A Rural Fairy tale

The festival of Durga Puja brings in mixed feelings of melancholy and happiness every year..Like the flower of Shiuli declaring the advent of Ma..they bring back reminiscences of the puja that has now changed with the times.. But has only the Puja and times changed? What about the people whose hearts were made of the gold..like the sweet sunlight of Sharat? Where would one find them who are lost from our lives forever ? The festival of Durga Puja brings in mixed feelings of melancholy and happiness every year..Like the flower of Shiuli declaring the advent of Ma..they bring back reminiscences of the puja that has now changed with the times.. But has only the Puja and times changed? What about the people whose hearts were made of the gold..like the sweet sunlight of Sharat? Where would one find them who are lost from our lives forever ?

The postman whom we awaited the year long for that inland..postcard.. greetings card from our near and dear ones..Our hearts filled with an indescribable happiness seeing a few lines scribbled in ink.. how we fought with our siblings over who'd break the news to our elders about the homecoming of our uncle..or the day of the visit of our aunts..

How we used to keep reminding our newspaper vendor uncle for that Sharadiya number and the thrill of flipping through the pages first, saving from others.. many of them we'd read and return back..

Relatives were parts of our family and it mattered the least through what branches of our family tree we were tied..

The rice peddlar who carried sacks behind his bicycle..whose countings of scaleful we'd interrupt making him forget the quantities of rice weighted..but he'd never complain and weigh again smilingly.

The milkman.. The one who sharpened the knives..scissors.. The man who etched designs on grinding stones and pestles.. The man who sold paper flutes and fans.. The old lady who brought taro plants on her head..

Along with people who had designations.. there were others we hardly knew..Yet they filled our lives with warmth and security like no one had..

THE POEM

1

Let me tell you a story.. Many, many years ago When kings and queens ruled the earth.. Okay..So you're tired of listening to these fairytales.. ? Hmm..Let me then tell you about a man called Ramdhan.. Ramkanai.. Ramswaroop.. Or whatever his name might've been.. My memory fails after all these years now But I do remember his thousand watt smile.. He never tired himself from running errands for one and all.. Those were the times when the sun used to climb down into our courtyard.. And filled every heart to the brim with its warmth.. Yes there were many hearts then.. My parents..grandparents..uncles.. aunts.. We were so many brothers -sisters We hardly needed to make friends outside our family And of course Ramdhan.. Ramkanai.. or Ramswaroop.. Whatever his name was..Was a friend of all No days would begin without steaming morning cuppas served by him 'Aye.. Where is my hookah', my eldest uncle would shout And it would come floating in the air before his feet.. All my uncles used to commute to work in the city regularly.. Leaving Ramdhan to be the only one who rested the family on his shoulders After a heavy lunch of three types of fishes.. Mutton..five vegetable curries.. potato fries.. sweetmeats.. When Boromama(1) would emit a long, resounding belch.. Two freshly prepared paans would be served to him.. And the huge..double-storeyed mansion would shake wildly from his snorings Ramdhan wouldn't mind running to the market three times a day To fetch Kingsize Filter Wills for him till the days Boromama stayed with us.. Or taking him out for a stroll in the village in the evening.. 'My son needs to be fed cat fish curry at lunch.. Just run to the market once more.. And don't forget some green bananas.. And pick some centella leaves from the garden.Will you..?' My elder aunt would always worry over her lean and feeble son.. Suffering from stomach ailments.. every now and then.. How many pirs and fakirs she showed her child to.. When Allopathy.. Homoeopathy.. Ayurvedic all failed.. And guess who the messenger of all their whereabouts was..?

2

Come mornings and who 'll see us reach school everyday..? Across the busy main road Where there were giants rolling on wheels ready to crush young children.. At least according to my mother and aunts in the house.. Who else but Ramdhan ? The days when heavy rainfall caused waterlogging on the streets.. Who carried us home on the shoulders ? Often when we returned from school on Tuesdays and Thursdays.. To find the the elderly women yet to return from the temple .. Who'd bathe us.. feed us our lunches..put us to sleep ? No..no..don't frown..Nobody had heard the word 'babysitting' then.. And our elders didn't doubt about our safety in his hands.. In the evening.. when we'd all squat on the terrace as big as the football ground Our village was yet to witness the magic of electricity.. Heavy-eyed from watching the fireflies in the fields below.. Piercing the darkness like blinking threads of light And the monotonous calling of the krickets The wicks of our lanterns shivering from the gust of wind.. As our books pleaded in vain.. Ramdhan would suddenly appear from nowhere 'Mejokakababu(2) is about to pay you a visit..', he'd warn And no sooner had he said would we hear the characteristic cough downstairs There would be a tiffin break of course during those times.. And we'd break upon the tumbler of puffed rice and potato fritters.. Sometimes we'd demand a story.. Request him to convince our parents.. That we'd make up with the time lost.. By getting up early for studies.. We'd listen with bated breath as Ramdhan spun stories of his village.. Of Brahmodaittyo.. Petni.. Nishi(3).. claiming them to be real Till our youngest sister would get frightened.. Then he'd change his genre from horror to humour.. And we'd be amused at how he cooked up Gopal bhand and Birbal With some spices of his own and served them with elan.. We all knew he faked the stories.. But till the time he spoke he kept us mesmerized If a neighbour's mangoe tree had to be raided.. Who'd keep the guard engrossed.. In meaningless conversations..? Sneezing overly from the scent of khaini tapped on the palms.. Signalling us of danger as we silently filled our gamchhas(4) with the fruits ?

3

Any occassion in our family.. Be it Chotka's(5) marriage..Chotkamima's(6) Shaad(7).. Or our newborn sibling's annaprashan(8) You've only got to tell the air.. In the absence of mobile or internet those days He'd drop down from the sky at the right moment.. And take charge of everything..Unsaid.. Uninvited 'I know what you're thinking of..Yes..Event Management..' From getting the marquee properly erected.. The lighting arrangements at the right places.. Receiving guests..His thirty-two pairs of teeth dazzling.. The only means of visibility in the dark.. When the generator stopped working sometimes.. An aide to the petromax light.. Devoid of inhibitions he'd happily tie the gamchha around his waist.. And cast his spell.. The pieces of fishes and mutton would suddenly multiply in numbers.. The curd and sweets would go excess.. The guests would leave..belching..pricking their teeth.. Rubbing their hands over their potbellies.. Praising the food.. admiring our hospitality Come the day of enactment of play in the village.. And Ramdhan would guise up as Rama.. Holding a bow and an arrow in hand.. Demanding to let him play the role which his name signified.. Claiming himself to be better actor than the one who kept forgetting his dialogues 'This guy has gone off his head.. Result of giving too much latitude ', Boromama would growl

4

When my grandfather had to be admitted to the city hospital.. Thirty-five kilometers from our village Ramdhan would carry his meals to and fro from our house.. Standing for one and half hours inside the crowded bus.. each time.. 'If it would've been my own father..Had I not.. ?' He'd clarify.. when told not to take so much trouble 'How can we let Baba eat those unpalatable food.. while we .. ? There would be questions in his eyes we found uncomfortable to answer.. Day and night he'd take refuge in a corner of the hospital.. When grandfather was in ICU.. Attending to him at every beck and call.. Reading him from the Ramayan.. Feeding him spoonfuls of his favourite dal..a little payesh(9) Cried like a child when grandfather was carried on shoulders For his last rites.. Then suddenly one day Ramdhan .. Ramkanai.. Ramswaroop.. Whatever his name was..was nowhere to be found Seemed simply to have vanished into the thin air.. Ramdhan..Ramdhan..Ramdhan..!!! We'd search hither and thither..then send people.. To fetch news about him at his village.. You see the Durga Puja was knocking at the doors.. Our bonedi(10) tradition..Of clay modelling of the Goddess.. In our thakur dalan(11)..the only puja in our village.. The community people poured in large numbers.. A huge work operation..We seemed to go blind without him..

5

The news of Ramdhan succumbing to malaria fever of three days came more as a surprise than a shock to others.. But to me Ramdhan 's death was perhaps more painful than Many deaths of near and dear ones I had witnessed.. So.. now when the story has come to an end.. If I ask you what relation we had with this person Ramdhan .. Ramkanai.. Ramswaroop.. whoever he was.. I know what you'd say in unison.. But No..He wasn't our servant..Was just a neighbour's distant relative.. What did you say ? This story seems too good to be true ? I know.. that's why I told you in the beginning..It's a fairy tale.. I know it's unbelievable that a man without any kinship Did babysittings.. managed family.. events.. catering.. Overall worked like a servant.. for free..so many years.. When he could've made a fortune.. Given the wealth we were blessed with those times I know what you must be thinking about him.. 'Must've been a fool or mad man..' In our home his name had been Ramdhan.. Other households knew him as Ramkanai or Ramswaroop But people like him existed in all families those days Searching for a man like him today is like Squeezing water from a stone.. If you ask me.. the Ramdhans .. Ramkanais.. Ramswaroops.. Didn't die of malaria or any other disease.. The urbanization of our villages had swallowed them in full..

Notes: Boromama (1) - Eldest brother of mother Mejokakababu(2) - Father's brother just after him Brahmodaittyo.. Petni.. Nishi(3) - Names of ghosts in rural bengali culture Gamchha(4) - Handloom - knit cotton towels made in Bengal Chotka(5) - Father's youngest brother Chotkamima(6) - Wife of father's youngest brother Shaad(7) - A traditional pre-birth celebration done for bengali woman along with the pregnant woman’s close friends and relatives, the idea being to surround the woman with as many positive vibes possible. The actual meal of the shaad is supposed to consist of all of the pregnant woman’s favourite food. Annaprashan(8) - It is a Hindu rite that marks an infant's first intake of food other than milk. The term in bengali literally means "rice feeding" or "eating of rice" Payesh(9) - Rice pudding Bonedi(10) - Affluent and stalwart bengalis in yesteryear, specially during the Colonial Regime Thakur dalan(11) - The courtyard in the old houses where the clay modelling of Durga idol is carried out by skilled artisans every year fir worship along with painting, apparel, ornamentation and other decorations complete..

The image shows the bonedi bari Durga Pujo of Ramdulal Nibash.. popularly known as 'Chatubabu-Latubabu's Thakur bati, Kolkata in the year 2016

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