was haunted by the ghost of the daughter of one of the watchmen who lived prior to independence. The girl had died in the bungalow after a futile love affair with a saheb. Since that time the bungalow had been haunted and lay unused. Grandma said any officer who ever tried to stay there on their inspection trips after nightfall, would be served good food and water by the same mali and his daughter. Once grandpa’s senior colleague had to stop there and stay in the bungalow because it was late at night and the headlight of his jeep had started giving trouble. He was apparently welcomed by the mali and his daughter, who cleaned his suite, brought water for his bathroom and fed him sumptuously with rice and potato curry. Next morning the officer realized from the unkempt garden, veranda, empty outhouse and the overgrown bushes that the bungalow was not in use and there is no human presence in it.  He drove to the nearby town and inquired from people and got the complete version of the story.  Later he caught a fever and had to be hospitalized for many days because of his shocking experience. Whether these were merely grandma’s stories or whether there was truth in it, I can’t say because the locale and the “mood” of these bungalows were such that one cannot deny any strange eventful “event” happening with you.

There were many such stories Grandma used to narrate with either dead officers very attached to a particular bungalow revisiting them after death or dead malis tending unsuspecting guests.  These bungalows had their share of ugliness — as oral tales speak — the sahebs and their Indian counterparts often indulged in physically exploiting the wives or daughters of the poor watchmen who guarded the place or ladies of the village in these lonely bungalows.  Many deaths also occurred due to loot and murder of the travelers who took shelter for a night or so.

Remember movies like Bees Saal Baad or Madhumati or Khamoshi shot in such locales? Today when I see movies shot in lavish places and shot abroad, I have a passing thought what if instead of spending huge money on lavish abroad shoots, with advanced technology they could use  these locations for movies. Some of my memorable destinations in I.Bs and dawk bungalows have been places like Chhatrapur, Bologarh, Koraput, Purunakot, Rairakhol in Odisha.  Purunakot I.B. especially was an interesting experience. The place is a remote corner of Odisha, almost 100 kms from Angul the nearest district to Purunakot. It had a strange haunted aura, surrounded by hills and devoid of  pukka roads. In Bihar, I especially remember the Ghatsila and Motihari bungalows. We had to take shelter in Ghatsila bungalow as it was getting dark and unsafe. We spent the night with the rains lashing at our faces through the broken glass shutter, without electricity. Next morning it appeared that the bungalow was abandoned and not in use. Motihari bungalow was no less than a palace, very well maintained by the sugar factory close to it. It had apparently been renovated and beautifully decorated with the antique pieces that must have been a part of its legacy. In Andhra Pradesh, I especially remember the Ankapalli dak bungalow , surrounded by huge mango trees and close to the National Highway.

In Bihar, Odisha and Bengal, dawk-bungalows and I.Bs are still in use, though some of them have been converted into tourist resorts and villas. Somehow, I still love the Kiplingsque atmosphere of those bungalows. I am not sure how they are being maintained or used in the present century, but some of my fond memories are associated with these bungalows, the food and the hot sweet tea with thick-milk from the bungalow’s own cow-pen served in old thermo-flasks. Ahh! romantic retreat at its best.

Today when I see the roadside retreats, amusement parks and motels, I still think of those dawk bungalows which were different kind of entertainment even in their austerity and scarcity of provisions and luxury. But “the times they are changing” croons  Bob Dylan….

Further Reading: “Financial Times” <http://www.financialexpress.com/news/the-bungalow-bill-in-global-languages/112272/0>

On A Postcard

No I am not going to write the history of Indian Postal Service! Neither do I want to trace the history of a postcard. You can go and look that up in an Encyclopedia. Wikipedia says that postal service as a public mode of communication in India started with Warren Hastings bringing the reform to make the postal department public. Since then postal services started acquiring the importance which in earlier days pigeons had. Well, in Cuttack there are still trained pigeons who carry highly confidential messages for the Orissa Police. It is perhaps the only place in India which has pigeons to carry messages. Oh wow! Maine Pyar Kiya ...

Ahem…no romantic musings . My purpose here is to dwell on the little emotive values associated with the postcard. Actually, I was dusting my old cupboard and found hoards of postcards, some of them scribbled to God. As a child, Mom used to tell me that He read all postcards, so I made it a point to complain about family, friends and life in general specifically in postcards . The postoffice used to be right across the road and I borrowed five rupees everyday from dad for a stack of postcards. They were 15paise at that time…I don’t know how much they cost these days.

I remember one specific postcard which I had posted to Mr. Rajiv Gandhi while in Std-V. I wrote to him requesting him to arrange for my visit to New Delhi and a stay in the Rashtrapati Bhavan. I wrote something as follows (paraphrased here):

Respected Sir,

I am studying in Std-V. I want to meet you. Please invite me to New Delhi to your house. I want to see New Delhi at least once in my life. But no one takes me there. I want to stay in the Rashtrapati Bhavan .Please sir, I will bring my poems if you call me.

Regards,

——-

I wish I can rephrase the words exactly as I had written then. Waited for a reply for days to that postcard (may be secretly until the death of Mr. Gandhi). You cannot imagine my enthusiasm when I posted the card. I didn’t even tell about it to parents and after many months disclosed about it to my younger brother. He was so happy that we will go to Delhi that he used to even dream Apu Ghar .

I remember writing a lot of such postcards to the tele series Surabhi for Siddharth Kak and Renuka Sahani when a little older. Everytime they would shuffle the postcards to declare the winners, my heart went pounding. But I never won! The address: Andheri, Mumbai Po Box No: “x” still remains engraved in mind. It seemed Andheri was a fairytale place in a “film” like city far-far away from my imagination. I could only imagine Govinda and Mithun Chakraborty (they ruled then) when I thought of Mumbai and could never think that there were any other human souls except the film stars who inhabited Mumbai.

The touch of those yellow coloured postcards, with a restricted space cannot be equalled by any great email service of the present. The joy when one recived such a card is also not to be expressed in words. But postcards, did not merely have an emotive value. Dad tells me that one can file a PIL (Public Litigation) on any postcard and the courts have to accept them. He tells that the postcard shows the power of the average citizen in this country.

But for me, the smell of the fresh postcard and writing on them with awkward childish letters bears more meaning than great literary texts. In fact, in literature there is a specific genre of novel writing which is called the Epistolary novels which were written in the form of letters. The famous English writer Samuel Richardson’s Pamela (1740s) and Clarissa (1740s) are notable novels of this kind.

I am writing this piece also as a tribute to letter writing and to snail-mail, which these days they call an extinct art…Wish our kids could actually learn the beauty of words in letters…but it is the generation of “hypers”/”speed” with which postcards/letters can hardly compete…