A moment of closings, endings, finales. A moment of leave taking. A moment of what has been, what could have been, what would have been.
A moment, a fraction in the river of time, a brief heartbeat, a pause - 365 more days of your life gone!
A moment when the silent canvas turns blank. To be painted anew with fresh colours, with tints of new memories, new life stories.
A moment to catch a sun drop, hold it tight in your fist. A moment to let go. Let it slip through your fingers. A moment of yesterdays. A moment of new tomorrows.
I’m a boat floating in this flow of time. A moment to tether myself to a ghat, and watch a sun set. A moment to glance back, at the landscape I’ve traversed. A moment of adieu.
A moment of purple skies, the moons of yesteryears lingering over the hill, the howling winds of time lamenting, dying. A moment of time being reborn with the lusty song of the newborn.
And the river, as old as time, flows on. The music of the waters beckons me. Untie yourself. The ghat is not your destination. Traveller, your journey carries on.
A moment of new beginnings. A moment of continuations. A moment of new suns, new moons, new skies. And the river, as old as time, flows on. The journey carries on.
-by Rita Putatunda
Friday, December 30, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Husshhh … Listen!
Husshhh … Listen!
Can you hear it?
Can you hear
The sound of the wings
Of a bird
Soaring high
In the shimmering sky
Plummeting
Down … down … to the ground?
Can you hear
The butterfly lingering
In the chill sun
Flitting from flower to flower
Sipping the sweet nectar
Of life
Dying
With a silent scream
Its iridescent wings fading
In a smothered dream?
Can you hear
The sound of the verdant earth
Drinking the green of life
Turning into bone white
Dry dust?
The sound of a teardrop
Trembling on the tender tip
Of another day, another sun
Choked
In a winter’s grief?
The sound of the stars
Blazing in the night sky
Extinguished
One by one by one?
You’d think the sky would rant and rage
All it does is watch mute and dumb
Like a trapped scream
In a gilt cage
And a shooting star streaks
Across the face
Of the sobbing moon
While the sound of the footsteps
Of Night approaches
Like toxic fumes
Softly, stealthily
Sly as death
Listen …
Listen to the sound
Of a flower curling
Slowly
Back into a twisted bud
Can you hear it?
The sound of poems
Never to be written
As I walk along
The razor edge
Of life?
Husshhh … Listen
Listen to the butterfly’s dying scream
Its glittering wings
Quivering in a bloodstained dream
-by Rita Putatunda
Can you hear it?
Can you hear
The sound of the wings
Of a bird
Soaring high
In the shimmering sky
Plummeting
Down … down … to the ground?
Can you hear
The butterfly lingering
In the chill sun
Flitting from flower to flower
Sipping the sweet nectar
Of life
Dying
With a silent scream
Its iridescent wings fading
In a smothered dream?
Can you hear
The sound of the verdant earth
Drinking the green of life
Turning into bone white
Dry dust?
The sound of a teardrop
Trembling on the tender tip
Of another day, another sun
Choked
In a winter’s grief?
The sound of the stars
Blazing in the night sky
Extinguished
One by one by one?
You’d think the sky would rant and rage
All it does is watch mute and dumb
Like a trapped scream
In a gilt cage
And a shooting star streaks
Across the face
Of the sobbing moon
While the sound of the footsteps
Of Night approaches
Like toxic fumes
Softly, stealthily
Sly as death
Listen …
Listen to the sound
Of a flower curling
Slowly
Back into a twisted bud
Can you hear it?
The sound of poems
Never to be written
As I walk along
The razor edge
Of life?
Husshhh … Listen
Listen to the butterfly’s dying scream
Its glittering wings
Quivering in a bloodstained dream
-by Rita Putatunda
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Drinking Coffee on a Bangalore Balcony
We’ve got a flat in Bangalore – lying empty now because we don’t live there anymore. I plan on going back there some time, to live, or, failing that, to sell it. Which will be a little sad. No, it’s not a particularly fancy flat or anything like that. In fact, it’s a pretty ordinary one, in one of those govt development housing plots, which are usually shoddily built. The flat, situated on the topmost floor in a five storey building, has its share of shoddiness, poor quality of doors and windows and other fittings, lousy finishing, and stuff. And yet, it has something about it, a certain cheerful character, which is unusual in mass produced blocks of government built flats.
A little away from the main city, bang in the middle of lush greenery (Bangalore is the most green city of all Indian cites I’ve been to), the blocks of flats are spread over a fairly large area, hence, not the usual cramped feeling you get in the usual housing plots. The interiors are roomy and airy, especially now without a stick of furniture, the ceilings uncharacteristically high, which gives a more spacious ambience. Most flats of this kind have a low-ceilinged shoebox feel about them. The flat has two bedrooms, accompanied by their bathrooms, a long sitting-cum-dining area which leads directly into a kitchen. Also, a long, fairly wide passage which connects the sit-cum-dine with the rest of the rooms, and leads out at one end into the balcony.
The balcony of that flat is especially lovely. There is a Krishnamachura tree on one side, the branches of which sort of cradle the balcony. The tree has broad luxuriant leaves and blood red fist sized blooms. On the other side stands a tall badam tree, which also has lovely lush leaves, some of which turn a delightful fiery orangeish-red. Out on the balcony, you feel as if you’re a bird perched on a tree. There are whole bunches of birds who keep you company, passing their time on the branches. They don’t fly away once they realise you’re not going to bother them. The koel being the most profuse, rending the air with their joyous koo-koo. But there are pigeons too that constantly go mumble-mumble, and the ubiquitous crows with their caw-caw, the occasional bulbul, and the sudden screech of parrots in their periodic migrations. And scampering squirrels with their bright little eyes, which stop suddenly when they spot you sitting on their territory, pulling up stock still, watchful, then carrying on, chasing each other, hopping from branch to branch, their bushy tails bobbing up and down, erupting in their rapid high pitched call – kik-kik-kik-kik.
I go to the Bangalore flat sometimes when I want to be by myself. I am that kind of a person – I get occasional bouts of I-want-to-be-left-alone-to-be-by-myself fits. And I sit on that balcony for hours, sipping South Indian filter coffee. I hardly ever drink tea when I go to Bangalore, though tea is really my beverage since I am a Bengali and tea is what has always been made at home. But, in Bangalore, I just feel like coffee. Every home, every street, every roadside coffee stall is infused with its aroma, which my senses eagerly savour. It is the flavour and the uniqueness of Bangalore. And nothing defines this city more than its savoury filter coffee.
Now, I can’t make the coffee myself, at least, not like the Bangaloreans do. Like tea, coffee needs practice and familiarity, to be able to extract its soul from within its dark brown ground beans. So, when I go to Bangalore, about the first thing I do in the morning is trudge down to my favourite street side eatery, Udupas – a 45 minute walk – whose coffee is unrivalled, according to me, even in Bangalore – with a flask swinging on my shoulder. And the first thing I do when I reach Udupas is of course drink a quick cup there – nothing like piping hot fresh coffee straight from the constantly gurgling coffee pot. Then, tanking up the flask I trudge back home, to sit in my balcony where the sun pierces through the leaves and makes patterns on the mosaic floor. And, letting my mind drift along with a gentle breeze, I drink cup after cup, letting the aroma of the brown liquid filter through every pore of my being, as the day wears on and dies in the dusk, listening to the constant chatter of the birds.
Drinking coffee and dreaming. Drinking coffee and writing. Drinking coffee and feeling at one with the universe in which I exist as a speck of life in a leaf enclosed, sun spattered, bird-song filled balcony in Bangalore.
-by Rita Putatunda
A little away from the main city, bang in the middle of lush greenery (Bangalore is the most green city of all Indian cites I’ve been to), the blocks of flats are spread over a fairly large area, hence, not the usual cramped feeling you get in the usual housing plots. The interiors are roomy and airy, especially now without a stick of furniture, the ceilings uncharacteristically high, which gives a more spacious ambience. Most flats of this kind have a low-ceilinged shoebox feel about them. The flat has two bedrooms, accompanied by their bathrooms, a long sitting-cum-dining area which leads directly into a kitchen. Also, a long, fairly wide passage which connects the sit-cum-dine with the rest of the rooms, and leads out at one end into the balcony.
The balcony of that flat is especially lovely. There is a Krishnamachura tree on one side, the branches of which sort of cradle the balcony. The tree has broad luxuriant leaves and blood red fist sized blooms. On the other side stands a tall badam tree, which also has lovely lush leaves, some of which turn a delightful fiery orangeish-red. Out on the balcony, you feel as if you’re a bird perched on a tree. There are whole bunches of birds who keep you company, passing their time on the branches. They don’t fly away once they realise you’re not going to bother them. The koel being the most profuse, rending the air with their joyous koo-koo. But there are pigeons too that constantly go mumble-mumble, and the ubiquitous crows with their caw-caw, the occasional bulbul, and the sudden screech of parrots in their periodic migrations. And scampering squirrels with their bright little eyes, which stop suddenly when they spot you sitting on their territory, pulling up stock still, watchful, then carrying on, chasing each other, hopping from branch to branch, their bushy tails bobbing up and down, erupting in their rapid high pitched call – kik-kik-kik-kik.
I go to the Bangalore flat sometimes when I want to be by myself. I am that kind of a person – I get occasional bouts of I-want-to-be-left-alone-to-be-by-myself fits. And I sit on that balcony for hours, sipping South Indian filter coffee. I hardly ever drink tea when I go to Bangalore, though tea is really my beverage since I am a Bengali and tea is what has always been made at home. But, in Bangalore, I just feel like coffee. Every home, every street, every roadside coffee stall is infused with its aroma, which my senses eagerly savour. It is the flavour and the uniqueness of Bangalore. And nothing defines this city more than its savoury filter coffee.
Now, I can’t make the coffee myself, at least, not like the Bangaloreans do. Like tea, coffee needs practice and familiarity, to be able to extract its soul from within its dark brown ground beans. So, when I go to Bangalore, about the first thing I do in the morning is trudge down to my favourite street side eatery, Udupas – a 45 minute walk – whose coffee is unrivalled, according to me, even in Bangalore – with a flask swinging on my shoulder. And the first thing I do when I reach Udupas is of course drink a quick cup there – nothing like piping hot fresh coffee straight from the constantly gurgling coffee pot. Then, tanking up the flask I trudge back home, to sit in my balcony where the sun pierces through the leaves and makes patterns on the mosaic floor. And, letting my mind drift along with a gentle breeze, I drink cup after cup, letting the aroma of the brown liquid filter through every pore of my being, as the day wears on and dies in the dusk, listening to the constant chatter of the birds.
Drinking coffee and dreaming. Drinking coffee and writing. Drinking coffee and feeling at one with the universe in which I exist as a speck of life in a leaf enclosed, sun spattered, bird-song filled balcony in Bangalore.
-by Rita Putatunda
Monday, December 5, 2011
I Thought I Saw You
(This has been inspired by a chat I'm having with E.S. Shridhar @esshridhar, my friend on twitter)
I thought I saw you behind the fire face of the sun; Behind the cold face of the moon.
I thought I saw you looking at me from behind that blue mask you wear on your face.
Is that you in the billowing clouds swollen with rain? Are you the rain? Are you the storm you unleash?
Is that your voice I hear in your thunder and lightning? In the destructions you wreak?
Is that you I perceive in the Cosmos of infinite creations?
Are you that river that meanders across the earth like eternity?
Are you that ocean that exists like time without end?
Is that you being born as new grass, new fruit, new star, new life?
Is that you who died in the funeral pyre last night?
I thought I heard you in the entreaty of a prayer; In the supplication of the clanging temple bell.
In the chants, in the intonations, in the pleas, in the flower offerings, in the curling fumes of burning incense, in the blowing of conch shells, in the beseechings of unshakeable devotions.
Are you that deity with the face of stone that stands so mute, so aloof?
I look for you in my yesterdays, In my todays, In my tomorrows; In my past lives, In my future deaths. I look for you in the skeins of dreams you have woven around me in all my existences; In all my extinctions. I look for you in every lamp you ignite; In every flame you extinguish.
I look for you within me; I look for you outside of me.
I thought I saw you everywhere; I see you nowhere.
I see you nowhere!
-by Rita Putatunda
I thought I saw you behind the fire face of the sun; Behind the cold face of the moon.
I thought I saw you looking at me from behind that blue mask you wear on your face.
Is that you in the billowing clouds swollen with rain? Are you the rain? Are you the storm you unleash?
Is that your voice I hear in your thunder and lightning? In the destructions you wreak?
Is that you I perceive in the Cosmos of infinite creations?
Are you that river that meanders across the earth like eternity?
Are you that ocean that exists like time without end?
Is that you being born as new grass, new fruit, new star, new life?
Is that you who died in the funeral pyre last night?
I thought I heard you in the entreaty of a prayer; In the supplication of the clanging temple bell.
In the chants, in the intonations, in the pleas, in the flower offerings, in the curling fumes of burning incense, in the blowing of conch shells, in the beseechings of unshakeable devotions.
Are you that deity with the face of stone that stands so mute, so aloof?
I look for you in my yesterdays, In my todays, In my tomorrows; In my past lives, In my future deaths. I look for you in the skeins of dreams you have woven around me in all my existences; In all my extinctions. I look for you in every lamp you ignite; In every flame you extinguish.
I look for you within me; I look for you outside of me.
I thought I saw you everywhere; I see you nowhere.
I see you nowhere!
-by Rita Putatunda
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
A Conversation With A Stranger
After Oh, how lovely this is … to see you! And How long has it been?
Comes the first sip of wine, and after that a clash of cutlery,
The shuffling shoes of the receding waiter, then the silence – brief.
So brief, you almost don’t hear it. What are the smallest objects you have lost?
What sudden smells make you stop and think back? Oh, that song, isn’t this the one we…?
And the squinting into a past. He interrupts, and between forking morsels of food in his mouth,
Talks about the news of the day – a theory, a speculation, an interpretation.
Asks for a story about an old friend, About your mother and father and brother and sister –
How are they, by the way?
Old friend … How many old friends have died, and where do you think they’ve gone?
And your mind is slowly opening, becoming a hollow cavity, a cavern, a grotto
In which what had been hidden from you by the din, hitherto,
Now darts around like winged creatures with their insistent, intimate, supersonic squeaking.
My eyes begin listening in black and white. Did your mother like you?
How do you construct a conversation with an old stranger?
But by now the answers come easier, more flowing, a zone, a spigot, a well.
What parts of yourself have you given up since leaving your home town?
Did your father know you existed? Have you asked your brother and sister and friends
What they thought of you, back then? You can tell me anything and I will believe you.
Look at me! Have you ever wandered into breakdown? Did you witness the demise
Of the old cracked teapot? There are lizards lurking in the corners of his eyes.
The dinner is done. He folds his used napkin in a neat square. I crumple mine.
The wine glass is empty, except for dregs. The bill is paid.
He straightens up, his face a vacant dinner plate, the fork and knife neatly laid, side by side.
And when he enters the taxi and waves goodbye, you are left standing at the entrance
Of the temple of lost conversations, wearing that ridiculous dress you had bought to please.
Your hands hanging limp, you stand sniffing the ancient air
For clues, for distillations, for forgotten perfumes. The crow on the tension wire,
Suspended between the sky and earth, steadies itself in the fitful breeze.
Smoothing its ruffled feathers with its beak, it caws plaintively –
Have you ever? Have you ever?
-by Rita Putatunda
Comes the first sip of wine, and after that a clash of cutlery,
The shuffling shoes of the receding waiter, then the silence – brief.
So brief, you almost don’t hear it. What are the smallest objects you have lost?
What sudden smells make you stop and think back? Oh, that song, isn’t this the one we…?
And the squinting into a past. He interrupts, and between forking morsels of food in his mouth,
Talks about the news of the day – a theory, a speculation, an interpretation.
Asks for a story about an old friend, About your mother and father and brother and sister –
How are they, by the way?
Old friend … How many old friends have died, and where do you think they’ve gone?
And your mind is slowly opening, becoming a hollow cavity, a cavern, a grotto
In which what had been hidden from you by the din, hitherto,
Now darts around like winged creatures with their insistent, intimate, supersonic squeaking.
My eyes begin listening in black and white. Did your mother like you?
How do you construct a conversation with an old stranger?
But by now the answers come easier, more flowing, a zone, a spigot, a well.
What parts of yourself have you given up since leaving your home town?
Did your father know you existed? Have you asked your brother and sister and friends
What they thought of you, back then? You can tell me anything and I will believe you.
Look at me! Have you ever wandered into breakdown? Did you witness the demise
Of the old cracked teapot? There are lizards lurking in the corners of his eyes.
The dinner is done. He folds his used napkin in a neat square. I crumple mine.
The wine glass is empty, except for dregs. The bill is paid.
He straightens up, his face a vacant dinner plate, the fork and knife neatly laid, side by side.
And when he enters the taxi and waves goodbye, you are left standing at the entrance
Of the temple of lost conversations, wearing that ridiculous dress you had bought to please.
Your hands hanging limp, you stand sniffing the ancient air
For clues, for distillations, for forgotten perfumes. The crow on the tension wire,
Suspended between the sky and earth, steadies itself in the fitful breeze.
Smoothing its ruffled feathers with its beak, it caws plaintively –
Have you ever? Have you ever?
-by Rita Putatunda
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Someone Near, Someone Dear
The night was pitch dark. The road disappearing into the gloom was lit every now and then by streetlights, which formed pools of ochre wherever they stood. Except for an occasional truck thundering by, the road was empty. It was late, about 2 o’clock.
In the distance I heard the roar of an approaching motorbike. It was coming fast. Too fast. Then I saw the powerful single beam of its light slicing through the dark of the night. As it drew closer I saw a young man hunched over the handles of the bike. I could not see his face. But something told me that I knew him. That he was someone near. Someone dear.
Even as I watched, I heard him rev up his bike to a faster speed. You’re driving too fast, I wanted to warn him. I tried again to see who he was, but to no avail. His face was shrouded in darkness. Yet, I knew that I knew him. He was a part of me – as tender to me as my own heart. Closer to me than my own soul. But who was it? His body, the way he held it, was so familiar. His name was on the tip of my tongue – and yet, try as I might, I could not bring his name to mind.
Suddenly, with a shiver of dread, I heard the growl of a truck approaching from the opposite side. And it too was coming fast, driven with the abandon of a big powerful machine having the freedom of an empty road. It had only one light on, and from a distance it looked like another two-wheeler. My eyes, for some reason, had taken on the power of seeing great lengths of distances. And I could see the both – the young man on his bike and the enormous truck – hurtling towards each other in an inexorable rush.
I wanted to shout out. I wanted to scream and tell the young man to stop. To please at least slow down. I opened my mouth, but no sound could I emit through my throat. Hand clutching my voiceless throat, I watched helplessly, as they came closer. And still closer. I wanted to run out into the middle of the road, outstretched hands waving to catch his attention – to stop somehow, anyhow, this dreadful drama from unfolding. But my body was immobile. My muscles caught in a dead freeze. And all I could do was watch with stricken eyes. The nameless sense of dread pervading my being.
And they drew closer. Ever closer. The still night waiting and watching. The street lights standing aloof and unperturbed. I broke out in a cold sweat. My heart beating in frantic thuddings and juddings. I tried to break out of my petrified immobility. Sweat poured and drenched me with the effort. I had turned into stone. Paralysed, with horror in my eyes, I watched powerlessly, and saw what I knew I could have stopped from happening, happen.
The motorbike hit the colossal truck front-on with its engine going at full throttle. The night was splintered by the sound of the tremendous crash . . . metal upon metal . . . screeching brakes . . . calamitous clank-clank!
The motorbike, glancing off the face of the truck, and with the force of the impact, flew into the air. Turning slowly, almost lazily, almost for an eternity, in mid air. As if time did not matter anymore now. As if speed was superfluous now. It hit the ground, the force still dragging it, metal tearing and screaming against tarmac, coming at last to a halt some distance away, the broken, inert body of the young man lying by its side. I tried again to look into his face. It was still masked in darkness.
But I knew in my heart, with the wisdom of the ages, that a great loss had befallen me. Someone near, someone dear, was lost to me forever. Someone I could not replace ever. Someone I would not replace ever. Someone who had crossed the great divide and gone. Gone over to the other side, into the void. Leaving me here – alone – bereft – forever.
I turned my face to the unfeeling night and wanted to cry out – Oh, Weep, Weep, Lament for one gone forever! I turned to the unseeing streetlights and wanted to say – Oh, Shed a tear for a beloved, departed! But, no matter how much I struggled, not a single word could I utter. A relentless force held me in its dark grip.
When I awoke from my dream my body was drenched in sweat. My heart still thudding and judding. And I was still filled with the nameless feeling of fear. I looked at my watch, it was 2 in the night. Staggering, I made my way to the bathroom and allowed myself to feel the sting of the cold water that I splashed on my face. I then walked slowly – a little unsteady – to the kitchen and made myself a hot cup of tea. I took my tea out into the balcony where I sat and felt the sips of the hot liquid course comfortingly through me. Slowly, I started breathing normally again. An uneasy calm descended on me.
It was only a nightmare I told myself. Probably indigestion. It was really silly to get so worked up about a dream, however vivid it may have been. But I had had nightmares before – none of them had been quite so lucid as this. And the feeling of foreboding would not leave me. I felt alone. I paced up and down breathing in the slightly chill night air deeply. That made me feel better. I breathed in deeply once or twice more. Then feeling much better I decided to try and go back to sleep.
The muffled brrinng-brrinng of the phone woke me up. It was early, just five, my bedside clock told me. I ignored the phone. It persisted. Groaning, cursing, I picked it up.
“Hello!” said a voice. It was Sanjay, an old friend. My sleep filled mouth refused to speak.
“Hello? Amita? Are you awake? It’s Sanjay here.” His insistent voice pierced through my consciousness. Why was he so insistent, I wondered irritably, still half asleep.
“Yeah, now I am. No thanks to you,” I said, trying to put sarcasm into my sleep thick voice. But then, his next words sent a charge of electricity through me, bringing me fully awake instantly.
“It’s bad news Amita. I’m coming over now. In about 10 minutes.”
My mind jumped sharply alive. The dread of the night swamped me. Somehow I knew what the bad news was going to be. I insisted that he tell me whatever it was on the phone, but he told me in a grave voice that he had to say it personally. When the doorbell rang, and I let him in, I resisted listening to his next words. I wanted to scream – I don’t want to know – Oh please, please, I don’t want to know – I wanted to shut my ears.
When he spoke, he used a gentle tone. “It’s about Ajay, Amita. He died in a motorbike accident last night.”
We had planned. We had plotted. Ajay and I. I and Ajay. Amita and Ajay. Ajay and Amita – To be wed. To be locked together forever in life. Nothing – No power – On earth – Or heaven – Would tear us asunder. To keep us apart. We had promised each other.
The wedding cards had already been sent. Death rendered them annulled.
-by Rita Putatunda
This story is based on a true incident which occurred in my life when I was about 20 yrs old. I later read up about lucid dreaming and precognition, which I found was quite common and experienced by many people.
In the distance I heard the roar of an approaching motorbike. It was coming fast. Too fast. Then I saw the powerful single beam of its light slicing through the dark of the night. As it drew closer I saw a young man hunched over the handles of the bike. I could not see his face. But something told me that I knew him. That he was someone near. Someone dear.
Even as I watched, I heard him rev up his bike to a faster speed. You’re driving too fast, I wanted to warn him. I tried again to see who he was, but to no avail. His face was shrouded in darkness. Yet, I knew that I knew him. He was a part of me – as tender to me as my own heart. Closer to me than my own soul. But who was it? His body, the way he held it, was so familiar. His name was on the tip of my tongue – and yet, try as I might, I could not bring his name to mind.
Suddenly, with a shiver of dread, I heard the growl of a truck approaching from the opposite side. And it too was coming fast, driven with the abandon of a big powerful machine having the freedom of an empty road. It had only one light on, and from a distance it looked like another two-wheeler. My eyes, for some reason, had taken on the power of seeing great lengths of distances. And I could see the both – the young man on his bike and the enormous truck – hurtling towards each other in an inexorable rush.
I wanted to shout out. I wanted to scream and tell the young man to stop. To please at least slow down. I opened my mouth, but no sound could I emit through my throat. Hand clutching my voiceless throat, I watched helplessly, as they came closer. And still closer. I wanted to run out into the middle of the road, outstretched hands waving to catch his attention – to stop somehow, anyhow, this dreadful drama from unfolding. But my body was immobile. My muscles caught in a dead freeze. And all I could do was watch with stricken eyes. The nameless sense of dread pervading my being.
And they drew closer. Ever closer. The still night waiting and watching. The street lights standing aloof and unperturbed. I broke out in a cold sweat. My heart beating in frantic thuddings and juddings. I tried to break out of my petrified immobility. Sweat poured and drenched me with the effort. I had turned into stone. Paralysed, with horror in my eyes, I watched powerlessly, and saw what I knew I could have stopped from happening, happen.
The motorbike hit the colossal truck front-on with its engine going at full throttle. The night was splintered by the sound of the tremendous crash . . . metal upon metal . . . screeching brakes . . . calamitous clank-clank!
The motorbike, glancing off the face of the truck, and with the force of the impact, flew into the air. Turning slowly, almost lazily, almost for an eternity, in mid air. As if time did not matter anymore now. As if speed was superfluous now. It hit the ground, the force still dragging it, metal tearing and screaming against tarmac, coming at last to a halt some distance away, the broken, inert body of the young man lying by its side. I tried again to look into his face. It was still masked in darkness.
But I knew in my heart, with the wisdom of the ages, that a great loss had befallen me. Someone near, someone dear, was lost to me forever. Someone I could not replace ever. Someone I would not replace ever. Someone who had crossed the great divide and gone. Gone over to the other side, into the void. Leaving me here – alone – bereft – forever.
I turned my face to the unfeeling night and wanted to cry out – Oh, Weep, Weep, Lament for one gone forever! I turned to the unseeing streetlights and wanted to say – Oh, Shed a tear for a beloved, departed! But, no matter how much I struggled, not a single word could I utter. A relentless force held me in its dark grip.
When I awoke from my dream my body was drenched in sweat. My heart still thudding and judding. And I was still filled with the nameless feeling of fear. I looked at my watch, it was 2 in the night. Staggering, I made my way to the bathroom and allowed myself to feel the sting of the cold water that I splashed on my face. I then walked slowly – a little unsteady – to the kitchen and made myself a hot cup of tea. I took my tea out into the balcony where I sat and felt the sips of the hot liquid course comfortingly through me. Slowly, I started breathing normally again. An uneasy calm descended on me.
It was only a nightmare I told myself. Probably indigestion. It was really silly to get so worked up about a dream, however vivid it may have been. But I had had nightmares before – none of them had been quite so lucid as this. And the feeling of foreboding would not leave me. I felt alone. I paced up and down breathing in the slightly chill night air deeply. That made me feel better. I breathed in deeply once or twice more. Then feeling much better I decided to try and go back to sleep.
The muffled brrinng-brrinng of the phone woke me up. It was early, just five, my bedside clock told me. I ignored the phone. It persisted. Groaning, cursing, I picked it up.
“Hello!” said a voice. It was Sanjay, an old friend. My sleep filled mouth refused to speak.
“Hello? Amita? Are you awake? It’s Sanjay here.” His insistent voice pierced through my consciousness. Why was he so insistent, I wondered irritably, still half asleep.
“Yeah, now I am. No thanks to you,” I said, trying to put sarcasm into my sleep thick voice. But then, his next words sent a charge of electricity through me, bringing me fully awake instantly.
“It’s bad news Amita. I’m coming over now. In about 10 minutes.”
My mind jumped sharply alive. The dread of the night swamped me. Somehow I knew what the bad news was going to be. I insisted that he tell me whatever it was on the phone, but he told me in a grave voice that he had to say it personally. When the doorbell rang, and I let him in, I resisted listening to his next words. I wanted to scream – I don’t want to know – Oh please, please, I don’t want to know – I wanted to shut my ears.
When he spoke, he used a gentle tone. “It’s about Ajay, Amita. He died in a motorbike accident last night.”
We had planned. We had plotted. Ajay and I. I and Ajay. Amita and Ajay. Ajay and Amita – To be wed. To be locked together forever in life. Nothing – No power – On earth – Or heaven – Would tear us asunder. To keep us apart. We had promised each other.
The wedding cards had already been sent. Death rendered them annulled.
-by Rita Putatunda
This story is based on a true incident which occurred in my life when I was about 20 yrs old. I later read up about lucid dreaming and precognition, which I found was quite common and experienced by many people.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Of Snakes, Monitor Lizards and Other Creatures
I had a chat the other day with Jaideep Bhattacharya @jadeepb, a twitter friend, reminiscing about our similar past, the colonial bungalows and gardens we lived in, and about the wild animals we had encountered, and thought why not write about the forest creatures of my childhood and youth. So here goes, a glimpse into my world of snakes and monitor lizards and other creatures.
During the rainy season, rains pour incessantly day and night, causing mould and fungus to erupt in green and white furry patches. Clothes remain damp, get a fusty smell. The air feels wet wet wet. The earth is clogged and saturated with water running in rivulets, which become streams, which become gushing rivers, that overflow their banks, and flood and cause havoc.
I remember at the start of the rainy seasons of being warned about watching out for snakes. For it is in this season that snakes come out from their water logged burrows. Our houses have these little jutting steps constructed at the foot of doorways which are supposed to snake-proof our dwellings. Well, they didn’t. Snakes, determined to come in from the rain, always managed to breach those snake-proofs. So it became almost second nature to look before you did anything…check behind you before you sink into that sofa in your sitting room, there could be a snake snoozing there! Watch out before riffling through your books in your study, there could be a studious snake hidden among the tomes! Do make a thorough reccy before entering your bathroom, snakes too love that sanctum sanctorum that you prize!
The coal pile outside, at the back of the house, was a favourite haunt of snakes. Coal was the fuel we used since we lived in a coal mining region, so every once a week a truck would trundle in and tip over a truckload of coal behind each house of the bungalow area. I loved to spend time mucking around there, getting myself coal black all over, much to my mom’s constant horror. Coal comes in various textures and shades of black, some soft and powdery, others hard and glittering like black diamonds. I used to hang around Rajam, our servant, when he broke the big chunks, which had come straight from the mines, into small pieces, which he then arranged, almost artistically, in the huge cast-iron oven-cum-stove in the kitchen.
Anyway, like I said, snakes too loved the coal pile, because it was kept dry under a shed, had plenty of nooks and crannies, and most of all provided almost perfect camouflage. We always had to take special care in the coal-shed, because snakes always lurked there, and not only in the rainy season.
The garden of course was perfect for snakes to loiter in. They swung greenly among the branches and only our eyes trained by experience could pick them out. They hung about in the gullies and ditches dug to collect water, probably hunting rats and squirrels, or in the summer, to cool off. While there were a great variety of kinds of snakes, from the harmless rat snake, to the poisonous krait, the most common snake we encountered was the cobra, or the naag. The common cobra is quite different from the king cobra. The cobra is mud-brown in colour usually marked with dark striations and the characteristic U-shape marking displayed on its flared hood, and is smaller than the king, though large compared to other snakes, and faster, and certainly more adventurous, since they always seemed to be about. The king cobra, on the other hand, is huge comparatively, coal black, sluggish and slow. And very shy – they were hardly to be seen. When they were spotted, they were treated with great respect and awe by us. A king can be a match, strength to strength, with a python. We found engorged, snoozing pythons sleepily digesting their meal against fallen trunks of trees in the jungle that surrounded our bungalow area. We found slewed off snakeskin, transparent, and still marked with patterns, all over the place. Sometimes I would touch them and feel a shiver run down my spine as I felt the dry smooth texture.
Where there are snakes, there are also scorpions. Another thing we were told to keep a sharp watch for. They came in all sizes and shades. From the huge, deadly looking black creatures, their sting looking like scimitars, to the little brown things that crawled into your cupboards and lurked among your clothes. Where there are scorpions, there are centipedes and millipedes, looking for all the world like trains going to some destination, when they crawled in the house or in the garden. Large black ants, red ants, small black ones, bees, wasps, dragonflies, beetles, butterflies – insects were everywhere in abundant numbers, turning sleepy hot afternoons into an opera of buzzing, droning sounds.
Where there is snake, there is mongoose. The snake is the favourite snack for the mongoose. Watching a snake and a mongoose fight beats any heavyweight championship, or a karate or judo match. They are usually equally skilled in speed and lightning strikes – the fight could go either way – fifty-fifty chance of one becoming the meal of the other.
Where there is snake and mongoose, there are lizards, of all sizes and shapes. From the quaint chameleons that changes colour according to where it happens to be, twitching its periscope eyes 360 degrees, each independently, to the huge monitor lizards.
I remember once, I must have been 8 or 9 years old, a monitor wandered into our courtyard which faced the kitchen and the dining room. Rayamallu, the cook, walked out of the kitchen, spotted it, and let out a yell. It was huge, the head flat and narrow, its forked tongue flicking evilly in and out, eyes beady, like sinister black stones stuck in its head. My mom, my brother and I ran out to see what the commotion was. Rayamallu yelled for us to go back in, and gave chase to the lizard for some crazy reason. The lizard panicked and streaked towards us, its body undulating, lifted high on all four legs – it was swift as lightning. We panicked and ran back into the dining room. The lizard made straight for my mother, the slowest, lagging behind. There was screaming, yelling, yelping. My un-athletic mom leapt up on the dining table with great agility, un-motherly-like leaving us, her kids, to fend for ourselves. We managed to jump on the dining chairs, which seemed dangerously close to the ground and to the lizard.
The lizard streaked in, stopped short, and took stock of the situation. Spotted my mother screaming and doing a panic hopping dance on the table, and reared up on its hind legs, mouth gaping, displaying rows of sharp teeth, and that deadly flickering tongue, looking massive and terrifying – like a monster from prehistory. Just then Rayamallu charged in and almost tripped over the lizard’s thick, lashing tail. Feeling ambushed from behind, the lizard turned swiftly on Rayamallu. Causing Rayamallu to turn tail and run back from where he had just come. The last we saw of the lizard was it giving chase to a fleeing Rayamallu. It was about ten minutes later that a panting Rayamallu came back and told us the lizard had disappeared into the undergrowth outside the garden.
We sat around, our hearts still thumping hard, as Rayamallu regaled us with tales of the monitor lizard. They were very powerful and strong we were told. They have this peculiarity that once their jaws lock around something, your limb, for instance, or the branch of a tree, even a mechanical crane wouldn’t be able to pull them loose. The Marattha Kings, like Shivaji, who fought many battles against the Moghul army, used them to scale the ramparts of forts built into the craggy Deccan mountains.
While much of the lore surrounding the monitor is probably exaggerated, the monitor lizard is a dwindling species, hunted by the villagers for its meat – deliciously delicately flavoured, according to Rayamallu – and also its habitat, the scrub forest, being systematically destroyed by increasing urbanisation. And so are the snake and the mongoose and other creatures.
The bear, for example. While I never saw one in our bungalow area, our watchman had a tale to tell us. But first I must tell you about the layout of the bungalow area. There were about ten or eleven bungalows that stood in a large circle along a narrow circular tarmac path, which enclosed a grassy area that contained a few trees and was used as a golf field by the golfing enthusiasts amongst my father’s colleagues, our neighbours. The path had streetlights that just about provided some light in the night. Each bungalow was provided with a watchman by the company, the Singareni Coal Mines.
Anyway, like our watchman told us, one dark night, at quite a late hour, he was feeling sleepy and so decided to take a little stroll on the path, just outside the gate. As he stepped out and wanted to light a bidi, he discovered he had no matches. It was then he suddenly saw somebody walking a little distance away in the shadows. Thinking it was the neighbouring bungalow’s watchman, wanting a match, he called out to him, and got no response. He called even louder and started walking towards the shadowy person, still got no response. In fact, the person started walking away faster. Getting suspicious, our watchman started blowing his whistle, to alert the neighbour’s watchman, and began running towards, what he was now convinced was a thief. Hearing all the commotion, the neighbour’s watchman too stepped out on the path, took one look at the speeding shadowy person, and yelling ‘bhaalu, bhaalu’ ran back in. Our watchman stopped in his tracks and watched in silence as the shadowy bear disappeared into the dark.
Adilabad district of Andhra Pradesh is one of the areas where Singareni Coal Mines are located. Adilabad district also had a fair number of tigers in its jungles. While most of the time they lived deep in the jungle, sometimes they would stray into human populated areas. Singareni Collieries had started making tarmac roads, but there were many areas that had just kaccha roads, especially the ones that went through deep jungle to access remote mines, and also provided a route to other areas of the tiny town of Bellampalli, more a village, really, but was getting progressively urbanized by the coal mines. The miners that came from nearby villages needed safe roads to travel to and from the mines to their homes. Plus the officers needed safe roads too.
The senior officers were provided with cars (the ubiquitous Ambassadors) for urban use and jeeps or jongas for use in rough terrain. One night, returning home after a dinner at one of my parent’s friends’ house, we were crossing through a jungle path in our jeep. The path had a tangle of trees and brush on either side which were briefly lit as we drove past by the jeep’s headlights. Suddenly, in the distance ahead, by the path, we saw a pair of eyes glittering in the dark, catching some of the light from the headlights. We didn’t think much of it because cattle often wandered in those areas; we thought it was a cow. My Dad was driving pretty fast, as we jolted along and got nearer, suddenly the headlights picked up a sight I will never forget. Frozen in the light was a full grown tiger! My Dad braked instinctively and we came to a standstill. The tiger gave one look towards us (or the jeep) and with one swift orange and black striped flash leaped across the path and disappeared into the jungle. We were left marveling in silence. Dad shifted gears and we went home talking excitedly about what we had just witnessed.
In the summer, when we kids came home from our boarding schools in Hyderabad/Secunderabad, all of us in the bungalow area would go on night picnics, because the days were too hot. The picnic spot was usually inside the jungle, usually on the soft sand of a semi-dry river or stream bed. Because they are rain fed, the rivers and streams in Andhra Pradesh dry down to a trickle, swelling again with water with the onset of the monsoons. So, we would all set out, Moms, Dads and us kids in our jeeps and jongas and settle down on a river bed to enjoy the cool of the night lit by moonlight and stars, to sing songs playing anthakshari, of course, the aunties and uncles would chat and gossip, the women about the usual, servants, cooking, gossip about some neighbor who wasn’t present there, children, etc. The men would talk about the mines, what was happening on the promotions of each, gossip about some colleague who wasn’t present there, politics and so on. The bridge enthusiasts, which my parents were, would deal out their cards in the light of petromax lamps and call their bids, the rummy enthusiasts would sit a little distance away and get engrossed in their hand of cards, the servants would get busy making chuhlas using the dried sticks, which were plentiful there, and start cooking the picnic meal.
Sometimes, in these nightly picnics, the wild life enthusiasts in the group (including me, of course), would all climb into a jonga driven by some knowledgeable person who knew just where to find them. So, suddenly we would come to a patch of clearing and discover a bunch of spotted deer feeding in the dark. When the light of the vehicle hit them they would all look at us and stand motionless. They never ran away, just stood stock still, until we drove away, the sound of the revving engine finally making them react and flee. Or we would come across a solitary nilgai, as dark as the night, and foxes were plenty and they would sit by the narrow jungle path like tame dogs.
Many precious moments of my childhood and youth were spent watching and wondering and admiring the forest creatures that abounded. I was often scared, but there were times I could have played god with them, but kept my distance. For us in our little forest paradise teeming with snakes, lizards and other creatures, wonder and awe are what we always felt for the forest and its inhabitants, rather than regarding them as peculiar, frightening or exotic creatures. And at night, when I slept snugly in my cozy bed, enclosed in the night sounds of the jungle, the croak-croak-croak of the frogs in the streams and ponds, the constant kirrrrrrr sound of the cicadas in the dark, I would often be woken up by the sudden strange laughing call of the hyena piercing through the night, and I would listen in the dark to mysterious rustling sounds outside, wondering what creature was out there.
Though our worlds were juxtaposed, we tried not to encroach much into theirs. Though they accidentally did encroach sometimes into ours, but they always preferred to slither, crawl, or run away when discovered. Through all those years that we lived there, never have we ever been bitten. Of course we were on our guard, so there was little chance of being accidentally bitten. But accidents do happen, however careful one may be – yet not once. I do believe they were the ones that chose to leave us alone.
I live in protected urbanised surroundings now, away from the kind of nature that I grew up in, and have regrettably lost contact with it. But I am thankful and lucky that my growing years were spent close to the earth, the forest, and its myriad creatures. And all I need to go back there is to have a chat and get inspired to write about it and thus relive a time lost in my past.
-by Rita Putatunda
During the rainy season, rains pour incessantly day and night, causing mould and fungus to erupt in green and white furry patches. Clothes remain damp, get a fusty smell. The air feels wet wet wet. The earth is clogged and saturated with water running in rivulets, which become streams, which become gushing rivers, that overflow their banks, and flood and cause havoc.
I remember at the start of the rainy seasons of being warned about watching out for snakes. For it is in this season that snakes come out from their water logged burrows. Our houses have these little jutting steps constructed at the foot of doorways which are supposed to snake-proof our dwellings. Well, they didn’t. Snakes, determined to come in from the rain, always managed to breach those snake-proofs. So it became almost second nature to look before you did anything…check behind you before you sink into that sofa in your sitting room, there could be a snake snoozing there! Watch out before riffling through your books in your study, there could be a studious snake hidden among the tomes! Do make a thorough reccy before entering your bathroom, snakes too love that sanctum sanctorum that you prize!
The coal pile outside, at the back of the house, was a favourite haunt of snakes. Coal was the fuel we used since we lived in a coal mining region, so every once a week a truck would trundle in and tip over a truckload of coal behind each house of the bungalow area. I loved to spend time mucking around there, getting myself coal black all over, much to my mom’s constant horror. Coal comes in various textures and shades of black, some soft and powdery, others hard and glittering like black diamonds. I used to hang around Rajam, our servant, when he broke the big chunks, which had come straight from the mines, into small pieces, which he then arranged, almost artistically, in the huge cast-iron oven-cum-stove in the kitchen.
Anyway, like I said, snakes too loved the coal pile, because it was kept dry under a shed, had plenty of nooks and crannies, and most of all provided almost perfect camouflage. We always had to take special care in the coal-shed, because snakes always lurked there, and not only in the rainy season.
The garden of course was perfect for snakes to loiter in. They swung greenly among the branches and only our eyes trained by experience could pick them out. They hung about in the gullies and ditches dug to collect water, probably hunting rats and squirrels, or in the summer, to cool off. While there were a great variety of kinds of snakes, from the harmless rat snake, to the poisonous krait, the most common snake we encountered was the cobra, or the naag. The common cobra is quite different from the king cobra. The cobra is mud-brown in colour usually marked with dark striations and the characteristic U-shape marking displayed on its flared hood, and is smaller than the king, though large compared to other snakes, and faster, and certainly more adventurous, since they always seemed to be about. The king cobra, on the other hand, is huge comparatively, coal black, sluggish and slow. And very shy – they were hardly to be seen. When they were spotted, they were treated with great respect and awe by us. A king can be a match, strength to strength, with a python. We found engorged, snoozing pythons sleepily digesting their meal against fallen trunks of trees in the jungle that surrounded our bungalow area. We found slewed off snakeskin, transparent, and still marked with patterns, all over the place. Sometimes I would touch them and feel a shiver run down my spine as I felt the dry smooth texture.
Where there are snakes, there are also scorpions. Another thing we were told to keep a sharp watch for. They came in all sizes and shades. From the huge, deadly looking black creatures, their sting looking like scimitars, to the little brown things that crawled into your cupboards and lurked among your clothes. Where there are scorpions, there are centipedes and millipedes, looking for all the world like trains going to some destination, when they crawled in the house or in the garden. Large black ants, red ants, small black ones, bees, wasps, dragonflies, beetles, butterflies – insects were everywhere in abundant numbers, turning sleepy hot afternoons into an opera of buzzing, droning sounds.
Where there is snake, there is mongoose. The snake is the favourite snack for the mongoose. Watching a snake and a mongoose fight beats any heavyweight championship, or a karate or judo match. They are usually equally skilled in speed and lightning strikes – the fight could go either way – fifty-fifty chance of one becoming the meal of the other.
Where there is snake and mongoose, there are lizards, of all sizes and shapes. From the quaint chameleons that changes colour according to where it happens to be, twitching its periscope eyes 360 degrees, each independently, to the huge monitor lizards.
I remember once, I must have been 8 or 9 years old, a monitor wandered into our courtyard which faced the kitchen and the dining room. Rayamallu, the cook, walked out of the kitchen, spotted it, and let out a yell. It was huge, the head flat and narrow, its forked tongue flicking evilly in and out, eyes beady, like sinister black stones stuck in its head. My mom, my brother and I ran out to see what the commotion was. Rayamallu yelled for us to go back in, and gave chase to the lizard for some crazy reason. The lizard panicked and streaked towards us, its body undulating, lifted high on all four legs – it was swift as lightning. We panicked and ran back into the dining room. The lizard made straight for my mother, the slowest, lagging behind. There was screaming, yelling, yelping. My un-athletic mom leapt up on the dining table with great agility, un-motherly-like leaving us, her kids, to fend for ourselves. We managed to jump on the dining chairs, which seemed dangerously close to the ground and to the lizard.
The lizard streaked in, stopped short, and took stock of the situation. Spotted my mother screaming and doing a panic hopping dance on the table, and reared up on its hind legs, mouth gaping, displaying rows of sharp teeth, and that deadly flickering tongue, looking massive and terrifying – like a monster from prehistory. Just then Rayamallu charged in and almost tripped over the lizard’s thick, lashing tail. Feeling ambushed from behind, the lizard turned swiftly on Rayamallu. Causing Rayamallu to turn tail and run back from where he had just come. The last we saw of the lizard was it giving chase to a fleeing Rayamallu. It was about ten minutes later that a panting Rayamallu came back and told us the lizard had disappeared into the undergrowth outside the garden.
We sat around, our hearts still thumping hard, as Rayamallu regaled us with tales of the monitor lizard. They were very powerful and strong we were told. They have this peculiarity that once their jaws lock around something, your limb, for instance, or the branch of a tree, even a mechanical crane wouldn’t be able to pull them loose. The Marattha Kings, like Shivaji, who fought many battles against the Moghul army, used them to scale the ramparts of forts built into the craggy Deccan mountains.
While much of the lore surrounding the monitor is probably exaggerated, the monitor lizard is a dwindling species, hunted by the villagers for its meat – deliciously delicately flavoured, according to Rayamallu – and also its habitat, the scrub forest, being systematically destroyed by increasing urbanisation. And so are the snake and the mongoose and other creatures.
The bear, for example. While I never saw one in our bungalow area, our watchman had a tale to tell us. But first I must tell you about the layout of the bungalow area. There were about ten or eleven bungalows that stood in a large circle along a narrow circular tarmac path, which enclosed a grassy area that contained a few trees and was used as a golf field by the golfing enthusiasts amongst my father’s colleagues, our neighbours. The path had streetlights that just about provided some light in the night. Each bungalow was provided with a watchman by the company, the Singareni Coal Mines.
Anyway, like our watchman told us, one dark night, at quite a late hour, he was feeling sleepy and so decided to take a little stroll on the path, just outside the gate. As he stepped out and wanted to light a bidi, he discovered he had no matches. It was then he suddenly saw somebody walking a little distance away in the shadows. Thinking it was the neighbouring bungalow’s watchman, wanting a match, he called out to him, and got no response. He called even louder and started walking towards the shadowy person, still got no response. In fact, the person started walking away faster. Getting suspicious, our watchman started blowing his whistle, to alert the neighbour’s watchman, and began running towards, what he was now convinced was a thief. Hearing all the commotion, the neighbour’s watchman too stepped out on the path, took one look at the speeding shadowy person, and yelling ‘bhaalu, bhaalu’ ran back in. Our watchman stopped in his tracks and watched in silence as the shadowy bear disappeared into the dark.
Adilabad district of Andhra Pradesh is one of the areas where Singareni Coal Mines are located. Adilabad district also had a fair number of tigers in its jungles. While most of the time they lived deep in the jungle, sometimes they would stray into human populated areas. Singareni Collieries had started making tarmac roads, but there were many areas that had just kaccha roads, especially the ones that went through deep jungle to access remote mines, and also provided a route to other areas of the tiny town of Bellampalli, more a village, really, but was getting progressively urbanized by the coal mines. The miners that came from nearby villages needed safe roads to travel to and from the mines to their homes. Plus the officers needed safe roads too.
The senior officers were provided with cars (the ubiquitous Ambassadors) for urban use and jeeps or jongas for use in rough terrain. One night, returning home after a dinner at one of my parent’s friends’ house, we were crossing through a jungle path in our jeep. The path had a tangle of trees and brush on either side which were briefly lit as we drove past by the jeep’s headlights. Suddenly, in the distance ahead, by the path, we saw a pair of eyes glittering in the dark, catching some of the light from the headlights. We didn’t think much of it because cattle often wandered in those areas; we thought it was a cow. My Dad was driving pretty fast, as we jolted along and got nearer, suddenly the headlights picked up a sight I will never forget. Frozen in the light was a full grown tiger! My Dad braked instinctively and we came to a standstill. The tiger gave one look towards us (or the jeep) and with one swift orange and black striped flash leaped across the path and disappeared into the jungle. We were left marveling in silence. Dad shifted gears and we went home talking excitedly about what we had just witnessed.
In the summer, when we kids came home from our boarding schools in Hyderabad/Secunderabad, all of us in the bungalow area would go on night picnics, because the days were too hot. The picnic spot was usually inside the jungle, usually on the soft sand of a semi-dry river or stream bed. Because they are rain fed, the rivers and streams in Andhra Pradesh dry down to a trickle, swelling again with water with the onset of the monsoons. So, we would all set out, Moms, Dads and us kids in our jeeps and jongas and settle down on a river bed to enjoy the cool of the night lit by moonlight and stars, to sing songs playing anthakshari, of course, the aunties and uncles would chat and gossip, the women about the usual, servants, cooking, gossip about some neighbor who wasn’t present there, children, etc. The men would talk about the mines, what was happening on the promotions of each, gossip about some colleague who wasn’t present there, politics and so on. The bridge enthusiasts, which my parents were, would deal out their cards in the light of petromax lamps and call their bids, the rummy enthusiasts would sit a little distance away and get engrossed in their hand of cards, the servants would get busy making chuhlas using the dried sticks, which were plentiful there, and start cooking the picnic meal.
Sometimes, in these nightly picnics, the wild life enthusiasts in the group (including me, of course), would all climb into a jonga driven by some knowledgeable person who knew just where to find them. So, suddenly we would come to a patch of clearing and discover a bunch of spotted deer feeding in the dark. When the light of the vehicle hit them they would all look at us and stand motionless. They never ran away, just stood stock still, until we drove away, the sound of the revving engine finally making them react and flee. Or we would come across a solitary nilgai, as dark as the night, and foxes were plenty and they would sit by the narrow jungle path like tame dogs.
Many precious moments of my childhood and youth were spent watching and wondering and admiring the forest creatures that abounded. I was often scared, but there were times I could have played god with them, but kept my distance. For us in our little forest paradise teeming with snakes, lizards and other creatures, wonder and awe are what we always felt for the forest and its inhabitants, rather than regarding them as peculiar, frightening or exotic creatures. And at night, when I slept snugly in my cozy bed, enclosed in the night sounds of the jungle, the croak-croak-croak of the frogs in the streams and ponds, the constant kirrrrrrr sound of the cicadas in the dark, I would often be woken up by the sudden strange laughing call of the hyena piercing through the night, and I would listen in the dark to mysterious rustling sounds outside, wondering what creature was out there.
Though our worlds were juxtaposed, we tried not to encroach much into theirs. Though they accidentally did encroach sometimes into ours, but they always preferred to slither, crawl, or run away when discovered. Through all those years that we lived there, never have we ever been bitten. Of course we were on our guard, so there was little chance of being accidentally bitten. But accidents do happen, however careful one may be – yet not once. I do believe they were the ones that chose to leave us alone.
I live in protected urbanised surroundings now, away from the kind of nature that I grew up in, and have regrettably lost contact with it. But I am thankful and lucky that my growing years were spent close to the earth, the forest, and its myriad creatures. And all I need to go back there is to have a chat and get inspired to write about it and thus relive a time lost in my past.
-by Rita Putatunda
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