'I write, so I can sleep well'

The summer of 2014 has been dedicated to traveling. I've visited big cities, small towns, road side villages, jungles and river beds. I've asked myself why I travel and travel alone mostly. Many friends can't fathom the urge to see things from my own perspective, to be on uncharted territories to live life beyond that which has been set as your horizon. Wherever I travel, it is always people that I am attracted to, more often than not people are generous, going out of their way at times to indulge a complete stranger. And in that perhaps you carry back the observations, minute little nuggests of wisdom that stay with you. It is perhaps also why I find a bit of me strewn into wherever I have traveled. And thus on many nights when I sit alone in a huge guest house from a British era or a tiny forest bungalow by the river bed, I'm prone to tracing myself across where I'm spread thin.

While traveling through Kurseong at a certain point, I stopped for some tea. While the tea was being made, I saw another woman sitting in front of a shop. She was sipping her own tea while arranging the fresh vegetables she had put on display on the shop window. My gardener instincts, led me to ask her whether she grew the vegetables herself. She seemed surprised and then happy at being asked, pointing at each vegetable she summarized how they were grown, why frost was a nuisance, how her dogs kept her company on the hills. She looked at me after a minute, as if as an afterthought and asked me what I did. I looked at her hands then, she reciprocated by looking at mine. I looked around me at the massive mountains, the terrific greens, at the little dogs playing around, at life so uncomplicated. What does one tell someone so rich in mundane happiness, what the writer does. The immensity of simplicity, on a road that bends on a tea cup, suddenly seemed over powering.

I told her then that I write. Why she asked and what. I remembered my friend Amandeep Sandhu saying, 'I write, so I can sleep well.' I wanted to tell her then that I write so I can keep your essence alive, I write so that I can find a word that describes the immensity of this freshness. I looked beyond and fell silent. She tugged at my jacket, gave me a piece of charcoal and showed me the wall of her house, 'likho kavita'

To the story that every forest carries...

There is a certain charm to growing up amidst trees, amidst the call of birds and exploring things unknown and the ever present curiosity it brings out in you, to see what is on the other side of a reluctant hush sometimes..

I have always felt that like the sea, the jungles have a language of their own. It is in discovering that language that the most fascinating stories are told. 

But wandering into the forest alone is not enough, one must be ready for them, ready to be surprised and know somewhat what lies ahead. Tribes who live in the forests will tell you that the forest has a spirit, sometimes worshiped in the form of 'Ban devi' ( Ban is forest, devi is Goddess) These spirits are the guardians of the forests, of the treasures that lie deep inside the forest...the supposed Yakshas who roam around free spirited.

The tribal s who lived within the fringes would talk of these spirits, living a life in the nights, they would fight, make love, roam around uninhibited and to enter the forest at this time was to disturb their territory.

But during the day, you could roam and the stories would enfold if you had the eyes to see and hear. Anyone who has been in Indian forests will tell you that the forest is never deserted. There are women gathering twigs, peasants taking short cuts and it is they who will fascinate you as much as the forest itself.

During one such session of wandering into the forest, close to a swamp, we were playing 'collect'. Whoever could bring the most unique thing from the forest did and left it in a small clearing where we later stood to examine all the goodies. As we sat around it, a tribal lady, with a bundle of firewood on her head was walking through. She looks at us and did not say anything. Suddenly she spotted the bundle of small things comprising fruits like Guavas, some red leaves, a pretty flower, patterned leaves, etc. She put down her bundle on the ground and suddenly lay down straight on the ground to bow down at the heap, we had gathered. In her simple mind, this was probably an offering to the Gods and she paid her homage willingly too. Without a word to us, she prayed silently and went back to collecting her wood. 

Even that day as today, it is the simple faith that people have, that is like a prayer. It is like an omnipresent beauty that few have and even fewer who understand it. In her faith that day, all of us lay enriched. Little stories of the forest never go unheard, they waft somewhere so beautifully and glide down as only sunshine can...

To the story that every forest carries....

( Picture from the Internet)

Shadow Speak

Yesterday while on my evening walk, I chanced upon a tiny road, away from the main path that I usually walked on. My curiosity led me to look upon it, even try and gauge it from afar. What I saw was a little road, seemingly not often tread upon. The grass grew in patches here, from time to time nature seemed to have remembered to strew some flowers rather casually. Strangely the flowers weren't beautiful, they were dull in color, most of them at least. Some of then bobbed up a head or two in excitement of the on-coming of the winds. I couldn't resist myself, the little road seemed to be straight out of some magical land. As I tread, still skeptical, I noticed a long shadow like creature walk along, strangely enough the shadow wasn't mine. The form was masculine I noticed. I walked here and there but try as I might I could not make the shadow leave. Unknown to myself, I shivered a bit, but then I decided I had to be brave and talk to the shadow, get rid of unknown cobwebs. I said, "who are you?" The shadow turned, as if from a distance, seemed  to smile a bit and say, " Don't you know me, try to see if you can recognize me" I peered, closely and tried to identify who it was, I said, " I'm really sorry, I can't recognize you" Grave now the shadow said, " I am the first real sorrow, you felt". Strangely unlike shadows, this one didn't seem to flitter but stood steadfastly in the same stance, in the same place. I tried to look through what seemed a very heavy burden, bowed my head and looked at my toes and then I asked, " have you dried up your share of tears?" The shadow was silent, It seemed that sorrow and smiles seemed to have found a strange co-existence together in it.

Suddenly the shadow, turned it's face towards mine and said , "once you had said that you would cherish you grief for an eternity" I bowed my head down, was I embarrassed, was I shy? I reached out for it's hand and took the rather long and outstretched darkness into mine and said, "it has been rather long, time has asked me to forget what once was a piercing pain. You have changed too" The hand shifted slightly and came away from mine. I smiled a bit, looked up and said with the wisdom that hurt brings, "sorrow has turned to peace, and you a distant memory of what was."

The shadow vanished, perhaps for forever, the grass seemed a tad greener and the flowers somehow more bright..Somehow just then I wanted to see every colour and become every one of them. Life like magic is strange, you have to be the magic sometimes perhaps, to be able to live it.

(Inspired by Rabindranath Tagore )

© 2011 Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury

( Image courtesy Google)