Silsili Chronicles - The Temple of Darshan Baba - Part I

This is a story from Silsili, a small sleepy town somewhere in the foothills of Himalayas. The town has its own railway station and a post office. There are two schools as well. And the government is talking about building an army camp nearby.

Life is not as fast paced here as you would normally see in the big cities. People do not run around busily to make their ends meet. They stop and ponder on the different unimportant things. Even today children sit down cuddled in the winter evenings and listen to stories from the elders.

There are many places of interest nearby. There is the Lal Masjid, the city mosque built hundreds of years ago. They say there used to be a temple at the spot where the mosque now stands. There have been many fights between the Hindus and Muslims over this in the recent years.

Then there is the huge Darshan Baba Dam across the Rukruka river. The dam got its name from the famous Mandir of Darshan Baba nearby. There are several stories about Darshan Baba in these areas. He was an infamous Tantrik who lived in the forest near the hills about one hundred years ago. There are several infamous stories about Darshan Baba and his Kali temple. It is said that every New Moon night he would sacrifice a young boy in the name of the goddess Kali. The village elders seldom visit the temple because they fear that if they visit the temple, then they would disturb Darshan Baba in his Samadhi and that would mean the devastation of the town of Silisili by the wrath of the Tantrik who knew Black Magic.

Such stories are nowadays not believed by many, but people do not generally visit the place even during the day. They try to avoid the place and since the place is a mile or two away from the town, daily business generally do not bring people to this place. But nobody would dare visit the temple at night.

What a Child Thinks

This is not an expert's comment on child psychology neither is this a theory to judge all the children in this world. This is necessarily a collection of the different cute hypothesis and theories, that a child might have about the world around him. I have heard most of these from children whom I have interacted with as an adult and also when I myself was a child.

I will start off with a few of my own concepts about this world. The first thing that comes to my mind is my idea of the planet earth. Somehow I had this understanding that the Earth was a giant ball with all of us living on its surface - pretty good huh?? But the real twist in the tale is that the giant ball is placed at the top of a multistoreyed building!!! Now that is called imagination.

I also remember what I used to think about Birbal, a tribal man who used to live near our house in the tea garden. In our thick Bengali accent we used to call him Bir-BALL as in soccer "ball". I had never known the man by face and had only heard the name. I used to think that he must be a soccerball covered in a red hanky. I have got no idea why I had such an impression. When the man died and the funeral procession was going past our house, I had run to the verandah to have a glimpse of the man who was Bir-BALL. I was really hoping to see a soccerball covered in a red hanky. However, I do not remember how it had felt when I could find no ball in the procession.

Another winner is my idea of a school. When I was a kid, I remember my parents discussing that I am growing up and I need to be sent to a good school. Now the scholarly kid that I was, I thought that a school is a place where people go riding on a bicycle, wearing only a lungi (a clothing used in some parts of India where a long piece of cloth is used to cover the lower half of the body by winding it around the waist) with no cloth to cover the upper half. And when you reach the school, you gather your things and start to plough the field so that seeds can be sown - my way of becoming an engineer!!!

Enough of me. Now I will talk about a kid named Raja whom I sometimes used to teach science when he was a third grader. One day he opened his science book and said, "Explain 'The Universe'". He had this chapter called "The Universe" which dealt with the workings of this Universe - the Sun, the Earth, the Moon and so on. I had to go to my wit's end to make him understand that the Sun is actually much bigger than it looks like and that the Earth revolves around it. When he finally understood that the Sun is in fact a fireball millions of miles away and that man has gone to space in rockets, he asked, "If someone carries a bucketful of water in a rocket, goes very near to the Sun and splashes the Sun with the water from the bucket, then will the fire be put off?" Now who would answer that?

His next question was a very philosophical one that even Aristotle would be very pleased to hear! He asked, "You say that man has walked on the surface of the moon! Now tell me, if someone moves too close to the Moon's edge and accidentally falls off where would he go?" Then I had to explain to him that the Moon is like a giant pingpong ball.

There are even more of such unanimously accepted and acclaimed ideas which I shall try to document at some other time. I hope you all educated people will take some time out of your busy schedule and let us all know if any of you have thought or heard of any such enlightening ideas!!!

My Childhood In the Tea Gardens

It is really after a long time that I am writing again. And what better way to start writing than to write about the days which have long gone by. I am writing about my childhood in a tea garden in the Darjeeling foothills. I shall write about the few things which I remember the most.

The first thing that comes to mind are the fireflies. In those days there was no electricity in and around the quarters where we lived and every night the surroundings would get filled up with thousands of fireflies as if nature had set fire on the pitch dark night. They were in the garden, in the kitchen, in the verandah, in the bedroom, in the tea plantations - they were everywhere, wherever you looked at. I had read a short story in my childhood in which a Scandinavian scholar from the land of the Aurora Borealis had been mesmerized by the beauty of the thousands of fireflies and had compared it with the beauty of the Aurora. Hard to believe but it was really that beautiful.

There were the blazing fireflies in the night and there were the beautiful butterflies in the day. I still remember that our garden would be full of scores of colorful butterflies : red and green, yellow and black, pink, violet and what other colors I know not. They would fly from flower to flower, they would dance with the wind, fly alone and sometimes fly in pairs. As if a child had used his wildest imaginations and used all the colors that there were and there would ever be in the most beautiful canvas you could ever imagine. I know not how many lazy summer noons I have spent looking at and chasing the butterflies across the beautiful garden which my father had planted.

And there were the Westerlies, also called the Kalbaisakhi which are very common in those parts. They are the deadly storms that have become the folklore in Bengal. Every year during summertime, the sky would become pitch black in the afternoon and the monster would unravel itself upon the mortals. It would come from the western horizon and blow away any and everything that would come in its way. Nobody would dare to go outdoors. Shops would close, business stopped and life at a standstill. Then there would be a heavy deluge of torrential rain which would wash away the scorching heat of the Indian summer, soak the dried up earth to render it fertile and make the farmers smile and thank the heavens.

Nature had blessed the place with all the beauty in the world. And the people were very simple. The workers of the tea gardens were tribals from the Chhotanagpur who had been brought to the region by the British planters more than a hundred years ago. They were the sons of the soil. They would happilly work through the day with the assurance that the tea company would provide them and there families with two meals a day and the guarantee of a job for their children. They would nurture the tea bushes, apply pesticides, water them and pluck the "two leaves and a bud" that would go to the factory to be brewed into some of the world's finest teas to be sold to the rich people from the cities.

There was a man called Birbal. In our typical Bengali accent we used to call him Bir-ball as in football. I had never known the man by face and had only heard the name. I used to think that he must be some kind of a football covered in a hanky. I have got no idea why I had such an impression. When the man died and the funeral procession was going past our house, I had run to the verandah to have a glimpse of the man who was Bir-ball. I was really hoping to see a football covered by a hanky. However, I do not remember how it had felt when I could find no football in the procession.

Then there was Budhua. He was a bright young fellow and everybody used to love him. He used to play cricket with us. One day we woke up in the morning to find out that Budhua had hung himself in his bedroom. Joy Da, a lad from next door, went to his hut and brought the news that Budhua was sitting in a chair with the noose tightened against his neck. People doubted murder. But nothing could be proved. It was my first encounter with the brutality of life.

These mishaps happened sometimes. But most of the times my childhood was a funfilled joyride from start to end. Everything looked bright and sunny. No worries of the future, no responsibilities for the present and no pain from the past. Gone are those days but the fond memories are still cherished and fills my heart with joy even to this date.

Kashmir

There will come a day when the
falling of the leaves will stop and
Spring will come.

The two selfish giants will stop
spitting fire across the fence dividing
the garden.

Where once spring was the
only season, now eternal Winter
rules and leaves fall day in
and day out.

Where once there was life and
nothing else, there
is now the breath of death in
every falling leaf.

Where once was Heaven, now
creatures of Hell move free with their
freezing breath.

But Spring again will come and
new buds will come out and children
will dance to the Saz under
the Chinar.

The musicians will come and string
the Saz of Life and the garden will be
Heaven again.

Two Birthdays

Fatima was the first to notice. Usually the days started a bit late in these quarters. But even in their standards it was not normal. It was ten on clock. Saraswati had not opened her door.

“May be she was late in getting to bed yesterday night,” Fatima said to herself. She didn’t have enough time to think about it. She was rushing to the bathroom. It was shared by thirteen girls. And it was normally a long wait outside the bathroom in these hours.

It was when she came out after forty minutes that she felt that something was wrong. Saraswati was still in her room. Fatima went to the door.

“Saraswati.”

There was no answer. She called again, this time louder with a knock on the door. There was still no answer.

“Maybe she is ill,” Fatima thought.

“Chitra. Chitra,” she shouted at the top of her voice.

“What’s the matter? Why are you making such a fuss?”

Chitra as always was on her highest pitch. She came out of the next room and immediately noticed the panic on the face of Fatima.

“What’s wrong?”

“Saraswati is not replying. She has not come out this morning.”

Chitra went forward and called Saraswati.. There was still no reply, not even the groans of someone sick. She put her ear on the door.

“There is no sound inside. Call Mausi and Khaled Bhai.

* * * * *

It was past afternoon before the police took the body away. Saraswati had hung herself from the ceiling fan with a dupatta. The police questioned all the residents of the quarters but could find no clue behind the suicide.

Fatima couldn’t believe that Saraswati was not there. Saraswati had been like an elder sister from her first day in this hell. Saraswati was perfectly okay yesterday evening. What could have happened through the night that she committed suicide? Was the boy responsible? But he didn’t look like he could be harmful. Only Allah can tell.

* * * * *

The evening was just as the day before or any other day in the quarters. There was not even a sign of the day’s events. Fatima and the other girls didn’t even have the right to mourn. They had to be back to business, right on time. Mausi and Khaled Bhai were always there to make sure they did not mourn and waste an evening’s income.

Fatima dressed and went to the street.

It was not long before a boy approached her.

* * * * *

The day had started as any other day. But for Saraswati it was not like the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year. It was her birthday.

But it didn’t change her daily routine. She woke up late and went to the bathroom which she shared with twelve other girls. She had to wait outside the bathroom just as usual. She got her chance after half an hour. She went in.

She hated this day. She had hated her birthday throughout these last twelve years. Anyone would. And she knew she would hate the day even in hell; heaven was not for her.

She started laughing as she washed her body.

“Is there any water on earth that can wash the filth from my body?” She knew that there was not. Still she had to bathe everyday.

Not only did she hate her birthday because this day always brought back the memories of her early life, her Ma, her Baba and her little Bhai; but also because it was on this day twelve years ago that her present life started.

She would never forget that day. Her nightmares wouldn’t let her; her daily ordeal wouldn’t let her.

* * * * *

It was her twelfth birthday. But she didn’t look like a twelve year old. Spring had come to her earlier than her friends and she looked a year or two older than her playmates.

It was not customary in their small village to celebrate birthdays. Birthdays were as normal as any day. But just a month back Saraswati had visited her cousins who lived in the city. There she realized for the first time that birthdays were somehow special.

A few days before her birthday she asked her father, “Baba, what will you give me on my birthday?”

“Well, what do you want my dear?” asked Ramanath Biswas.

“May I go to the fair in the next village Baba?”

“But I will be busy on that day. I will go to the city”

“I can take her”, said Raju who had just entered their courtyard.

Ramanath never liked this person. Somehow he felt that Raju’s frequent visits to their house were because of Saraswati. The only reason why he tolerated Raju was because he was the son of the Panchayat of Lakhipur, their village.

“No. You cannot. Saraswati, go help your Ma and ask her to send my umbrella with Ganesh.”

Saraswati was subdued. She never understood Baba’s attitude towards Raju Dada. He was a good man. He had once told her that he would take her to the cinema in the city. Now he offered to take her to the fair. But Baba as always became the spoilsport. She hated Baba for this. But she couldn’t disobey him.

“Bhai take the umbrella and give it to Baba,” Saraswati ordered Ganesh, her younger brother.

Ganesh was ten years younger than Saraswati. She loved her brother very much but sometimes felt jealous towards him. She had seen that recently Ganesh was allowed to do many things which she was not allowed to do. It was not even a year back. When she complained to Ma about this, she said, “You are growing up dear, you need to understand that.”

Was growing up a crime? In that case she would never grow up.

* * * * *

“Happy Birthday, Saraswati,” said Raju from the distance.

Saraswati didn’t know how to respond. She simply smiled.

“So how are you planning to celebrate your day?” asked Raju with the hint of a meaningful smile.

“I don’t know. Baba said he would bring me a gift from the city.”

“But that will be late in the night. What about the rest of the day? Do you want to spoil your birthday in this wretched village?”

“What else can I do?”

“You can come with me. We can go to the city. I will take you to the cinema.”

She wanted to go with Raju. But she could not gather the courage. “It is not possible. Baba will know. He will be furious.”

“Nobody will know. We will return before the sun sets. You just don’t tell anybody that you are coming with me. Tell your mother that you are visiting Gauri.”

The proposal made perfect sense. Nobody would know where she was going and with whom. She could see the cinema. What was the harm in watching the cinema? They would return long before Baba.

* * * * *

Nobody knew where she went and with whom and in this way she ended up here. It was the first birthday in her life when she wanted to have a gift and this was what she got as her birthday present: a source of income.

Suddenly she woke from the trance. It was about time and she dressed herself. She used some cheap cosmetics and an even cheaper perfume and went to the street.

There was no reason why but the street was not as busy as the other days. And there were fewer customers. Nobody seemed to notice her.

She knew she was getting older. The twelve years of ordeal had changed her a lot. She looked much older than her age. There was a permanent fatigue in her eyes. Nowadays only those who had virtually an empty pocket came to her. And she had to stand longer in the street.

The wait seemed to be even longer than the other days. It was getting late and she felt that perhaps it was better this way. No customer for a day was a welcome change.

When she was about to return, a young boy just passed his teens came to her. He didn’t know what to say.

Saraswati at once knew that it was his first time, his first step in the filth.

She took the boy to her room and closed the door.

Nervousness clearly showed on the boy’s face. Saraswati sat on the bed and motioned the boy to do the same. She started opening her clothes but the boy looked away from her.

On any other day, she would have severely abused the boy. But today was different.

“What is your name?” asked Saraswati and moved towards the boy.

“Wh-why do you want to know?” there was clear nervousness in his voice. He was feeling awkward and hesitant.

“You have every right not to tell a whore your name. I just felt like asking.”

“How do you know that even if I tell you, I will tell the truth?”

“If you wanted to lie you wouldn’t have asked this question.”

The boy kept quiet for sometime as if he was deciding if he wanted to tell.

“My name is Ganesh.”

Distant memories of her brother came back to Saraswati at once. But her brother was so far away even from her memories that she couldn’t remember how he looked like. This boy is her brother’s namesake. How old is Ganesh now? Does he remember her Didi?

She returned to the present suddenly. The boy had moved towards her.

“Where are you from?” asked Saraswati.

“Why is this whore asking me these things? I don’t care if she knows all my family details,” thought the boy.

“I am from the village of Lakhipur. My father is the Panchayet there,” there was clear arrogance in his voice. His nervousness was gone and he was readying himself.

“Lakhipur? Near Nababganj?” she was feeling sick. The boy touched her.

“Yes. How do you know? Have you been there?” the boy was surprised.

Saraswati felt the whole world turning upside down.

“What is the name of your father?” she screamed.

“You bloody whore. Why do you want to know? Keep your mouth shut.”

“What is your father’s name?” she asked again.

There was decisiveness in her voice the boy could not ignore.

“Ramanath Biswas. Now keep your mouth shut and come closer, will you?”

* * * * *

When Saraswati woke up she couldn’t tell what time of night it was. The boy had left.

“He is my brother. Oh God what have you done to me? He is my brother. Why did it happen? Why?” she was sobbing.

Suddenly she went to the rope on the wall which she used to hang her clothes and took a dupatta.

* * * * *