Daadi Ma aur Gaon aur Bihar aur bahut kuch…..Jadheen

(Please ignore the mistakes – grammatical or otherwise. The following will remain unedited)

LONDON, 12:00 A.M

I have been trying to sleep but cannot. Faded, dusty images keep forming and reforming themselves, reminding me of a past not too distant yet very far – history disowning me, taunting me with amorphous, hazy images that wring my heart with nostalgia so deep it hurts. An old woman, very weak, drained of all life looks at me with strange eyes. I can’t make out that look on her ancient face criss-crossed with creases -signs of the passage of time. Is it pleading or surprised? It is lonely for sure. Are those betrayed promises in her eyes? Or is it fear of the night that is soon to come and then never go away – no more dawns, just the eternal night with its all enveloping darkness where she will not be seen nor heard. Perhaps it is just sadness – deep, profound sadness; perhaps she too is thinking of the past like me – of a long gone youth. Of a young 14 year girl, married into a large family…….

Chacha Ji called today. “Do you remember me ?” “what!! Ofcou…” My voice sounding strange to me. A very fair, handsome man. Doting Chacha Ji. Bhaiya is crying, clamoring for attention – the eldest child – had after many mannats. “Somebody, look at gelha also”. I stare at him with the mute gratitude of a two-year old. Gelha – Kabootar ka baccha – the young one of a pigeon.

Really dusty village – Mangwaar. I faintly remember a pucca house – one of the very few in the village. And the mango orchard with machaans where ghosts resided. Anchu bua – What was I then, seven ? I had a huge crush on her. She is no longer that beautiful and I have never had any crush since.

We would come to Mangwaar in Holis and Dussehras. In Papa’s government jeep. And urchins would start running behind as the jeep neared the village, trying to touch the jeep. Mummy would drive them away and I would look at them receding with wonder – not, as I do now, with sympathy at their barely clad emaciated bodies.

“Daadi shapath?” We could not swear on Daadi and lie. Or she would die. “Who do you love more ? Mummy or Daadi?” “Daadi!!” three voices in unison. And a pair of flashing eyes, somebody got up and walked away. Sounds of laughter all around. When there were fights between Daadi Ma and Mummy, the three of us would form a ring around Daadi – to protect her and she would hug us.

Mangwaar has electricity now. Four hours every day. And our pucca makaan has a toilet. I am relieved to see that. I don’t have to take a lota and go to the fields to defecate. Though, I am told the toilet is chiefly for the ladies. The men still use the open spaces.

The mango machaans are no longer there. The ghosts have been evicted. I wonder where they reside now.

The woods are thinner. And there he is – I hate him. We call him Kutil Baba. All children dislike him – he has a habit of showering affection by tweaking the ears sharply – very painful. He is bent now and walks with a stick.

Its been 4 years since I saw Daadi Ma. The accident has rendered her immobile. Now she just sits in a corner, staring at the kitchen with vacant eyes. The kitchen used to be her domain. She had worked all her life and now..

“Can I bring you some khaini Daadi?” She nods her head pleased.

St. Xaviers – roundabout the time Mummy took ill. And Daadi left to live with Chaacha Ji. All her life she had lived with us and now…

St. Xaviers has a huge library. Agatha Christie’s novels and those afternoons…Mummy would seat us in chairs in the sun in winters. I and “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd” – 8 A.M to 4 P.M….the book is about to finish and my pace has increased to the point where I am barely reading the sentences – just registering the story. Can’t wait to get involved with lengthy sentences, I can smell the murderer – should I just look at the last page.

The Father’s quarters is very peaceful and serene. When I come early, I can catch Father Horan pacing in front of his quarter with a book in his hand – he has a habit of walking and reading. “I want to become a Jesuit Father”, I had confided to Harsha.

You know how I landed in a hostel in standard three? I and Bhaiya. It was all his fault. Or the cap’s fault – the fateful Mr. India cap that we bought after watching the show from stolen money during school hours or “what went for a school” hours. Two or three huts, open sky – to get enrolled, you could come and start attending classes under the sky. And we met Papa on the way back – our topis nicely tilted and Papa looking incredulously at them. Off we were – bag and baggage.

So, there she is. Looking at me and I cant bear her scrutiny. She isn’t the loving old Daadi Ma. She is demanding answers now. Or may be I am just imagining like Macbeth.

Mangwaar –> Madhupur –> Birpur –> Hazaribag –> Patna –> IIT Kharagpur –> Kolkata –> IIM Bangalore –> London.

Where are you from?

Guilty as charged – rootless.
No Chacha Ji….You are right – I don’t remember you.

My first year at IIT Kharagpur – a Bihari, proud to be one and passionate about it. Very unsophisticated – a guy who had learned English by reading a lot of books. Very few people had read as much time. He had had time what with Mummy’s illness. Couldn’t speak properly, but wouldn’t take time to learn.

Very sophisticated. From the best of colleges in India. IIT, IIM. A potential Investment Banker. “Pseude” –yes the right word for me. Sometimes the worst of places throw the best of words. Now, can’t speak English nor write. Am in the country of English and find myself woefully inadequate. Can’t speak Hindi either. All those creative writing prizes in Hindi a souvenir or the days gone by when I was a Bihari. Now, I am no longer a Bihari. When is the last time I visited Bihar or thought about it? Can’t speak Bihari or act like one.

No, not a Bihari, nor a Bengali nor a Kannadiga – A creature of the metropolis. Everyone speaks their own language here. I have my own – a curious mixed accent – A mixture of Bihari and English and Lucknowi and IIT KGP lingo and….

I am not rootless because I am in London. I am rootless in Bangalore too.

And whose is that weathered old face peering at me through squinted eyes from the depths of my dream – Daadi Ma of course. But why does she not recognize me? She is calling out in Maithili. Now, how do you respond in Maithili?

The other day, the French guy on my desk, asked me – “How do you bid good bye in Hindi?” I am blank. What the heck..of course we say something…”we say good bye”. “But, that is English”. “No, that is what we speak…it’s a mixture of languages”. Is it Alvida. That is Urdu I suppose.

No, I can’t visit Jogbani. It is a small town and very far. No flights there, not even trains..well there are trains but only local trains..and I hate local trains. Infact nowadays I can’t even travel in an A.C compartment. Its got to be flight or the place is inaccessible. No, I know Daadi – you are immobile. Too bad, for I am too. I need to be carried in plane.

Don’t look at me like that. I don’t recognize you.

I will close all the gates. Who left the doors open? I always shut then when I go to sleep for it is then that I am most vulnerable. No, I will shove them all in their respective compartments, banish them to the inner recesses where they were for so long. I need a stronger lock. Or May be I need to change houses. Lock them all up.

Its useless. Its too late.

Guilty as charged. Rootless