Maa was there, in Gaan...
When she happened to be there, soil had its aroma. Landscape
seemed so vivid. Water was crystal clear, sky was bright and cloudless, and
breeze was odorous. Honey flavoured the flora. Bonds were sweeter, each door
remained open. Every yard yawned wide. Southern-breeze rustled the boughs.
Lovingly, she used to nod when called. It sweetened hearts like jasmine sprayed
scents.
Sky used to put red bindi
at dawn. Flowers were blossoming all across. Birds greeted the day singing.
Crow cawed on thatch of house. Cock of Salim
Chaha began its reaaz nearby. Jeji Maa broomed the extension. Jeje Baba swallowed his tumbler of tea. Maa hurriedly made breakfast. Champu Kaka yoked the oxen for field. Bapa set out for work. The new born baby
in neighbour used to howl tossing on its cradle. Sun shined gently. Paki Aaai screamed as cattle broke into
her pitch of greens last night. Butterfly dotted colours on flowers. Red lilies
beamed in mossy pond. Newborn calf hopped by the pond side. Soil held fallen
night-flowers charily. Golden rays of sun came down through the coconut tree.
Pigeons at backyard pecked at grains. Temple bell tolled. Incense and sandal
paste scented the way. Bus started buzzing for suburbs. School bells used
tocrinkle. We hurried unwillingly out of sloth.
There was Maa...
There was house of mud and thatch – wood pillar, airy quad
and ajar doorway. There, pickles and badhi were
made; wet napkins of baby were dried. Pumpkin tendrils grew onto the
slopped roof. At night sky, moon, stars glittered above, over the pavement. From
there, Maa introduced to moon -
humming like southern breeze. Moon appeared from back of Bel tree as sleeping balm. We went dopey and dreamy. There, we
bounced out of Maa’s lap and we
played with dirt and dust, we rose and fell, knelt and walked. There again,
night fell and on a coir mat, we dozed. Budhi
Maa told endless tales of Pakhiraaj Ghoda
(Winged Horse), Raja Pua Raja Jhia
(Prince & Princess), Budhi Asuruni
(Old Witch). We counted stars sometimes- yours is north and south is mine,
east-west tomorrow. We got puzzled as they dazzled in millions and zillions. Counting
ended no way. Bhai used to
surprise asking, ‘I counted all... you?
He used to answer such an impossible number to remember.
On moonlit nights, we saw flock of night birds flying.
Impossible imagination and unfeasible questions simmered in mind. Wings may
there! ... Would have taken off to moon and stars. Where do stars disappear at
arrival of day? How does it rain plentiful water? None of us knew answers of
these questions then.
Afternoon in summers- Dina,
Kata, Reba - friends used to come. We staged our drama using wet saree of Maa in yard. We made our concert beating
cans. Fought with sticks - Karna & Arjuna.
Lord Rama even come out with arrow and
bow. Sita robbed a towel- Ravana cackled ...Ha...Ha...Ha and came
Hanuman, Bhima, Bali. Holi used to be so very colourful and colossal.
Plants, pets, house played colour. Bhai frisked a little colour on Budha Baa coming home towards the end
of play. Budha Baa chased us with his
walking stick to our stage- scolding hedakhia,
langudakhia. Patato fell from Panchu’s
robe who played Sita. Our drama used
to get delayed.
Maa was there...
She was there,
childhood was sweeter. There was a flowery scented morning. Noon of Chuna Machha, Badhi Chhura, Lau Danka and
pakhala was that. AmbulaRai, Machha Jhola and mid-noon of garambhata- a Sara Aauta afternoon. There was evening of padapitha, snoozy nights, and dreamy early mornings.
There was Maa and Maa Laxmi made her presence in cubbyhole amid shiny small articles of
bronze. Chita, Muruja, Manakhatuli, laxmipurana,
amabadala, dubakolipatra, Khai accompanied chanting of Mantra. Tulasi, sanjabati, pithapaan, and
thirteen festivals in twelve months and so on.
There was Maa...
Paanadala was held
in reserve on treasury box. Pittal Pana
Rekabi, Chunadani, Gua Kati, Dhania Daba, PanMahuriand cloves smelled and
savoured high to heaven. Collections of silver Paanabata stood proudly in a row. BudhiMaa,
Budha Baa, Badakaka, Sana Apa, HiraKhudi - they walked in and out.
Maa was there...
There placed a chullah
at backyard. Jalaakha, Ghasi,(dried leaves) Phunkanala,
Ukhuria (tools to fan the fuel) surrouned chullah. At its
maw, kitten laid on the warm ass deposited. We fought sitting by the
blaze,nudged each other in winters to take the chill off. Budha Jeja prepared his hooka
with burnt coal. Maa made allopoda,
baiganabharta while putting the fire off. In hearth, there hanged a Shika (hanging rope-shelf), and therein swung dishful curd, plateful
dried fish. In cubicle, there were earthen pots lined up grnning wider, Palam,
Pitha Chancha, Chatu gave company to that. There postured Sila Silapua (grindstone).
There was Maa, soil was there, and clay was there.
Maa was lying on
ground spreading her saree edge. She used to tug us to her lap, we rested in
comfort as chickens. She used to tell many a things tapping on back softly,
brushing her hand on our temple gently, stories of Dhruba, Prahlada,Shrabana Kumar,Ramchandra and his profuse devotion
for his father and so on. Maa was
smiling , so smiled the Gaan. Feeding
on Saga Pakhala, she delighted every
bosom. She lighted up near ceramic Tulsi
pot when twilight fell. She was reading all Puran
Pothi (holy texts) noiselessly, praying wellbeing for all. Maa was there.
Once!
Maa slept off
forever. Stolen was our childhood- savoury mornings- showers of happy days.
There stood a helpless adulthood with all frustrations. Grimy faces, gloomy
hearts. No noise, no flow, no flux, only no, not and nay filled the space.
Gaan in absence of Maa! Life without Maa!
Now she is not there. She is now little star in some far of
sky. Neither Maa is there nor mud
made house. No scent in soil. Wood pillar, airy quad and ajar doorway- not
there anymore. No cracking sound of front door- no cubicle, no clay God. No Bhagabata no, no bhoga. Old cycle is rusting. No trace of fishing net, ink pot,
age-old sword, three cell torch. No berry grows in backyard. Grindwood lay
pressing its face in ground. Sathighara
is missing from wall. House is structure of brick made of burnt soil. Yard made
of cement void of vivacity. . Maa is
gone. Tendrils are not gliding up to the house top. Ridge gourd flowers don’t
crackle ‘tho tho’ on wooden fence. No
trailing creeper of Aparajeeta (Snapdragon
flower) by well side, no bushy shrubs of herb plants- Aleovera, Basil, Thyme
etc. Jai, Jui, Malli, Malati (flowers) -
have decamped. Butterfly does not flutter. Barricades of bricks stand high
replacing shrubbery enclosures of nature. Son is working in Bombay, Delhi,
London, New York. Evergreen flora and ferns are died out- dragon fly does not
jet over, chameleon does not frisk away sensing foot-steps.
Maa not there...
In out yard new-born calf does not play jumping, hopping.
Nobody pampers the pet. The dog used to bark at sound of footsteps in front
yard, the cat used to rove secretively from corner to corner- none of them is
left to patrol the house now. The pond in back square is at its burial- no
hunchbacked heron hit on the minnows and mackerels from meditation. Lilies
stopped flowering. Thorny hedge of jasmine drooping in air partly and partly
floating on the mossy green water, nestling of colourful tit birds- not to be
found there. Bamboo bush vanished along with its family foliage. Call of Dahuka (Water Hen) is muted now. The
swinging nests in palm tree are far sighted now. Myna and pigeons do not strut
and coo in yard- nobody feeds them. Crow does not craw earnestly for bread
pieces hinting arrival of a guest.
Maa not there...
Little girl, with her two plaits is not found tying red
ribbon – her smile, her anger never echo anymore. Cuckoo does not coo on boughs
of budding mango tree. Phaguna
(spring) does not come, black clouds does not hover. Everything departed –
afternoon of stolen wood apple, berry, lime, hog plum, tamarind etc. Now those
days have grown all the more sour. Nobody is left there to drive off and to
castigate for tress passing their orchards. Jatia Badabapa,
Dana budha, Champa Bhauja, Kani Khudi,Anadi gahana, everybody else of own –
where all they go? Tima Kukura, Pari Sari,
Mithu Shua, Sankhi Bilei, Ole iGaai,
Manika Cheli – where are they?
Maa, no more is there...
Purohita (village priest) who used to walk pounding the earth never shouts at delays, at slightest
passing of the auspicious time. Maa is not there to hurry, holding the water
pot to rinse his feet. Moneylender, headman, astrologer, midwife, door to door
seller – all have turned into ass in crematorium. Gadadhar Master’s willowy
stick, addition subtraction of wintry morning, kneeling down at school veranda
- are bygone those happy-sad days. Added to that, big banyan tree and its
descending roots, Mankudi Khela (play
hanging, swinging on tree), hopping of squirrel with red little fruits in
mouth, leaping herd of unruly monkeys, chirping of scratchy flock of birds – are
ever lost panorama.
Maa not there....
Boiled rice in clay made pot, tangs of Biri Dali Muga Dali, Badhichura,
Poda Aloo Bharta – every article of cologne has fainted. Deipindi does not rest in north-east corner – Shika (hanging rope-self) not in
oscillation any longer. Manabasa Gurubara
(worshipping MaaLaxmi), ,Tulsi Chaura,
Chita, Murja (Rangoli – have gone inanimate. Fading shades of flowers and
wishy-washy moon bean. No fervour in festive – Raja Doli and Pata has become statuette in attic since long.
Life is colourless. River is drying out to sail. Burying
river only heaves long sigh of exhaustion, watching sky. Green weeds are filling
its bosom. Rolling stone at river tier has been douched since evermore. Kashatandi panaromio is found in
remembrance only. River bosom does not swell up with flow of flood – as if it
is thirsty since ever Maa left Gaan.
No relief, no comfort with no Maa. No emotion – no selfless hand of her who only loves to give
and give. In Gaan, no next of kin or
kith – no friend no foe. Neither moon nor its beam. Star-filled night seems
more remote. Soothing breeze of wavering coconut boughs does not heal now.
Neither dawn breaks nor dusk falls. Tambour of beggar and trumpet of Chakuria, bit and pieces of cow-boy’s
song, tolling bell in ox’s neckline – carillon fainted in air. Winter forgot to
freeze life. Mustard field does not enchant. Sugar canes don’t sweeten life. Maa is not there, Bhagabata, Pothi Purana
turned slaves in hands of termites. No Jatra (drama
staged by local people) , No Janjala (household).
Running behind the fading sounds of Pala (mythological
skits staged locally) promotion are not found even in collection of memory.
The idol in temple, silver eyes of deity, bronze made cobra are not doing
rounds anymore there. Paladala is not
posing pompously on Sinduka (treasury
box). Cracked relations, humps in
hearts.
Gaan devoid of Maa, is no more scenic, sublime, serene. Soil,
water, wind and life as well death are scentless, flavourless, colourless, and
tasteless. Maa, the microcosmic world
is not there... No Maa, No Gaan!
Notes
*Maa – Cultural canon may differ from one to
other but may be Maa or Mother, this is one word which carries the same amount
of emotion and position tagged along everywhere and every time and for
everybody
*Gaan – Village, Community etc.
*Budha Jeje Bapa,Budhi Jeje Maa – Grandparents at their old age
*Hedakhia, Langudakhia - Words used in Odia for rebuking
*Ambula Rai, Machha
Jhola, Garam Bhata, Sara Aauta, Chuna Machha, Badhi
podapitha, allopoda, baigana bharta Biri
Dali Muga Dali, badhichura, Poda Aloo Bharta
– Typical Odia dishes
*Chita, Muruja, Mana
khatuli, laxmi purana, amaba dal, dubakoli patra, Khai - Decorations made during a festive fervour
*Budhi Maa, Budha Baa, Badakaka, Sana Apa,
Hira Khudi – Elderly
members in family relations and from neighbourhood
*Pittal Pan Rekabi,
Chuna dani, Gua Kati, Bati – Articles placed in a basket to make betel
*Palama, Pitha Chancha,
Chatu – Traditional
cooking appliances used in a hearth in villages
*Jaala Akha, Ghasi,
Phunkanala, Niankhunta – Dried leaves, cake made of cow dung and steel tube used to fan the fuel
*Sathighara – Badge made on mud walls at birth of a
new baby when 21st day is celebrated
*Chakuria Panda – Saint personalities accepting
offerings from door to door, basically considered to be incarnation of Lord
Vishnu as dwarf.
*Dhruba, Prahlada,
Shrabana Kumar, Ramchandra – Famous Hindu mythological characters
Originally written by Prof Rashmi Raula in Odia and trancreated by
me in fond memory of my two best GRANDMAAs
of world.
