EARLEY MEMORIES PART TWO
My mother had a large collection of silver jewellery designed to cover every part of the human anatomy that was always a fascination to my young eyes. But more fascinating was when the women of the house crafted the replicas of the ornaments in mud from the village pond at the time of the Dussera festival: ornaments to adore the Devi or Sanji as it was called, pasted on one of the walls of the dwellings.
My Grandmother a tall, taller than my Grandfather by a few inches, with a towering personality would preside every morning over the breakfast ritual. I her favourite was always rewarded with an extra dollop of butter.
My Grandfather though not very tall did have an imposing personality and presence, was respected and feared by all except by me, being the youngest child of his eldest son had its advantages. The two of us the first and third generation would argue and disagree as equals on any and every subjects.
The children did not have much to do in the village except run in and out of the house aimlessly, with me in tow, much to the annoyance of the ladies of the house and the peacefully sleeping dogs who fell in our random path. I do recall that the young of the village knew enough about the ‘birds and the bees’, possibly due to the confined quarters and close proximity living and were extra keen to share their superior knowledge of the taboo subject with the ignorant cousin from the city
My Father a brilliant student the eldest son, first generation out of the village, on top a government official was always the centre of attraction during our visits to the village. He had a vast collection of anecdotes and enjoyed narrating the same to the riveted audience which always surrounded him. The privileged village folks would gather around him, he sitting on the cane chair, others huddled together on the cots placed around, listening with rapt attentions; some times seriously at others laughing rapturously to what ever he was narrating at that time.
There were no approach roads to the village. My father being a privileged Govt. official we could drive down the canal bank with official permission and the extra large key in our hands to open the equally large lock on the chain slung across the bank to prevent unauthorized vehicular movement. For others; the general public, the only mode for travelling available was the SSLR (Sahadra - Saharanpur Light narrow gauge 2’-6” NG Line Railway) with the head office in far-off Calcutta.
Maddening slow paced and always overcrowded, about the speed of the train it was said that an agile young man from the front compartment could jump down go to the nearest bush do his trick and still have enough time to get in the last but one compartment
The passengers along with a long train of friends and relatives to see them off would start arriving much before the scheduled time and wait patiently for the arrival of the train. Time did move slowly those days; with the slow pace of life there was no reason to hurry. The women in colourful skirts, bedecked with silver jewellery, some with faces covered depending on whether they were the brides or the daughters of the village. Some holding the children by hand others in their laps; the children some wailing others excited in anticipating the train ride, the men mostly dressed in white dohti - kurta with turbans tied in the local ethnic style.
I, with my father would be waiting in the Station Master’s Office rather on the platform, would be a witness to the mysterious happenings in his office. Little understanding the significance of the sudden clicking of the telegraph, the tapping on the key by the Station Master, of the steel ball falling out of the huge cast iron safe like contraption with a clang as also the swinging needle in the glass covered dial remained an unsolved mystery for me.
The Khalsi on a signal from the Station Master would strike the hanging metal-piece, a section from some old discarded rail that served as a bell, a couple of times with a similarly old heavy bolt; ‘Clang Clang’ announcing the impending arrival of the train and also unlock and pull the massive liver towards him dropping the Signal down.
The crowd would stir, anxiously looking towards the direction from which the train was expected. Spying the engine in distance someone would shout 'The train is coming'. Soon the engine pulling the compartments would chug-in, bellowing much steam and repeated tooting and blowing of the whistle as if announcing the joy of arriving; in actual fact it was to warn the multitude to move away from the railway line. As it steamed in noisily click clacking I would be holding to my mother's skirt like most of the other children of my age for dear life.
The engine would detach itself to take water from the over head tank and the passengers, till now waiting patiently would rush helter-skelter in tearing hurry towards the compartments, agitated men with the harassed women in tow pulling behind the excited children by their hands; a hectic activity to find a place in the already over-crowded compartments. Once settled, started the ritual of wailing and crying by women; those who had come to see-off and also those departing, adding to the cacophony created by the babbling of so many, combined with the shouts of the hawkers selling Pahalwan chap Biris, Scissors brand Cigarettes, monkey nuts, Desi Pan and not the least Moni selling his Barfi and Ladoos, made without or with little milk and ghee, a recipe known only to and perfected by him.
The train, with the Guard blowing his whistle and waving the green flag with the Station Master also now parked outside his office with his own green flag, , leaving with much tooting of the whistle.
Peace would once settle on the station now dead, dead as a station without a train can be.
The sad lament of the engine's whistle more so as heard in summer nights while sleeping on the terrace had a lot more to do with both of us Jeet and me in later life. It would be reminding us night after night of my impending departure, causing so much pain, by the same train till one late night I would leave her behind tearing my-self from the last embrace, words unsaid to answer the call of Army. I can only visualize her feelings at that juncture, however, I was utterly miserable walking in that dark night each step taking me farther and farther away from Jeet, silent and lost in my own thoughts with no words being exchanged with the person accompanying me to the station to see me off.
My mother had a large collection of silver jewellery designed to cover every part of the human anatomy that was always a fascination to my young eyes. But more fascinating was when the women of the house crafted the replicas of the ornaments in mud from the village pond at the time of the Dussera festival: ornaments to adore the Devi or Sanji as it was called, pasted on one of the walls of the dwellings.
My Grandmother a tall, taller than my Grandfather by a few inches, with a towering personality would preside every morning over the breakfast ritual. I her favourite was always rewarded with an extra dollop of butter.
My Grandfather though not very tall did have an imposing personality and presence, was respected and feared by all except by me, being the youngest child of his eldest son had its advantages. The two of us the first and third generation would argue and disagree as equals on any and every subjects.
The children did not have much to do in the village except run in and out of the house aimlessly, with me in tow, much to the annoyance of the ladies of the house and the peacefully sleeping dogs who fell in our random path. I do recall that the young of the village knew enough about the ‘birds and the bees’, possibly due to the confined quarters and close proximity living and were extra keen to share their superior knowledge of the taboo subject with the ignorant cousin from the city
My Father a brilliant student the eldest son, first generation out of the village, on top a government official was always the centre of attraction during our visits to the village. He had a vast collection of anecdotes and enjoyed narrating the same to the riveted audience which always surrounded him. The privileged village folks would gather around him, he sitting on the cane chair, others huddled together on the cots placed around, listening with rapt attentions; some times seriously at others laughing rapturously to what ever he was narrating at that time.
There were no approach roads to the village. My father being a privileged Govt. official we could drive down the canal bank with official permission and the extra large key in our hands to open the equally large lock on the chain slung across the bank to prevent unauthorized vehicular movement. For others; the general public, the only mode for travelling available was the SSLR (Sahadra - Saharanpur Light narrow gauge 2’-6” NG Line Railway) with the head office in far-off Calcutta.
Maddening slow paced and always overcrowded, about the speed of the train it was said that an agile young man from the front compartment could jump down go to the nearest bush do his trick and still have enough time to get in the last but one compartment
The passengers along with a long train of friends and relatives to see them off would start arriving much before the scheduled time and wait patiently for the arrival of the train. Time did move slowly those days; with the slow pace of life there was no reason to hurry. The women in colourful skirts, bedecked with silver jewellery, some with faces covered depending on whether they were the brides or the daughters of the village. Some holding the children by hand others in their laps; the children some wailing others excited in anticipating the train ride, the men mostly dressed in white dohti - kurta with turbans tied in the local ethnic style.
I, with my father would be waiting in the Station Master’s Office rather on the platform, would be a witness to the mysterious happenings in his office. Little understanding the significance of the sudden clicking of the telegraph, the tapping on the key by the Station Master, of the steel ball falling out of the huge cast iron safe like contraption with a clang as also the swinging needle in the glass covered dial remained an unsolved mystery for me.
The Khalsi on a signal from the Station Master would strike the hanging metal-piece, a section from some old discarded rail that served as a bell, a couple of times with a similarly old heavy bolt; ‘Clang Clang’ announcing the impending arrival of the train and also unlock and pull the massive liver towards him dropping the Signal down.
The crowd would stir, anxiously looking towards the direction from which the train was expected. Spying the engine in distance someone would shout 'The train is coming'. Soon the engine pulling the compartments would chug-in, bellowing much steam and repeated tooting and blowing of the whistle as if announcing the joy of arriving; in actual fact it was to warn the multitude to move away from the railway line. As it steamed in noisily click clacking I would be holding to my mother's skirt like most of the other children of my age for dear life.
The engine would detach itself to take water from the over head tank and the passengers, till now waiting patiently would rush helter-skelter in tearing hurry towards the compartments, agitated men with the harassed women in tow pulling behind the excited children by their hands; a hectic activity to find a place in the already over-crowded compartments. Once settled, started the ritual of wailing and crying by women; those who had come to see-off and also those departing, adding to the cacophony created by the babbling of so many, combined with the shouts of the hawkers selling Pahalwan chap Biris, Scissors brand Cigarettes, monkey nuts, Desi Pan and not the least Moni selling his Barfi and Ladoos, made without or with little milk and ghee, a recipe known only to and perfected by him.
The train, with the Guard blowing his whistle and waving the green flag with the Station Master also now parked outside his office with his own green flag, , leaving with much tooting of the whistle.
Peace would once settle on the station now dead, dead as a station without a train can be.
The sad lament of the engine's whistle more so as heard in summer nights while sleeping on the terrace had a lot more to do with both of us Jeet and me in later life. It would be reminding us night after night of my impending departure, causing so much pain, by the same train till one late night I would leave her behind tearing my-self from the last embrace, words unsaid to answer the call of Army. I can only visualize her feelings at that juncture, however, I was utterly miserable walking in that dark night each step taking me farther and farther away from Jeet, silent and lost in my own thoughts with no words being exchanged with the person accompanying me to the station to see me off.
