Of Cows and Things

I texted my brother telling him about a particular incident that my sister had told me about. She was driving through a more rural part of town and had to stop for an old cowherd who was guiding his herd across the road. She waited patiently until the entire company had crossed, upon which the man smiled a toothy, betel-stained smile at her and remarked, “Ni, jing bhabriew ine i kong!” (Something like ‘What a pretty little lady!’). My sister was embarrassed and amused and we had laughed about it.

My brother obviously found the occasion rich in jocular potential, judging from the string of messages I received from him:

“I’ll find him and when I’m done with him, he would have uddered his last words!”

I was laughing over that when the next one arrived:

“What? He made a moo on her?”

Later, another one:

“I asked her about it and she said it was all bullshit.” (With apologies that this more obvious one was so late in the coming)

The next day, I asked him, “Why, no more cow jokes?”
His reply: “Nah, I’m milked dry.”

I thought I should write about this while I still remember it all co(w)herently.

Thicket

Rainclouds and a Fork

Rooster, Rabbit, Bird

Cavehouse in Bhoi

Way To IIM, Shillong

Mint With A Hole

A heart-shaped hole in a mint leaf found while plucking a bunch of them for the kitchen, a little before World Environment Day. The earth calls out for love!

Thief of the Night

There are thieves at large in the locality, I’m told. There was some incident where an old lady in the bathroom felt some movement behind her, and was shocked when she turned around and saw a total stranger who’d broken into her house. Of course, the way this was narrated to me emphasized on the fact that she simply saw a ‘hand’ reaching out from behind her shoulder, then she turned around, and the story ends there. It makes me picture some kind of chilling horror movie tableau: disembodied hands harassing old ladies in bathrooms.

Every night at 1:00 am the lights go off. The reason for this is the ‘load shedding’ that the MeSEB believes will relieve the state of its power woes. Now this hour is too early for me to think of sleeping, generally. But here when it strikes one, the lights left on in the house will go off, the fridge will stop purring. It is pitch dark. All is quiet and still. Earlier, at twelve, it had started raining. Now only the rain pattering on the roof is heard. Ideally, this would have a lulling effect. But it doesn’t help when I’m wide awake, when the book I’d just had to put away is still playing its words in my head, when my eyes that won’t shut, straining to see something in the darkness, see only the dense blackness.

And then I hear sounds. The wind beating outside finds its way somehow into the house and a door moves on its hinges, creaks. Faint rustling sounds from nowhere. A floorboard groans. And the rain pouring outside lacks a rhythm that would be reassuring. It is disrupted by the vagaries of its own intensity- sometimes a mad drumbeat, sometimes a lilting strain. The faculties of my imagination, wide-awake, are wild at work.

Then I hear something like gentle steps on the roof. There is no mistaking it. Something or someone on the roof. Not like the pattering of rain, but soft thuds, clearly moving around, as I can sense from the direction of the sounds right above me. I strain my ears to listen harder, and think it must be the distorting effect of nighttime fancies, but no, there it is again. The sound. Against my will I imagine disembodied feet moving about.

All of a sudden: a loud creak, a big crash, things falling down. The quiet night is jolted by the jarring disruption. My mother curses. I spring to my feet and feel my way around the bed and out of the door into the passage, hit my shins against unidentified objects in the process. I see a faint light moving somewhere, they’ve all heard it. And then I find the emergency lamp and we scout around, moving here and there, the white light of the lamp making stranger shadows out of things. Nonetheless, Pa goes and checks outside. All is still there. My mother mutters something about some dream she had and yells at me asking if I’d checked if all the doors had been locked before sleeping. Then perplexingly, she checks under each bed. I gather that the recesses of the bed could be a hiding-place. I go and do the same, half expecting disembodied hands to drag me inside each time. Nothing. The whole house is scoured. There is no thief. The bolts are secure. The crash is a mystery.

I go into the kitchen for some water, waving my torch around the room before advancing towards the water filter. I fill my glass, gulp the water down and move to the basin to keep the glass. Then there, silhouetted against the gleaming white tiles, is Salem, black as the night itself, his fur slicked down with rainwater. He is gingerly prowling about, stops with paw mid-air when he sees me, glares at me with glassy green eyes that I am sure see much more than I can at the moment, and then stretches his long self and begins licking his wet coat. It was him.

In the morning the secret of the mysterious crash is revealed. Salem had somehow managed to pry a skylight window open, jumped and landed on the top of an almirah, and upset a whole lot of stuff, which fell to the ground. His agility and hardiness amaze me. I remember now how he once jumped some fifteen feet down from that same skylight without hurting a hair. He’s made it his entry point into the house, convenient after nights of skulking about. And this morning, he sharpens his claws on the chair-covers in the dining room, picking at the fabric with his forelimbs stretched up, enjoying the resistance the cloth offers his trained claws. The covers have long been reduced to shreds, but his haughty stare is intact, and his coat is glossier than ever.

No Words

If it weren’t enough that nature wreaked havoc in the past couple of days, with a cyclone and an earthquake killing people in mere seconds, in numbers that I can’t even register, now there’re these latest blasts that have been perpetrated with cunning precision and murderous planning. Six blasts in an hour, fifteen minutes apart, in places thronging with unsuspecting people, going about their everyday tasks. I don’t know which to be more shocked at– the ravages of nature: absolutely devastating and absolutely unforeseen or the contrivances of an insensate group of terrorists: vile and bloody, premeditated, no less unforeseen. In both, the cost is human lives lost. Put together, the numbers boggle me. I don’t know how to comprehend things of this magnitude.

How does one make sense of tragedy? Just looking at the pictures headlining every paper and every news portal is enough to leave you stunned and shaken. And while political developments or the latest in sports and entertainment can be reported and dissected ad nauseum, for tragic events, there are no words. So pictures are pasted across each story, and they wring your heart, but there are no words to describe them, no words to sufficiently grasp the scale of the situation, and what it must mean to one, two, thousands and millions. And you can only shake your head, ask why at best. With Myanmar, and China, and Jaipur reeling from the aftereffects, I realize that if on the one hand nature is revolting furiously and inflicting more harm and damage than man can ever fathom, on the other, there’s always the scum of humankind trying hard to match steps.

No Title

Pain
is a butterfly
precariously perched
on a leaf
of a rose plant,
its wings brush lightly
on the dew
that bathes the stalk
resting on the soil
in an earthen pot
placed by the ledge
of the skylight
on the terrace
of a house
sitting on a hill.

Words in Winter

It's already the fifth day of the year. Time sure flies. With it, the seasons come and go. This winter I have eaten guavas straight off their tree after plucking them myself (with the help of a clever little contraption affixed at the end of a long stick), washed my hands in a gurgling stream of a river (and picked two smooth, golden stones from its waters to keep), warmed my hands by an old chimney place and marvelled at the orange being so perfectly packaged.

Another day on a sunny morning I lit a candle on my grandmother's grave and said a prayer on the seventh year of her passing. The air was crisp but the sun warmed us on that mound, and I stood there, the earth quiet beneath my feet, the hundreds of grave stones lying still under the vast blue of the sky. The same morning while rummaging through bundles of old clothes, i found a tiny dress of a baby not more than a month old. It turned out to be one that my other grandma had made for me, a little before my birth. What a veritable gem this find was. I cannot believe I was ever that small. My grandma passed away soon after my birth, and I don't remember her at all. But I will treasure that faded little flower-printed dress, sewed by her own hands.

I have earned callused fingers from irregular bursts of enthusiasm where I sit immersed in the guitar, with fickle chords on the monitor. My fingers also pay the price of the otherwise engaging occupation of knitting, since I am a novice, and so the needles do not easily slip off the yarn but require repeated, painful cajoling by stiff fingers. But aforementioned chimneys, chulas, heaters and blowers are a blessing for this season. As regards the guitar, it remains to be seen how often I encounter those bursts of enthusiasm in future, and as for the knitting, I strangely find myself knitting a sickly pink scarf, the colour not being my choice and me not having any choice but accepting it. And also, one ball of sickly pink wool without my knowledge apparently rolled down the slope leading down from our front gate, and ball of wool settled itself way down the end, leaving a trail of pink behind. I was indisposed when this happened and was surprised to be presented with a dirty pink ball in the evening. I blame the dog, who must have played with the wool which I had left in the front yard. (Because I had also been sitting in the front yard earlier taking in the sun, and had forgotten to take the work in.) Pest of a dog.

When I had unearthed the little dress from the cupboard, I also found my mother's wedding veil in it. Fragile and faded, it was still beautiful. Of course, I promptly ruffled one end of it and put it on my head, dashed to the mirror to see what it looked like there. Ahs and sighs. And sighs. It is also wedding season out here- people marrying almost every day. I heard recently of a fairy-tale match that almost made me cry (not really though), but it was perfect. I went to another wedding nearby, and witnessed madhappy, energetic dancing- an offshoot not just of the wedding but the overall festivity in the air, in the month and season. The couple there was young and sweet-looking; on being asked to dance while a song was being performed for them, the groom turned to one side instead of towards his bride and did a funny little jig, realised his mistake and with a wide grin, turned to her and began dancing. By the end she looked flustered, but happy. Weddings.

I welcomed Christmas and the New Year, went to church and took joy in the music, all around; rediscovered the tranquility and beauty of hymn, and found peace in prayer. The city partied on New Year, and I remembered the boys the pastor had mentioned, sleeping on winter nights on the roofs of public toilets in Police Bazaar, eating scraps thrown from hotel kitchens for their breakfast. A six year old urchin called to the church for food on Christmas had reeked of nothing but dendrite, which was what he had sniffed the whole of the previous day. In my warm bed at night I cannot imagine their plight. And I have never thought I could do anything about it. It's troubling. But knowing about them infinitely makes me think about my moments of unnecessary expenses and the like. Giving is so easy, yet so difficult. Prayer can make a difference, but it perhaps need channels and routes. I don't feel I've been enough of a channel.

In my bed at night also many thoughts roll around in my mind. Life and love, the future, work, happiness, friends and family, God. Moments of pondering never yield answers, but in the day-to-day I live, and in the richness of experience, I think I learn. And in many things can warmth be found in the winter, even in something as simple as a little cotton dress, smelling of old age and musty cupboards.

Diwali

The festival of lights is louder than it is bright, or so it seems to me at the moment. Stepping ouside right now would mean inhaling fumes upon fumes of goodness knows what, and also realising that all that visual extravaganza (and cacophony) in the skies is the spewing forth of so much toxicity into the air. There's been a haze like mist outside since the fireworks started this evening, and by tomorrow morning, as happens every year, there will be a fine layer of ash/smoke dust everywhere. I wonder what happens to all those chemicals released. After the visual fest, do we really care? They'll probably fly about and chase each other, or just find their way down your throat. I don't think that harmless-looking, colourful little round ball comes with a disclaimer about things like noxious fumes, air or noise pollution. About a million or so of them thrown into the air in one night though must be leaving that nice blue sky gagged, choking and spluttering with indignation.

Lights and colour are pretty enough, and I think the diyas have an air of quaintness and serenity like no other. That spectacular display in the air cannot hold a candle to the tiny flame flickering in the the earthen lamp. The latter doesn't come attached with noise unbound, and toxicity unleashed, which is a quiet blessing.
Some pictures from this year's celebrations:

The last one's courtesy Ju (www.mphilchronicles.blogspot.com). Thanks!

Sohra

I recently went to Sohra on an impromptu visit. It didn't disappoint. Fortunately, it was a bright and clear day, unlike most days when Sohra is enveloped in a blanket of fog and the various viewpoints only look out into a thick, endless whiteness. For a little while, there was only mist around, especially at U Khoh Ramhah, but it soon cleared up remarkable well, and I could look out into the valley, and see the plains of Bangladesh in the distance. I missed out on seeing Ka Nohkalikai, but managed to see Ka Nohsngithiang. These waterfalls are a different picture in summer, having the life and vigour of the famed rains. Nonetheless, the cliff views were awesome.

Thankarang Park, which is otherwise filled with sightseers, was perfectly quiet. It wasn't the season for tourists, I was told. I had it all to myself, which I couldn't help revelling at!

The town itself looked idyllic, peaceful. I wish I'd gotten more pictures, especially of the old church, steeped in history, and the facade of the town in the distance as one first sees it. I couldn't visit the heart of town. This square is quite picturesque, I thought. Notice that the clouds are never far, or long gone!

Nothing

It's 2:40 am and I don't know what I'm doing. Read The Tempest, whiled away sleepless time well past my usual hour; some soft music playing, a conversation, a game of free cell, a packet of sweet-salty chips. Fit of inspiration (also of madness) to be doing this. Guilt, and other things. No words or witticisms come to mind. Just an itch to touch these keys. That's all.

PC

My first day of using the new comp. Ah. Joy. Even if by ‘using’ I mean clicking arbitrarily on stuff which I’d never use, just to make sure they exist. Opening folders at random, browsing through the usual preinstalled stuff. It’s awesome. This screen is beyond description. For one, it’s HUGE and FLAT, especially in comparison with my old one- which looked like something out of those late-eighties movies- small, dusty white, box-like, with a giant backside that protruded way out. The screen itself bulged importantly like part of a hemisphere at the front. Yes, it was an ancient, pompous old thing, but I give credit where it’s due. Though physically worn out (and here I should add the following: the mouse was held with tape at the back to prevent the ‘rubber ball’ from falling out, half the keyboard’s keys were stuck or extremely inconsistent with their functioning-resulting in several frustrating sessions at Word or Chat, the CPU was dust-ridden and would would decide to loudly whirr and splutter and hurl abuses at random, the remedy of which was to stick in a bit of cardboard at the back where the fan was, upon which it would give a frightening creak, and be subdued into silence again, the hard disk crashed once, the USB ports were unreliable and virus-contagions, the system itself was cranky), it was still a loving companion. And despite all I said, it’s still working tolerably fine, and is in fact now used by my sister, who I think won’t be too pleased to read this.

But of course I exaggerate. It is actually a robust, resilient thing. And it continues to work.

This one gave me quite a scare on first being switched it on. It registered a blank. Monitor wanted to sleep, or something. There was only a shrill, resolute beep emerging from the CPU which wouldn’t stop. After I pulled all the stops (well, yeah) I managed to get it fixed, and it’s fine now. And I’m petrified that it’ll go bonkers again. So I’m taking extra care, and am having difficulty typing because of this plastic sheet which I don’t want removed for fear of dust settling in between the keys (what help that could possibly give to the afore-said I don’t know). Also covering the monitor with two layers of protection- the sheet of paper it came in, and my own curtain-turned tablecloth-turned monitor cloth. And I’ve left the speakers in their little polythene covers. They look repressed, but I couldn’t care. The dust in this place wages war every single day. It’s the least I can do.

More on this later.

Yet To

What a strange medium: unread, unseen, yet giving me a strange satisfaction...

Eating My Words

I’m compelled to retract my statements, not unwillingly. Mrs. Dalloway isn’t inscrutable anymore. On the contrary it makes utter sense, in such an unusual, dazzling way that I’m awed. It flows with a flourish yet doesn’t explain itself easily, but now, having read into it with more insight and information than at that first helpless reading, I am pretty convinced Woolf was pure genius. I insist I’ve not been too severely influenced by critics and commentators, but all that reading did put things in a context. The book’s a good read. It’s an even better second read.

Woolf?

I can’t seem to get through more than two paragraphs of Mrs. Dalloway at a time. It’s inscrutable! I thought after seeing The Hours last week, I’d be more comfortable. (Yes, I’d never bothered watching it before). Well actually I didn’t expect the movie to make the book easier for me (it wouldn’t have done that in any case), I merely wanted something to get me interested enough to start struggling through that morass of a text. I know zilch about Woolf. I plead complete ignorance. I can recall the number of times I’d heard that name pre-Third Year, before it kept popping up in lectures on Modernism and text lists. The first was when I’d read about Elizabeth Taylor and her role in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolfe? or something like that. I'm still not sure whether it is the same Woolf or not, and remember getting confused on that count because I recall the role being slammed as scandalous, lurid, wanton. The second is seeing the book To The Lighthouse on someone’s M.A. reading list. Was faintly interested, then forgot about it. More recently I came across this picture on the net by pure accident and thought she looks extremely intellectual, sophisticated, smart. Nicole Kidman’s prosthetic nose fell into place. Then I learnt she killed herself. After having been absorbed by Sylvia Plath, who did the same, it’s getting more and more intriguing. I don’t know what the definition of Woolf’s ‘madness’ was but to think that she was capable then of writing a book such as this is astounding. I’m not lauding the book. I haven’t read it yet. But then I saw her name in a list of literary ‘giants’ who were snubbed for the Nobel, and taking that as my standard, I’m willing to expect great things from Woolf. And I know once I’ve read the book and the mountain of critical material one is expected to read alongside, I will have understood better, as invariably happens and will wonder how presumptuous I was to speculate so much on something I know absolutely nothing about, and that too after a mere 5 odd pages into it. But I’ve been warned that one has to read the text twice to really understand it, and as things are going, that doesn’t look like too pleasant a prospect.

Woe is me. I say 'text' instead of 'novel' or 'book'. I anticipate critical essays to act as concomitant reading material. i don't take the book as it comes. It's arduous, and a huge pain sometimes, to know you have to read a book, with the pressure of finishing it before a stipulated time. I like to read my book with a mug of tea; plonked on the bed facedown; in the car during traffic jams; on the terrace before the sun goes down; on a mura next to the heater in winter...not with a stubby pencil underlining parts that seem important, from a purely examination point-of-view. I think I started Mrs. Dalloway from that angle. Oh let the first reading progress into a 'reading-for-pleasure' one.

The Sun Also Rises

The sun rises early here. People wake up early, post World-Cup; or at least the early morning swimmers tell us that. Untiring and energentic, most of them. The water is lovely. Your body tingles with freshness. Goodbye Shillong. See you in a couple of months.