Outsider

The hills, the greens, the jack fruit tree in front, the mud ridden path to the well in the backyard, bricks strewn along to step in, in the muddy rainy days...I remember my home, my childhood in the state I left for quite some time now. Remembering.. getting nostalgic.. we do it so often though when I left my state nobody forced me to..and many like me, we left willingly in quest of a better career, better life. The state rides over our thoughts in a wave of nostalgia, romance, fond memories hardly of any relevance now.. except may be visit once a year, parents, relatives and the world of childhood changed a long ago.. the city has grown from a fledgling struggling teen to a youth in full bloom.

And then I see my city in headlines.. molesting a teen age girl , seemed a joint venture of so many sick men. But I see my city grabbing attention.. media.. TV channels, newspapers... Barkha Dutt arguing, politicians storming into the scene. Did we not wish Guwahati to be in lime light, to be in the mainstream.. so badly in our school college days.. and did we not vying for attention and ' mainstream' gradually made a beeline for greener pastures.. Yes we complained.. our state , our city not getting enough ' footage' in TV channels, national media, we stay isolated...and years after when I see the ' footage' the reason brings a lump in the throat. This is nothing new.. this had happened before many times many ways.. and it happens again.. among the glare and light of the watchdog media..

My state grabs headlines again, this time for a longer duration, this time when the entire nation felt the pain of the state, the tears of the region. Riots, deaths..hatred like infection caught the entire country, the ' exodus'..and we stand and sigh. I make a silent rewind of the journey of my childhood in my turbulent state..my first school days in Jorhat, three to four years of schooling in Goalpara, then back to Guwahati where I finished college and university. Jorhat I have a very vague recollection guess I was too young, but Goalpara flashes vibrantly in my memory..the Brahmaputra.. closest I have ever been to the river.. hardly five hundred metres.. cross the wide stretch of sand..and.. the river. Foreign influx, immigrants.. I had a vague recollection in Goalpara.. the vegetable vendors, the fish vendors who would come to our house sometimes would  talk of their hardship and from elders I would know they are ' Bangladeshis'. Rest apart the town was a mix  of all kind of population with a language of its own.. Goalparia.. a special genre of music with great Bhatiali notes specially catering to the songs of the river. I learnt my lessons of ' Assamese' there and with age was learning not to speak Bengali in public.. not because anyone told me anything..most of the people understand Bengali there but there is a feeling at work.. same feeling may be makes my 3 year old daughter speak in Hindi in Delhi without anybody asking her to...

I remember happily visiting my father's colleague,s house in Ramzan evenings..the aroma and the variety of food..mind boggling. I remember them coming to our house and putting up for weeks when the town was flood affected...through our relatives raised eyebrows, we cooked in the same oven and ate the same meals.. May be it was the time when the fruit of hatred was not ripe, seed has been sown into history though. As I spent my remaining childhood and teens in Guwahati  knowing it to be my hometown, my motherland..though accepting the fact that Bengali to be spoken in home and with other Bengalis. There was a time like all Bengalis I longed to be in Kolkata, listen to Tagore songs, watch Bengali movies, read a lot more of Bangla and speak openly. But then random visits to Kolkata never made it my own..may be the language and yes the raw accent of our sylheti  Bengali would draw the ridicule and sarcasm of the Kolkata Banglans. Therein surfaced the identity crisis gradually.. we are Bengalis from Sylhet uprooted during partition, settled in North East. I was tired of answering the question ' where are you from' with..' I am Bengali.. settled in Assam.' All drew a blank.. I can,t blame north or south Indians even fellow Assamese when the West Bengalis also remark , ' You mean you are from Kolkata'.. I am not , I never was.

But me and many like me.. rootless.. we began to love the city we were in..city has a common culture. a common lingo..and fell in love with Brahmaputra with Bihu and when a bit older with Bhupen Hazarika..and sometimes with Zubeen Garg and with All India Radio Guwahati.. churning out Assamese , Hindi music. The land became our own, the language our own and my closest friends whom I could tell ' I dont like your bland Assamese food'  and who could tell me ' Oh these Bengalis.. can.t speak a correct Assamese sentence.'

My land is burning today...lots I can relate to..lots I can,t. Lots I feel..of leaving my home, leaving my land..leaving my parents..of not being loyal to the land which knows to give and greet. of not being able to return anything to the land which gave everything to me..feel the pain of my land scarred by the immense strain of all the complexities, of the different population mix.. and the feeling of ' my state'and ' my city' deep inside me, may be an outsider myself in the dark pages of history..

Of Dreams Desires and Delhi

So many things I have not done in life rather failed to do in life..list is long .. dancing ,driving I guess tops the list. What,s with this D word.. I wonder. This city of D..one cannot survive here without sitting beneath the wheel and without shaking a leg..and I have hopelessly failed in both D,s many times. The office I work in is generous enough and most of the girls and guys working here and even the fresh ones have a car and.. how much I whine and howl..most of them drive. I have somehow managed to take free rides and be the ' passive partner' for car pooling all these years. In fact I have even offered my husband,s old Maruti 800 to the guys to drive and though they cursed and sweared under their breath while driving in the blazing afternoon ( of course the car had and still has an AC !!) .. they did drive home our car. Now that I am back after my one year hiatus..and there is actually no one to take me along to office!!! So putting up a brave front... I set course for duty by public transport. Public transport in this city of D...with the airport Metro closing down options are too less and sometimes too bad. First hurdle.. hurdle number one.. I don,t know since when I began to feel shy about using public transport..when I reached bus stop for the first morning duty.. only people  I could identify was one of the cleaning ladies in office ..and another man equivalent to her rank.. na , na... I am not being sarkari casteist... Group D and all.. I was plain happy to see them ..after so many days .. what I have to do is just follow them.. where to get down and where to catch the next bus..

As flurry of cars zoom into the office gate..I sneak in through the little side gate for pedestrians.. shyness creeps in again..and me being an old stuff now..most of the older stuff do not fail to remark.. ' Madam aap bus se..' as I paste the smile in my face without replying and several retorts stumble inside. some more generous comments... ' Arey yeh sab to hum logo ke liye.. aap jaise ofsar..'  Yes yes I am supposed to have a car and drive that too..and I can,t .. and that is that.

So coming back to public transport ..first day i boarded the bus to office..first thing which felt so Delhi like was the voice of  Lata Mangeshkar.. ' Ajeeb daastan hain yeh'..the melody pouring in though from a worn out pair of speakers and I realised this was something I missed back there in Shillong..familiar radio stations and familiar music from familiar voices. But then public transport in this city specially in this sweltering heat is nowhere near being just about adequate..let alone be fun. Nearest to fun being a ride in the ladies compartment of Delhi Metro. Just looking at the chics you know what you have missed out..whether coloured flip flops or stilettos, capris or hot pants, kurtis or tunics, sleek bags or colourful jholas, bright nail paints or nude ones, latest fashion statements.. and at once you realise lot to catch up on fashion front..and if you wonder from exactly where to begin..take a look at these chics closely..and dont forget to keep your ears open...' Agla station ... Doors will open to the left..please mind the gap.'  We don,t mind really, the AC and the comfort..the traffic less , red light less ride..but closing down of the Airport Metro leaves no option..but newspapers tells me Government has given 3 month time for the problems to be fixed..

Newspapers also told me there,s a dearth of buses for the commuters in Delhi.. only I didn,t need newspapers telling me that.. most of the days after sweating, puffing in the sultry weather..waiting more than 30 minutes.. i,m bargaining with the autowalahs and dishing out 100 rupee note to reach office and that too no auto would drive to our office, I have to catch bus from a  point.Since the new airport emerged out of the barren lands.. our office stands sidelined from the main airport and hence all public ransport deserted it. Shift timings changed too..upto 8;30 in the evening from earlier 7:30..but who complains.. all car owners and an extra day off to compensate for.

But at least some buses run in that road.. allowing me to sneak in unnoticed .. carless..careless.. trying to be a true citizen taking pride in our public transport system..yes credit goes to my (un)driving skills but I am waiting to join the bandwagon get a car and drive... till then..the road , autos, buses and me...

One year of solitude

Dear Ninni

It is over.. our time at Barapani..and we are on our way...and since I could not complete on the go..I  just  thought I would finish it in the sweltering heat of Delhi. Yes this has been our home for a year. You me and your Pishi and sometimes your grandpa grandma.Nestled in between hills, bathed by rains , swept over by clouds at times..and lush green all around was our ' home' a year.

    

This is how you looked when you followed your Ma to office with the invisible umbrella in hand.

You were closest to earth as you ever could be..





 
Gudia was the first friend you made in your life. Some months elder to you, moody.. she looked just like a doll. And both of you spent hours playing..I was so happy that Gudia was there and I could leave you comfortably with her and go for some badminton in the evenings.

This black one.. she gave birth to twins.. one black as her another grey.. they were so weak..we fed three of them.. fish rice...biscuits..


                                           Ma,s office was the best place to hang out

 

                   

                        


You loved Shillong.. you could always blackmail into getting unnecessary stuff for you

We are posing in front of the Centre Point restaurant Shillong..

 This is ma,s FB profile pic..:) Taken at Elephant Falls Shillong

 We had several visits to Orchid The Lake Resort

                                                   This is ' Gungun' another of your friend







                                     

 
                                   Thanks to the few jigsaw puzzles and   cards ..kept u busy

Ma spent her time in SUDOKUs why would you be left behind....



                
                                                          Baba was there too sometimes..
 

  

                           
                                        Cherapunjee with Baba , we were stuck in incessant rains... 

She brought you up....

We are so thankful to her..soetimes I used to get irritated..I still do..but at the end of the day she did a great job.

It had been a short stay may be.. but eventful for you and me..from a tiny two bedroom apartment locked from inside.. we were somewhere where stepping outside was being close to nature.. the hills and the greens..where getting daily vegetables and grocery and keeping sufficient inventory level was a matter of awesome management..' managing' a trip to the near by army shopping complex in the office vehicle.. or hand over a list of groceries to anyone going to ' city' or shopping complex.. aww it required some management, the place where there is no other option but to walk two kilometres for a public transport or procure a decent packet of biscuits. And you know after many days I talked the way I used to.. the languages I have known throughout my childhood.. though I don,t know how you picked up Hindi so well... Grandpa grandma ( my parents) made regular visits here.. they won,t anymore.. But this is life and we have moved on from Barapani to Delhi in the maddenning heat and madder crowd.

Just tried to assemble some pics so that when you grow up and look at me blankly when I speak of 'Barapani' .. that magical land where we stayed for a year.. I have something to remind you..

Love

Yours Maa







Different Strokes

Just wonder about relationships..where do we begin from and what do we end up with . Pointless wondering yes but..we all do pointless things in one stage of our life, some do it often , some more often.. some are just plain unlucky.

We are born with parents.. parents whom we can,t choose, parents whom we can,t change. Father.. doting, strict, protective, mean and mother loving, caring, friendly, nagging, bragging..types are many. Guess these two characters influence most. And these two people we love, they are the first to rebel against, first to accuse for our failures and they are many ' firsts' we wil fail to count. Siblings take over next sharing caring jealousy envy fighting for attention , discipline the younger, copy the elder. While my father has been and still is the one I have always looked upon in all phases of life from sharing any odd joke to comment on any book we read, I ponder over the relation I share with my mother..factious, complicated..arguing invariably, fighting incessantly, discussing at length the colours and prices of the outfits we buy, disagreeing vehemently on the same issues over and over again, swearing not to set our eyes on each other after each fight. And my reticent sibling who and I never agreed upon any single thing, for him I was always arrogant know- it -all ,academically better much-elder sis ..and for me doesn,t - know-anything , spoiled -massively -by -mother lil' brother. We had hit each  other, manhandled each other and grew apart gradually with time except for occasional phone calls.

I grew up in a joint family before I knew who was I , I was surrounded by uncle, aunt ,grandpa and a host of other relatives. My neighbours..I always called them aunts and uncles.. the youngest one was four years elder to me. In absence of  a sibling in my early days I just adored the three brothers and sisters, eldest one macho and hero, next one pretty and feminine, the youngest one my ideal and my guru and I followed her like a shadow. The games we played.. teacher student, train train, family family, Durga Puja games where we ended up making mud cakes as Bijoya Dashami delicacies, and those doll house games and the big brother after entry would play havoc with the dolls in a minute!! But the big brother rather the big uncle was the ticket to my love for old hindi film songs, those old unheard off songs..and the beginning of idolising Amitabh Bacchan just imitating him!! At home my real aunt replaced my neighbour as the next avatar.. independence finacial and personal for a woman was intriguing and I guess that was the inspiration when I set my feet outside my home in search for a job. And of course my uncle who reads my blogs, is active in FB ,who would spend hours with me filling me up with historical mythological political  fables and my first insight into real world. He bought me the first map and taught me to browse the Atlas.. was the first one to fly with me to Delhi when I needed immediate operation.

And in my old home, nobody could miss her presence.. as if the house and her soul were entwined, she filled up the house ,was a towering personality among her peers and juniors.. and how she continues to live after her death..my grandmother. I remember her in white saree ( after grandpa,s death) , two pairs of glasses, the reading glass and ' Ananda Bazar Patrika', the command in her personality, the warmth in her heart, the magic in her food.. I have always felt few persons can live after their death.. she being one of them, her strong presence felt long after her death.

School , entry into social life.. friends, peers..pressure.. Before we know friends decide our clothes , food, they take precedence over everything else unless first crush hits. When crush hits all fades into oblivion..crushes , heart breaks, some hand at writing verses..phew school days roll over to college classes. First try at fashion, beginning of parties though in my time and in my case fashion was just trying another set of salwar kameez with dupatta, and parties meant getting together at someone,s place and cook together and eat!! Drab idea  of party but in our times that was fun.

Then the struggle phase after university days..and close friends drift apart..competition, struggle in the job market, smooth lovely fun days are over and the time to confront the world friendless alone.. Work place gives a new class of ' friends' , with money to splurge and options galore life seems great. But then work place ' friends' never turn out to be the innocent childhood friends of school and college though exceptions are there but they just prove the rule.

Romance, affairs and ultimately taking the plunge. Life gets a new epicentre to move about and the vision narrower, with an infant popping into the scene life is just me and myself.  Centre stage is home.. funny while youth and teens yearns for the entire world as the arena..conjugal life constricts it within the four walls... the toddler fills up life, gives it a new dimension. Life moves on juggling work family..maid plays a central role in life, and by that time one knows to handle the unique eccentricities of the relationship with mother in law.. the most demanding of all the relationships till date..every move you make and every breath you take..counts..

And soon toddler grows upto a child and child to an individual and parents keep getting redundant to them.

Phew.. relations are many with varying demands and most change with time...like we ourselves do..  Like the golden days of childhood cannot be relieved only watched through the hazy veil of present, wonder years never come back and the grey days of  mid life overlooked , unaccepted take over...with aches, ailments, some amount of financial affluence, some recognition, some sense and some memories cherished and nursed in some corner of the heart.

Few more pages

15th May 2012.. Verdict is out..I wait impatiently for the attachment to download..the order I have longed for..transfer order to Delhi..happiness, joy at the expected news coming a notch earlier..phone calls.. to a husband who is unreachable as usual (being away watching IPL on that night switching off mobile), parents, in laws. Guess my mother in law was the happiest of all..which mother in law would love to see her daughter in law pack her bags and kid off to a far flung place and ' leave' her son ' alone' ( alone in the city of Delhi!!) for a year for the sake of a job..whatever the job might be.

Waves of joy coupled  with a tinge of loss for leaving the place and a feeling of not being able to deliver..deliver what the place deserved. May sound redundant and philosophical after the transfer order but then this one year apart from loving the hills and clouds..mourning for Delhi , husband, planning for leave, suffering bouts of illnesses, blogging at random..what did I do!! Strange question..I did discharge my duties, did what I was supposed to do..and I would have done same in Delhi too,do what I am supposed to do. Then..just an excuse to sigh and get philosophical, my husband would have quipped at once, ' Getting all sad and melancholy is kind of your hobby, pack up your bags and rush off from that place'

I am going to do the same. Pack my bags and flee. Yet I know I have not been honest or not been able to be honest to these hills I claim to love, to the girls who work so hard. Yet I know the seat I hold in my office, the salary and respect it draws I should have been able to do a lot more than just what I am supposed to do. Apart from getting aircraft safely on the ground from my tiny tower, indulging in office gossips, imparting a few english lessons to a part time plumber, being sympathetic to local young office girls, being the ' Agony Aunt' to my young Malayali colleague, sometimes the protective elder sister making her life a bit smooth in this alien land  there is hardly anything worthwhile I did...

The hills are now green , rains have started not the incessant ones ( global warming and all) but one shower almost everyday, and while the rest of India burns in the sweltering heat Barapani whisks off the rain drops from her body with a brush of her clouds.. This is bliss... cool breeze in the evening and the invariable chill in the wee hours of morning.. The brush of green has painted the landscape in all shades, youth at its best, beauty radiating from the hills just enough for a long breath to escape..the hills did not get their due nor its people from ages, wanderlust travellers being beckoned ,enchanted, loved and then they move on leaving these hills for  greener pastures.

I would go back soon very soon, doing little for this place, little for the hills , nothing for its people. I would forget this land as a fling, a passing phase and this land..would bid me adieu with her open arms , would welcome other wanderers, other souls trapped in this exile, love them, caress them and send them back happily after a year.

Barapani Diary coming to an end..tale of our discoveries..me discovering Barapani and Barapani discovering me.. few more pages..fewer readers..

On reading ' River Of Smoke'

How do we define a good book...I read somehwere most probably in High School..some books are to be swallowed, some to be chewed..but Google is there..let me find out the complete quote..

Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts, others to be read, but not curiously, and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention.

                                                                     Sir Francis bacon

It has been a week I have finished reading ' River Of Smoke' and was swept in the after effects a few days more. Yes many books are there..to be tasted swallowed etc etc and some books just defies all dimensions..not only transports the soul to a roller coaster ride through the lives of the characters, it,s just that opening a page just changes the backdrop at once..I move back around two hundred years in time in a country I have never been and am caught up in the tornado of events. 

I have read Amitav Ghosh before and more or less loved all the books. The Hungry Tide was specially dear to me because of the riveting experiences of Sundarbans..the mystries of the mangroves..and the chemistry between the leading characters Fakir and Piyali.

The Sea Of Poppies was the first in Ibis trilogy, tale of opium being cultivated in India, rich fertile lands meant to yield crops turned into narcotic hubs by selfish traders, the plight of  Raja framed by the shrewd British , oblivious to the finances of his estate lands in Alipore Jain Calcutta,and then the story of Deeti and Kalua social outskirts eloping to find themselves deported to Mauritius along with other slaves in Ibis.

River Of Smoke came second in the trilogy. I delayed reading this book as I did not want to get in the Ibis world yet too soon..the plight of the deportees, being caged like animals, suffeing bouts of sea sickness stuck in the underground of Ibis..their dream of escape. Yes 'River Of Smoke' did begin from where Sea Of Poppies ended..the journey of the fugitives of Ibis yet Ibis gets off the centrestage in the turn of events before the reader realises  and Redruth and Anahita occupies the  seaward voyage.

In a subtle progression of the narrative the Ibis and its characters take the backstage pushing forward  a new city Canton unfurling like a book in the eyes of readers, Canton and fanqui town .. the ' pidgin' language ( I think Ghosh,s uniqueness lies in mastering the languages and dialects, be it the language of lascars in Sea Of Poppies, or " pidgin" in River Of Smoke). Foreigners.. American, Europeans and yes Indian traders ( Indian trader to be precise) flocking in the city, shipping their cargoes, cargoes full of opium cultivated in India, joining hands with local merchants to smuggle the shipment, ruin two counties India  and China and bask in the glory of reaping huge monetary benefits and all these being the ' loyal subjects of Her Majesty, Queen of England' 

Canton (Guangzhou) , Pearl River

Canton, now Guangzhou on the bank of Pearl River, the boat city..it is in one of the boats where protagonist Bahram Modi meets the love of his life Chi mei. Bahram stands as the ironic facet of the novel being noble generous,foresighted Persi businessman on one hand yet having quintessential  business heart, hideous affects of opium escapes his vision rather the fame the riches that opium brought him obscured his vision. Opium has given him the identity he has lost living with his tycoon brother in laws and conglomerate in law family. He stands apart from the other shrewd European merchants smuggling narcotics in this land they love and the land which has loved them back but..as he himself realises later he sold himself to ' Ahriman' the Zoroastrian demon whom he loathed in his prayers all his life.

The book illustrates the backdrop in minute details ,city of Canton , Maidan , fanqui town where foreign merchants reside and sets the pace to a thriller like extent.The Chinese resistance an ,effort to save the eroding country under effect of opium , the bunch of greedy East India Company merchants finding ways to smuggle the drug through the alleys of the city , their high and mighty attitude of being ' British'  being proud to turn Indian farmlands into opium fields and China as a potential ' market'. The thriller grips the reader, other sub plots, of Paulette the botanist and her quest of Golden Camelia faints as the main plot takes over and the reader feels as much inclined as the Chinese authorities to oust the greedy merchants save a country from corruption from the claws of this killer drug.

The abrupt end of Bahram Modi surrendering his huge cargo under the pressure of Chinese authorities and another ploy by English merchants for the beginning of a war brings about the anti climax. The loss of the war by the Chinese , more smuggling after the British victory just would draw the long sigh from the reader and the total fall of fanqui town where the friendly Chinese and foreigners all enjoyed the ' Law of Free Trade' being turned into British colonies and the equation was now of the ruler and the ruled.

Ghosh never attempted to pass judgement on history, just the turn of events pointing to the stage of history crying for justice, justice for the Chinese  being poisoned with the drug , for the Indians starving despite having vast fertile lands, lands without paddy and wheat, lands full of the narcotic flower.

The critic may have several points up his sleeve but I cannot help but revel in reading a book which has brought life to a phase of history, a neglected part of history being relived with feelings and emotion. Well just felt thankful to Amitav Ghosh for this River , smoky hazy but he led the readers to lift this veil , sail through the river and embark on a new journey across its banks.

Barapani Diary....The Road Beckons

Udate pairo ke tale jab bahatee hain jameen
Mud ke humane koi manjil dekhi hi nahi
Raat din raahon pe hum shaam-o-sahar karate hai
-Gulzar

Raaho pe rahte hain...yaado pe basar karte hain..so hummed Sanjeev Kumar the Gulzar favourite while he drives his truck through hills and plains...

The road never ceases to fascinate.. as the vehicle turns left and the first view of lake hits the eye ..half obscured by hills and the eye just begins to yearn for more of the luscious beauty..the road beckons..to all ..all wanderers.. all travellers..And it is time to move on ..may be quoting Robert Frost's most quoted lines

But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep

Every time I get out of my exile and the vehicle just turns left towards city..towards Shillong..towards a piece of my past.. I invariably feel the thrill, the thrill of city..thrill of the road and the thrill of the destination ahead..We cross the first bridge..right.. the lake plays hide and seek before giving in to the lusty eyes of admirers for a full view.. left.. pines bloom much down below..and somewhere I have heard the wind caressing the pines have a tale to tell..if you stop to listen.

We do not stop..but move ahead..hearts humming..blue jacarandas strewn carelessly along the sideways.. welcoming velvet carpet and a little drizzle always crafts the letters in the clear sky.. ' Welcome to Shillong'. By the time we have reached the doorway to Shillong.. Mawlai and the traffic to the city had begun to build up..congested roads, the lure of the city gets stronger...then a ride through the narrow alleys, giving in to a breathtaking view of colourful tin roofed houses blessed with rich flora and then.. at the zenith of climax.. Police Bazar...
Bliss..the aroma of freshly baked delicacies..the chatwallahs lining up the street in the evening and mind dancing to the music of being spoilt for choice.. momos and chowmein at Centre Point, Ilish (Hilsa) at Suruchi or nibble those heavenly mutton samosas at Ecee or wash down chicken pakodas and lollipops with a warm cuppa in the small road side shop run by the pretty lady (forgot the name of the shop)..or enjoy a relaxed ambience at Lamee ( Earlier Broadway) with usual North Indian fare or may be move a bit up and enjoy the open space of ' The Family Dhaba' or on a mundane note simply sit at Dominos and savour the half forgotten taste of thin crust pizza and coke or may be take a peek at R.B. Stores breath in the aroma and dig at their puffs and pastries..and yes..the Alu Muri and chaat on the wayside cannot be spared too..

Once we are done.. we most of the time includes me and my Malayali colleague..when let out of the workplace which we consider exile sometimes both in terms of location and bosses.. and we are no less than a pair of sniffer canines hunting sniffing for food we are deprived of. Sometimes we aso include my toddler and woman friday but since most of the days our venture is on friday ( no flight day for me) and woman friday is a staunch vegetarian on friday ( vegetarian as in no onion and garlic) and I have to struggle hard to order no onion garlic food for her..but level of irritation has gone down drastically and I do it as a routine job like stuffing anything edible in my toddler's mouth..to keep her going through out the trip.


Next stop after a fill is some shopping..if time permits ( since most of the times we try to sneak in the office vehicle coming to the city for work..we adjust return accordingly) window shopping. My favorite stop is Glory,s Plaza , wandering in the narrow stuffy semi lit alleys..though the betel leaf stained downstairs is a sore sight..I have learnt to ignore and move up through the spiral staircases.. shoes ( though I get my size rarely) clothes bags accessories..but the habit of malls with spacious trial rooms and visible price tags and sizes..so buying spree gets curbed to an extent..but hardly I return empty handed..shopping bags in hand..joy in the heart..and sheer glee of bargaining spins the happiness web..as we return to the crowded lane of Police Bazar.

Sometimes we would frequent the salon for a short or very short visit..yes.. surprise we do not have any salon in the nearest forty kilometres.. I know all city women would wonder how does one survive..and yet all the village girls manage to look pretty if not all city bred.. Beauty treatment and pampering never fails to leave a feel good happy mark in girls..and we too are caught in the wave..specially let out of our exiles..feeling pretty..irrespective of the fact that there is hardly anyone to notice..but I guess this joy is too selfish..beholder or no beholder.Hair cut, eyebrows, facial, wax..more we spend..our joys match the splurge in leaps and bounds.

We are almost done now..as we would wait for the vehicle..last minute rushes continue.. some apples and pomegrenate in exorbitant prices..some more eatables packed from R.B. Stores..rush to the ATM.. we are severely cash deprived there near airport where we work.. with ATM being fifteen km away in a place where there is no means of public transport to commute, and always try to remind myself constantly to a buy a balloon for my toddler from the vendor when she is not with me and if she is there I end up buying a host of unnecessary things that suits her fancy to avoid the fiasocs created in the middle of the road overlooking the irritated eyes of onlookers with the message ' cannot control a child!' Yeah that is bad parenting..but who bothers..with the heart humming.. And as we would find our way through the underground parking our last stop is Baskin and Robbins where my colleague would tickle her sweet taste buds after being spoilt for choice for the flavour.

The curtains drop..if we are not standing in the long queue of ' public utility' to relieve ouselves in the rainy chilly evenings of Shillong..(which is a very cumbersome task given the long queue building up in the stench filled gateway).. we are in the vehicle struggling through the busy traffic of the city, finding the way out, pines bidding adieu..eyes closing in slumber..a' blink and miss' glimpse of the lake awaken a 'nearing home' feeling. we cross some more curves..and the pines make way for the broad view of the lake..evening lights donning the hills..the newly built view point..we cross bridge number three after first and second , the vehicle turns right..blue jacarandas hardly visible now..the vehicle zooms through the newly constructed highway..sing song heart almost fell silent..we reach airport.. exile..home.

How many times I have undertaken this journey since last one year..the thrill ,the music, the joy and the end continues...till date..and the road beckons...and wanderers wander....

A quote I read in Shillong , ' We also believe in God, only we spell it 'NATURE'.

Har mulaqaat ka anjaam judaai kyun hai
Ab toh har waqt yahi baat sataati hai hamein....

From my one year stay in Barapani Airport in 2011/12 as an air traffic controller .