A Different Song

Lush tea gardens. Greenery aplenty. ‘Kasto Maja’. Bollywood. Beautiful heroine hand-in-hand with colorful bejeweled plantation workers. Melody on their lips, cheerfulness in the air. A happy world. As I drive down the tea gardens of Darjeeling, which I would describe as Nature at its best, I search for the glamor, the extravaganza. Well, what meets my eyes is something far removed from fantasy.

Workers are busy plucking leaves, baskets hung over their backs, their clothes soiled. Years of toil and hard work written large over their faces. The slow hum in the air, I am told, is not a joyous song, but a kind of warning, a signal to keep each other alert about snakes & pythons.  Their houses, with tin roofs and wooden floors, do little to protect them from sudden leopard attacks. Stray incidents of the feline attacking them in the tea gardens are also not unheard of. Like any other daily wage laborer, with a rigorous job & little pay, they strive very hard to make their ends meet. The green means nothing to them, or maybe they relate to it like we relate to an excel sheet, or MS Word. During the afternoon, as I spot a cluster of workers near the edge of a tea garden, I realize that they must have grievances with the plantation owners, in response to which they have formed some kind of a workers' union. 

When I talk to them about Bollywood , they nonchalantly rant out titles of various movies having been shot there, some actors they have met. An old man points out for me the various sign boards which have been posted by the Forest Department for some eager movie buffs. One of them, in colors which scream for attention, read, "Moner Manush Bengali Cinema Picnic Spot"!

So, although you find here a universe in its own, far removed from the dust and din of city life, revolving around the same worries, the same happiness, the small little joys of life, you cannot hide away from the Bollywood connection to this place, or the make-believe world of fantasy which subconsciously lies in within you when you come across a similar picture of some tea garden. 

Call of the Wild

Jungle Safari is a word which, in my dictionary, was synonymous with Discovery Channel. A beautiful universe meant shrubs neatly trimmed, growing at equal distance from each other. All trees shedding their foliage, and blossoming, at the same time every year. And, maybe an occasional bright-hued bird I considered myself lucky enough to spot. Mother Earth was a store where I shopped for 'natural' and 'organic' products. Well, never ever had I imagined that all this while I have been gazing at something so superficial. That Nature, with all its majesty, grandeur and splendor, lies in the wild. 

Here, each tree is a different shade of green. Shrubs grow in unruly clusters. Flowers are flamboyant and loud in their colors. Sudden patches of barren land followed by heaps of dusty rocks end in a sparkling clear brook, equally sudden in its appearance as it gushes out of the mountains. Standing in an open-hooded jeep, wheezing past the jungle terrain, I am struck by the magnanimity of it all. I take in the fresh air heavy with morning dew & an unknown, strong fragrance fills my lungs. Strangely, I think of Mother as she steps out after her morning bath, half dried hair,  her moist skin against my cheeks, the smell of her body soap dense and thick around me. Divine. A smell which told me I am secure. I am pure. Deep inside the Chilapata forests, so dense that leopards are spotted regularly here, is this smell some kind of a mirage?

I tear myself apart from such lonely thoughts and look up into the sky. I see tall trees with no foliage at all. Only branches and offshoots towards the tip, spreading themselves as if singing a hymn in praise of gods. Vines compete with each other to twirl around their smoky gray trunks. Even the trees and shrubs growing nearby wear a brighter shade of green, as if in consolation to the lack of color of their counterparts.

Here in the wild, birds are more gallant in their flight, a sense of independence in their song. Their colors more vibrant, their demeanor so carefree. Why, even the occasional rhinoceros I spotted seemed so much relaxed and at ease, hardly bothered by my presence, except for an occasional disgusted look thrown towards me, an intruder. The lone leopard I spotted seemed so royal amidst the green canopy. The sight of humans did not irk it, or turn it ferocious. Calm and composed, it continued its afternoon siesta in the abandoned watch-tower.

This Jungle Safari makes me sit back and wonder - what made man leave this serenity, this beauty and adopt a life so dubious, so discolored, so ugly? And, in the process, chop the hands that have fed him all this long? Progress, they say. Is it progress that makes my retreat so tasteful, so refreshing? Would I have enjoyed the forests so much if I had not experienced the bustle of city life? Would i willingly give up my city life to take recluse in the peace and tranquility of the wilds? The answers are stark naked and painful. But true.

The Inner Voice

A speeding train crossing the river creek. A whiff of fresh air on my face. Dishevels my hair. Reminds me of you. So distant yet so near. A relationship unnamed. A feeling untold. A memory bank. We meet every day. Everywhere. Sometimes you have a face. Or a smell. A vague recollection, a shape, maybe. Yet, you make me happy. A troubled day, a lonely soul, a happy moment, well, any kind of emotion and you’re there with me. So often have I chased you, pinned you down, panting, just to unmask your face. But every time you evade me, only to come across and hug me as a different entity. On days when I’ve felt I really cannot take it any longer, you have embraced me, held me by the hand and told me to be patient. This too, shall pass, you say. And miraculously enough, I have survived. Every morning, you tell me, ‘It’s a brand new day girl! Go get it!’ and I spring out of bed, all armed, ready for the day’s battle.

Sometimes, when I pack my kid’s lunch box, I drift away to that distant dreamland called home. I see Mother rushing through the house, her Sari all tied up around the waist, ladle in one hand, my tiffin box in the other. “What? You’re not yet ready? The bus will arrive any moment now!”, she says. Who is it that I feel standing next to me, reliving the moments with me? Is it not you? As I walk in the street, all alone, bitter after a fight, hungry for love, craving for respect, who is it I encounter at the corner? I hold my breath as I look at you, so beautiful, so serene. You smile to show that reciprocate my feelings, and I feel wanted once again.

Who are you? Are you the ‘Whats-app’ beep on my phone, reminding me that someone somewhere remembers me? Or a friend I like spending my time with? That little speck of unfulfilled desire lying deep within me somewhere which lures me to go on? The quest for happiness? Are you the mystery I grew up with, my tooth fairy, my Santa Claus, my M&B hero? Maybe. Maybe not. But I  lovingly think of you as the dear old good spirit in me. And I like to think that it is you they refer to when the intellectuals talk about inner strength.