Shoytaner Jhaad

Chhatim er ingriji ki? I often wonder! Dekhlam Chhatim ke onekshomoy "scholar's tree"  bola hoy. taar karon ei gachh porar desk, lekhar slate ityadi banate byabohar hoy. Tobe bohul procholito je naam, ta besh odbhut - Devil's Tree. Rashtrobhashay jake naki bole Shaytan- ka-jhad ! Bhishon obak holam... omon matal kora gondho je gachher taar naam Devil's tree? amar chhotobelay chhatim phuler gondho ami shebhabe chintam na... boltam "Sohini" gaaner school er shamner gondho! Bohudin obdhi kauke bojhate parini thik kon gondhotar kotha bolte chaichhi. Bari pherar pothe ekta jaygatay "Sohini" bole ekta gaaner school er board lagano thakto seta kheyal korechhilam, aar kheyal chhilo je thik oi jaygata perolei mon-matano ekta gondhe obosh hoye ashe snayu... Gondhota ato teebro jano ghum kere nite pare othocho atoi mishti je ghum parani gaan o haar manbe. kothay jano ekta nesha lagay! Ei heno ekta gachher eheno naam - kirokom jano!

Aaro khNujlam- janlam er onek "gunaboli" r modhye ekta naki malaria sharano. Eo to galo goon. Tahole naamta? KhNoja chalu roilo.. Keu janle janio!

barely a post

Words like almost, nearly, hardly, apparently have almost always fascinated me! Ambiguity and uncertainty in life nearly kills me though! I hardly understand why this enthrallment. Apparently the tinge of vagueness and non-fulfillment does the trick!

She turned in her bed as the morning rays shone on her puffed-up eyes! She pulled the blanket to cover her ears to relish the warmth. It was windy. Bending at her knees she clutched on to the pillow pulling it close enough making her securely comforted. She didn't want him. She wanted to be with the man she wanted him to be at the moment - a man who he almost was. But with the golden drops of the sun, beneath the cuddle of the blanket she wanted him only with a dash of seasoning on, to make the perfect sundae ever!

She never wanted him perfect! Wanted to indulge her taste buds to savour the mouth-watering taste of building and re-building her man again and again with her own brush, painting and re-constructing him every moment! Winter mornings made her paint him in bright shades of Gold while lazy Sundays urged her to colour him in hues of Olive! Oh, how she loved the neutral shade he was in her mind, waiting for her brush to smear rainbow flakes and play with the man she craved for! Happens to all, does it?

Mourning

A day back he lost his beloved! Through thick and thin, rain and shine she was with him for the last 12 years . Never betraying him, never nagging for a favour back in return. She was with him from the morning cups of tea to the after-dinner strolls in the balcony. She knew his secrets- the darkest to the silliest, often peeping in to the most private corners of his life. Lusty obsession she had become for him with time. A shoulder to lean on, she held his hand to light the first flicker of joy on days of merriment! Success seemed incomplete even with all the pats on his back, without pulling her close, to sink into the warmth of his awaiting lips. Challenges seemed tamed when she was by him. He knew she would leave but hoped against hope for the day to never come. Loneliness crept in the moment she left him for good. Seems unbelievable to not have her fragrance enveloping him through the days and nights, cuddling him in a smoky sheet of affection. True it is... She is no more there for him..gone forever.. his beloved bud of smoke, saving his life allowing him to cherish her memories healthily through the rest of his life!

Yawn Contagion

I thought of pouring out a post when my eyes narrowed to shut and my mouth opened wide dropping the jaw lines to an extreme, breaking into a yawn! A reader in the library, seated bang opposite my work station had just lifted his eyes from the book he was stooping into, only to ape my gesture! Yes…not an unusual occurrence at all…we are all aware how contagious can a yawn get… Even on watching someone yawn on screen one can have no other option but to yawn back at the idiot box– merely out of a sheer uncontrollable unconscious facial muscle movement- involuntary of course! Allow me to scribble a few interesting nothings here:

• The average yawn lasts about 6 seconds.
• Even chimpanzees yawn in response if you yawn in front of them
• We start yawning even before we are born. 11 weeks old fetuses start yawning
• Cats, dogs, even fish yawn
• Non-human yawn often to display their canine teeth to warn enemies

My initial thought was to post about something entirely different when this abrupt cue of the most commonplace contagion provoked me to write otherwise. So I started penning down a few interesting particulars about yawning which seem to be less known amongst us all. Wanted to write about yawn to force it away but what happened was just the reverse. I have by now lost count of the number of times I have yawned while penning down this post. I am sure you have too, while reading…

Freedom

“main sochti thi main badi ho ke gareebon ki seva karungi. par main toh khud hi gareeb ho gayi” (I used to think that when I grow up I shall serve the poor. But I myself became poor), said the short, lean woman from the Balai community in her 20s, with a smirk. I was shocked. Not only at the way she said it, in a tone that seemed to kind of mock at her audacity to even aspire the way she did, but also at the way she looked right into our eyes as if pointing out how privileged we were to have been able to be in the position where she daringly aspired to be.

My first fieldwork taught me to question about my position, my identity, my role as a researcher. It was then that I for the first time realized how privileged I am being an ‘Indian woman’ and yet not necessarily conforming to all the strict restrictions and norms that the women, who were then our ‘objects’ of study necessarily conformed to. These were women in their twenties, same age group as mine, but with so many differences in terms of their knowledge, attitude and practices, given their location in terms of social class, geographical setting, educational level and very significantly their caste positions. Before I actually stepped in the field, I had an idea that the aspirations of these women even though they belonged to the same age group as mine were very different. Not that I credited this fact to the difference in socialization process that we undergo, but I was quite sure that these women did not aspire for ‘freedom’ in the same way that ‘we’, the urban, middle class, formally educated women did. The ‘us’-‘them’ divide seemed to be quite distinct in my head till then. My idea changed abruptly with a blow as I was roaming the village with my backpack which contained my note pad, pens, umbrella, sanitizer, clip board and water bottle. In an informal interaction with the young bahus of the village, they enquired about our marital statuses and got to know that we were unmarried. Sharp was the comment in no time at all, beginning my process of unlearning - “inhe dekho yeh kaisi azaad panchi ki tarah fir rahi hain bina shaadi ke. Hum to yahin reh gaye hain” (look at them, how they are roaming like a free bird without having married. we have stayed behind).

Among the many things fieldwork taught me, a very significant one seemed to be how our ‘objects of study’ considered us as ‘ungendered objects’ not expecting us to conform to any gender role as such. There, we happened to be ‘researchers’ – neither men, nor women; neither ‘she’ not ‘he’ but an ‘it’ in the strict sense of the term. We were the ‘madams with bags’ or ‘didi’ after a certain level of acquaintance. We violated the norms of womanhood by carrying backpacks, not covering our heads, wearing wristwatches and unisex floaters; we were often questioned whether we were married. When replied in the negative, reactions were more of shock than of surprise. Different reasons for our parents not being able to marry us off even though we looked around twenty years of age were voiced. Disability featured foremost amongst those reasons. They often suspected me having some kind of disability which must have detained my getting married. Offers to search grooms for us too were not uncommon. We were ‘objects’ of curiosity.

From the women of the village there were mainly two kinds of reactions towards us. Some of them felt the need to teach us to behave in a womanly way, which we seemed to be unaware of. However, the young bahus seemed quite envious of our position wrapped in ‘freedom’ – freedom to board the public transport alone, freedom to not cover our heads in public, freedom to talk to people- men and women face to face, freedom to carry backpacks, freedom to laugh out loud in front of others, freedom to control our own bodies, freedom to roam the village not fearing caste contamination, and the list was endless. That’s when I learnt how ‘free’ I was, never ever realizing it before this.

 For men however, we were the alien being who no doubt was ‘female’ biologically but not ‘women’ at all. Unlike their women of the village, we were raised to a platform where the men considered us capable enough to discuss matters regarding the village economy and polity. Unlike the women there, we could sit and chat with village elders at the local tea shop. Not that it surprised them. We were already so different. However much we tried and covered our heads with our dupattas, we still remained the urban researcher- noone had any trouble to search and pick the odd one out! This was probably the first time in my life that I tried making a conscious effort to hide my urban middle class identity, specifically my ‘privileged’ identity. It was in such circumstances a matter of guilt and shame.

Talking of guilt and shame my first ever field study haunts my memory. It was an urban slum. There was no space to place one’s shoe-covered feet. It was filthily dirty with human and animal wastes, vegetable peels, pieces f rugs and so on. Open drains marked the paths dotted with single roomed residences housing numerous families within the area. The rooms opened out to the drain and once one crosses it one had to step on to the grubby clayed alleyway. It was a small survey that I was a part of during my University days. When I returned to my room at the end of the day I was feeling sickened at the dirt and filth I had been in through the day. The thought, that we had just gone there once to do a one-time survey and that numerous families actually live there day in and day out, struck me hard. ( I correct myself… my sister Shyamasree pointed it out to me, not that it struck me on my own at the first go, I am ashamed to say). This was my first encounter with reality, with soil.

During my days of work in the village, I realized how privileged I was most importantly in matters of marriage. We, urban, middle class educated women were privileged enough to not get married till our late twenties and roam the village talking to village women exactly of our age or even lower, about their experiences and opinions regarding their lack of privilege on such issues. The women there say, “jab chhoti thi, sochti thi shadi nahi karna. Padhai karke koi naukri karna hain…par gaon mein umar nahi dekhte. Badi dikhte hain toh shadi karwa dete hain”. Starkling anecdotes emerged through our interactions. One of them, a twenty year old woman from the SC community in a Rajasthan village shared, when asked whether she wanted to get married at that point of time, “moino toh patah hi na chala. Jab aise patah bhi na ho. Jab sagai hui mein khub roi – mujhe bhi jana hai..sab ja raha hain. Jab sab bole, aree tera hi toh sagai ho raha hai ” (I did not even know that. I cried a lot when everyone was going for the engagement. I cried saying I too wanted to go. Then everyone explained that it was my engagement only). Apparently funny an incident, shocking it was how in reality women of my age were living in a different world altogether. It was horrid to even believe that such a world existed outside the film screen.

It was during my field work that statistical data, numbers in the pages started breathing. Child mortality till then was a term in the books, never coming alive till I met this young mother who had just lost her child. She mentioned that her six month old daughter passed away two months back due to some illness. She tried seeking help from various doctors both in the village and in the nearby city, but it did not help. She was extremely depressed and her mind seemed pre-occupied with related thoughts. She also told us that she was planning to get the ‘operation’ (sterilization) done after three children but now…… (She seemed to fumble with words). Her face looked sullen and her eyes full of grief and helplessness. This was my first encounter with the ‘meaning’ of the numbers that filled up the columns with the heading of child mortality. It was devastating! Further more, it taught me, showed me right on face how poverty and child mortality were big business today. It pointed out how poverty sold through glossy newsletters and pamphlets.

This incident was when I wondered whether I would be capable enough to continue in the field of doing social research through fieldwork. The classroom lectures had taught me by then the concept of involved detachment that a social researcher should be abiding by on field. I found it not only difficult but impossible after a certain level. Where does one draw the line? The question still haunts!

After a theoretical training in the classrooms I had gone away to the field to find answers; it was strange; I came back asking myself more and more questions- some answered, most unanswered!

A woman in her late twenties shared that she was a very successful sportswoman all through her school years. Participation at the district level events of Kabaddi, Kho-kho, basket ball, high jump and long jump had won her lot of ‘pramanpatra” (certificates), and “steel ke jug” (cups). She shared she would win sports events and dance competitions where she once danced on a glass tumbler with a number of small earthen pots on her head. She discontinued studies and sports because she got married when she was in class 8. So, that put an end to her participation in sports activities and her school learning and slowly she became busy with the household chores. Similarly another lady shared how her skill came to an end with her marriage. She used to earn quite a lot by stitching clothes and blouses at the village level for women. However her marriage put an end to this. The tough part for me as a researcher was that we were women of the same age group but with such different privileges.

FINALLY THE FREEDOM TO WRITE, TO SHARE SUCH EXPERIENCES! – THAT I HAVE. AND THEY CRAVE FOR!

An Erased Tale?

daag?...dhundte reh jaoge!

Eraser, mane chhotobelay jake “rubber” bole jantam… tar proti chhoto thekei ekta odbhut akorshon… mochhar proti na oi eraser dustgulor proti ta thik janina…tobe akorshonta irresistible...kodin age…office ashar shomoy rastay pithe bag newa golay corporate er boklosh jholano ekjon 30-35 bochhorer clean shaved shudorshon chhokrake dekhe kothao kichhu nei hothat kirokom school e thakakalin shosthir din shokaler gondho pelam…. Shekhan theke edik shedik kotha mathay ghurte laglo…thik jano ekta koutoy shobdogulo pure keu bNador-khela dekhan jara, tader haater dugdugir moto kore narachhe…chhotobelar kotha mone porte porte thamlo eshe shei eraser e... amar j kano ato eraser niye mathabyatha k jane... shei je camel er alphabet aNka aar chobi dewa shada mathata shobuj erasergulo hoto na...scented? seta je ki miss kori ki bolbo…hoyna bodhoy ekhon aar …koi dekhi na to!... tar por natarajer shadagulo...tarpor nil khape mora non dust... natarajer shadagulo chhilo chhotto rectangular….insignificant dekhte…r chhilo nanarokom shundor dekhte colourful eraser jegulo diye muchhlei kalo kalo hoey jeto r amon shokto je khata pray chhire jawar jogar hoto:)… kichhur abar nanarokom phol er shape hoto r gondho thakto ekta synthetic…bhallagto na gondhota motei… ei rongin gondho-dewa erasergulo beshirbhag khetrei pencil box er ebong porobortikale pencil bag er konay pencil-kata phool er sathe obohelay pore thakto…tader gunomaner opor nirdidhay obishwash kora jeto bolei bodhoy…! r jegulo bhalo muchhto…. Mane non-dust gochher ersaergulo… prothombar mochhar shomoy khub jotno bhore kono ek ogyato karone kono ekta kona bhNota kora diye shuru kora hoto mocha… khoye jawata dekhte ki? … ke jane… ar ekdhoroner “rubber” hoto… jeta sharpner ba chhotbelar “kol” er sathe thakto… gaye thakto ekta odbhut chhobi…jeta ekdike bNekale ekrokom r onyodike bNekale arekrokombhabe joljol korto… ei sharpner-cum-eraser er pechhone abar thakto ekta eraser-dust jharar brush … bejay moja petam eta sathe thakle… ajkal bodhoy egulo dekhe moja pawar shujog chhotora payna… pencil er pechhone chhotto nongra-mochhe amon eraser kintu ajo ache…. Kheyal rakhlei dekha jabe!bakigulo bodhoy shomoyer shonge shonge dhuye-muchhe saaf… ki jani…

pother shesh kothay...(blog er shuru etay...)

"ei rastata kothay gechhe? ... rasta ki jay?... naki amrai?... ekta rastar jedike jotodur jabo amra...thik tototai "jabe" rastata... tao kano jante chai thik etai... barebare...amra shobai i? ... dhur! ebhabe ki blog shuru kora jay naki?... naki ebhabei shuru kora jay... bangla font tao koi je!... dhur! dhur! dhur!... shob jano kamon guliye ghNete eksha hoye gelo... "Confused soul" er etai prothom post thak... jodi katei prohor blog e boshe moner duto kotha bole khoti ki ...