The warm afternoon in May was slowly melting into a pleasant summer evening as I sat on the rickety steps leading down to the garden. Dida was sitting at the porch, a couple of steps above me, knitting a purple sweater for my fourth birthday I presume, and checking on me animatedly from time to time. The fragrance of marigolds , raw mangoes and bouvardia (theIndian bel) pervaded the air as I sat preparing on my miniature mortar and pestle, a heavenly fare of yellow dal and rice with a bit of green curry thrown in. The dal ofcourse was a rather aromatic paste of yellow marigold petals, the rice – a slug of generous quantities of squashed white bel phool and the green curry courtesy leaves from a mango sapling. The latter had attracted my sheer fancy, since the time it came into being, a mere three weeks prior to that day, in our cosy little garden. The place was none other than Damonjodi, a hamlet of a town, close to an industrial establishment of the National Aluminium Corporation in Orissa. Father tells me we were there for almost a year before we shifted base to Bombay. Space and time hardly mattered at that age and particularly on that warm summer evening.
Days with Dida would pass off in a jiffy, whenever she’d come calling. I remember sitting on a rocking chair, each afternoon as she would tell one story after another. Stories from her childhood, which I simply adored as they were fascinating to the say the least and which I hope I continue to remember and am able to tell my grandchildren someday. I am infact certain that I would remember her childhood stories more than I would remember my own any day.
The evenings, whenever it rained would be spent outside or in the garden making paper boats, collecting caterpillars and setting them asail on tiny red rivulets, courtesy the red soil in the region, steering them often with a leaf or two. As my crustacean Long John silvers battled the raging torrents, especially the larger streams that trickled down the hill in front of our house, I would dance in complete glee, my enthusiasm almost sadistic. Come evenings, I would spend time learning to draw sketches from Dida. These were the times when I usually made unreasonable demands. I remember once asking Baba to get me sketch-pens at ten in the night on a Sunday. Ofcourse I did not care to consider that not a single shop would be open in Damonjodi on a Sunday that too beyond four in the evening. I remember pestering him to the point of insanity at the end of which he had to step out but came back a close to a quarter of an hour later, saying he had been chased by a wolf that came down the adjacent hill. I was not convinced until I finally did hear some wolfish howls back then in the night. Indeed the howls rather queerly seemed to come from behind the windows in the bedroom as I lay huddled beside Dida in extreme apprehension and horror, didn’t matter to me much though that Baba’s blue slippers were peeking from beneath the window curtains.
The meal was ready and I laid out careful portions on tiny plates. I had two guests that evening, Dida and our Nepali Bahadur the latter being one of the gentlest people I have met. All of sixty , I remember him has stocky little man with innumerable creases all over his pale cheeks and forehead , tiny eyes and a constant smile on his thin lips. I once saw him uprooting a banana tree in the garden, all by himself which amplified my regard for him several manifolds.
Ma, I realised never favoured my lip-smacking spreads nor did she have the time to choose the right adjectives in describing how good they tasted and so I had ceased to invite her. She had not been keeping too well either for Dida had said that Ma was getting me a little friend from God next month and I should not disturb her much if I wanted that to happen. I was only prepared to forgive and forget as long as this little friend would choose to appreciate my extraordinary meals.
For the months that Dida would be visiting us, I would be so completely engrossed in doing such a multitude of things that I would often forget bothering Ma. Those few months I am certain today, would definitely have been a breather for her. Each time Dida left for Calcutta, I would cry uncontrollably for days and land invariably with a bad fever and Ma would then, like a guardian angel, help me reconcile to her departure in the various ways that she could. She would begin by telling me stories each afternoon, the way Dida did and these would mostly be those of kings and queens, which I wouldn’t exactly dote on in the beginning but would learn to adore eventually. I would, in due course, be back into the normal mould in about three weeks.
Dida and Bahadur ate in silence initially and they always asked me to close my eyes when they did. And when they were done, I would open them again and the food was gone and they would tell me how lovely the dal or how well cooked the rice had been that day and how the green curry reminded Dida of her mom’s cooking. Bahadur would mostly ramble – ‘bahut acchi choti didi’ and again would say ‘hanso hanso’ when I beamed listening to the same praises over and over again.
As I laid down the portions that evening, my eyes rested on a tiny silhouette of a boy that was coming down the road that led to the other officers’ quarters. He was approaching slowly and as he came closer I saw he had a slight limp. He was wearing a tattered vest and pair of torn shorts and he had bright wide eyes and a broken slate in his hand. Almost instinctively, I hailed to him. He hesitated at first and then decided otherwise. Bahadur opened the gate and he came in limping as he did, one of his legs narrower than the other, how queer, I thought. He was a few inches taller than me and had soot on his face and hands. That didn’t matter much as I had another guest for the evening and that meant more cooking .I was obviously delighted.
I don’t remember what we said to each other, but it was rather an unspoken understanding. Almost mechanically he followed me, as I went down to the garden to arm myself with more supplies. Our trappings consisted of a few more leaves, some bougainvilleas and fallen rose petals. I even unearthed some tiny potatoes with his help which I had seen father plant a fortnight back conveniently thinking he had dodged my notice. It was immensely thrilling when father would delve deep into the moist earth and expertly reveal small round, fully grown potatoes and hand them over to Ma on chosen Sunday mornings. Subsequently Ma would make delicious aloor dom which we would savour with hot luchis. Baba would always take me along when he unearthed the fully grown potatoes and never when he planted the tubers knowing fully well that I would be only too eager to dig them up at the slightest available opportunity. In the process I would excavate half grown tubers exhibiting rare histrionics with the huge iron khurpi that probably weighed as much as I did. Good old Bahadur would often come to my rescue on such occasions. When Baba would find out about my potato related antics after a tired day in office, he would most certainly be disheartened but never let out an unkind word, as he has never done even till this day. He thenceforth chose to tackle the antics of his eccentric daughter by being careful himself instead.
Certain that I deserved a much needed break before I began my next culinary expedition that evening; I set on to other things with my new mate. We discovered a mound of red earth just behind the garden and decided to explore. He definitely seemed more experienced than I and so volunteered to get him the much needed tools. A long stick from the kitchen broom and a match box were just what would suffice. He lit the match and lighted one end of the stick while he poked the other end into the molehill. Seconds later there were thousands of ants darting helter-skelter and we laughed enthusiastically sprinting off. The monstrous cock next door started crowing in visible alarm and thumping its claws furiously inside the cage. Thankfully there was no one next door. We regaled in glory. Finally it was my turn to get back at it for waking me up at three in the morning with its hoarse cries. Bahadur who arrived amidst this mayhem too had a good laugh himself at its expense.
We played ekka dukka, a game where you limp on one leg and move on hand drawn squares in the ground, throwing pebbles to lead the way. I pointed at his deformed leg and looked at him questioningly. He reassured me with a toothy grin that meant it didn’t matter and that he could play ekka dukka all the same. He won.
Our next object of amusement was the garden hose with the help of which we constructed a pond near our now much abandoned mole hill. We wetted the earth around it to construct an embankment but to our utter dismay, the water kept disappearing. It probably seeped in, is what I can guess when I fondly think of it now but back then we were totally clueless and disappointed. Stumped as we were, I immediately called on Bahadur to our rescue. He got us a small plastic tub from somewhere which he buried in the earth keeping just the cavity exposed and asked us to construct our embankment around it. It was a lovely pond that stayed on till the time we left Damonjodi, with Bahadur replenishing it with water each morning when he watered the plants. We constructed a bridge too atop the pond that evening, a narrow piece of wood running across and embedded skilfully into the wet embankment. Days later, I would spend hours looking at this double wonder.
We were having a great time. Dida came in a few hours later looking for us and asking me to come in as quickly as I could for it was slowly getting dark. The sky was amber with splashes of bright crimson and grey. A cool wind caressed the leaves in the bamboo forest behind our garden and gradually let out a ghostly murmur. On other occasions I would have been too scared and more than willing to be safe inside. “One last game before I cook for my new guest,” I convinced Dida. She went in, mumbling another admonishment asking me to hurry up. “Bring him in for some snacks, he must be hungry” she told me as she left.
The idea was mine. Baba had been on a trip earlier that month and had acquired an elastic clasp for the luggage. It was a snaky band of elastic about three feet in length and a thick plastic hook at either end about two inches long. I suggested a tug of war. He was game. We held on to either end of the elastic band and pulled with all our might. We were in the front porch now. He tripped on a stone and fell. He lost grip and within seconds the elastic band hurled vigorously towards me and hit me reactively on the stomach. I saw darkness for a couple of minutes. The pain was excruating. When I opened my eyes, I was appalled to see the terror on his face. He was in tears. I did not scream. I hated him and I didn’t know why. He was slowly trying to hold himself up but his challenged foot betrayed him. After several attempts he managed and limped towards me. I let out a faint shriek now for the first time feeling the pain and burst into tears.
He stopped short and moved away limping on his better foot which was now bruised. In a few moments, he was back and in his hand he held a pristine white rose plucked from the garden. It was the only consolation he could offer. I stopped crying and stared at him in awe. He moved back, turned and walked away lunging awkwardly on his injured foot. As he walked away the setting sun had met the horizon amidst the bamboo trees.
