Eid At Nazira

                                 
                                                              PC  Dreamstine

    

  It is Eid once again. And once again I'll try to recreate the pulao and the korma that Haque mami treated us to, every year during this time. But in all my  attempts, it has never arrived anywhere close to the one that stayed in my memory. When there is mindless and barbaric violence in the month of Ramzan, I fall back upon the memories of a similar time that spread warmth and brotherhood in the 'Eid mubarak' hugs. The repercussions of a political aggression to establish economic suzerainty gone horribly wrong in one part of the world has escalated and snowballed with maniacs and insane riding the tide. And yet as the holy month of fasting draws to a close, I reach out across space and time to reaffirm my faith in bonhomie that was once an integral part of the social fabric. 

My earliest memories of this day is that of standing in front of the Bajaj scooter and feeling the wind rush against my face, while my father in a skull cap rode to the Idgah outside the oil town ship of Nazira to be the first ones to wish his friends who had been fasting for the last one month. Rows and rows of men in spotless white kurta pajama offered namaaz and then turned around to hug each other. And that vision stayed as an epitome of Eid festivities. The next few days were filled with an air of excitement and anticipation of goodness just as any other festival would bring with it. My friends would be in their crisp new clothes, eyes shining and generally adding to the atmosphere of effervescence. The indulgence of ittar that was dabbed onto my inner wrist and behind the ears made me feel all too important. For perfumes were not meant for children at home. My only interest was in getting to gorge on all that mouth watering delicacies that loaded the table.  There was the aromatic pulao, the subtle melt in the mouth mutton korma, succulent chicken roast, bhuna gosht, the fish, the different types of sevaiyan, served with bamboo shoot pickle and lemon pickle to balance the rich fare.

 Outside the oil colony, Nani waited for us to have the Eid lunch together. While Moti mama got busy running to and fro the market, Nana regaled us with anecdotes of his younger days. That's how we were taught to address our parents' friends, as mamas and mamis or mahis and mohas. And that's how I guess, we became one big family. Nani with her flawless skin is long gone but  I continue to remember her as a plump cuddly warm woman always dressed in spotless white mekhela sador with one end of her sador covering her head. When we dropped in on other days, she ensured that I was treated to some freshly laid eggs from her coop in the backyard. 

Then there was Zaheer mama's home across the Dikhow river that flowed through Nazira past the homesteads on one side and the town on the other. Part of the excitement of making the trip was the boat ride and climbing up the embankment. Tucked away on the other side of the river behind a lush growth of hibiscus, henna hedges, pomegranate, bananas, plums, a rich vegetable garden that took care of the daily meals and with areca trees standing tall amidst all,that thick tropical growth, was the simple home that welcomed us with aromatic fragrance down from the river slope. 

Since there were so many it was decided to share a meal together at one place at a time. So Farahba, Fanaz, Hasan, Maina and I played outside Sabina and Samir's house while we waited for Haque mami to serve us lunch and the grown ups laughed and shared jokes inside. These were nothing more  than an extension of our evening play time together when all the children of the neighbourhood gathered to play irrespective of their age. Only, during this time there was an added air of festivity after the first air of self consciousness of the new clothes, evaporated. Soon the lingering fragrance of  ittar was rush of sweat. Dinner would be hosted at Farahba's house and so went on the festivities for many days till a meal at every house was ticked off. Religion was a part of the banter. "Oh! Please hide the big one! We have 'Hendoo' friends over today for a meal!", brought out guffaws and giggles.

While they  fasted, Eid was synonymous with sumptuous food as far as I was concerned. Like for every  other festival, I associated it with particular food prepared for the occasion. 

If it was Durga Puja, it had to be khichudi with begun bhaja, laabra and bilahir tok. It tasted it's best when devoured under the puja pandal along with hundreds of others. The best dahi vada was had at our neighbour, Singh uncle's house during Diwali. We never got to eat the Holi lunch, having stuffed our stomachs with the dhoklas at Patel uncle's house, the murukkus and bajjis at Rao uncle's. Even the prashad of bundiya and bhujiya during Vishwakarma puja had a taste that never felt the same anywhere else. During Bihu, our home would be flowing with guests and mother piling up the fluffy lucis and butor daail with assortment of pithas. 

Things were too good to last. A wind was blowing across Assam, gathering force and was turning into a tempest. What began as a student's movement against  apathy and gross negligence of the State towards the immigration issue, soon caught everyone and sucked them into the vortex, irrespective of religion, caste and creed. The tempest enetered Nazira and roused up the local officers of the oil company. That small motley group of local officers was broken into and transferred to different parts of the country. The festivals were never the same again. Especially not Eid.

And for days after, I badgered my mother to reproduce the fare. But it was never the same. Today I remember all of them, some have left, some have moved on and some have retired from the mayhem. And yet when Eid comes every year, a part of me looks back at the small town of Nazira and I feel grateful to have experienced and lived in what seems a mirage now. Here's to all of you who have enriched my life and to all others who can believe in what has now become a fairy tale - Eid Mubarak! And once again I shall try to recreate Haque mami's pulao and korma for my children with the hope that I can hand over a time when things were much different.

        

My Tara

                                                                                   


        " Last night I dreamt I went  to Manderlay again..." Only it was not Daphne's Manderlay nor was the mood so gloomy and intimidating. On the contrary, it was of my  home that  I dreamt of, for the last six to seven months, much like the desperate seeking even the faintest signs of succour. Much like Scarlet O'Hara's well of strength in Tara or the promise to herself " After all ...tomorrow is another day."

   Err... I may not be in as complicated a situation as the two protagonists whom I invoke, but let's face it there are times when many of us just want to throw up our hands and  scream " Enough is Enough", to whoever cares to listen to. And so I did. And no sir, I did not feel guilty of making my daughter bunk two  'working days' before the school closed for summers. It was a choice between waiting decently like a good mother for the school to break off for vacations or me breaking down. I chose to avoid the latter.

      Having chugged our way past the bleak, desolate, sun blanched Northern plains and stalled midway on the tracks, we finally stumbled into the verdant North East. Finally, closing in on my Tara,  home sweet home! The crowded railway station and it's ubiquitous stench did nothing to dampen my spirit. We were already damp or rather drenched in all that sweat that a sultry weather can bring on.The familiar sights and sounds on our way home only heightened the excitement. Too many buildings, too many people, too many cars on the roads and along the roads.Never mind, we were almost there. It was the last lap to the finishing line. And when the car took  the final bend, the very sight of home melted all the   fatigue, released all the tensions building up for  months.With a smile on our lips and a spring in my step, we were home at last!

      Have you ever felt a home welcoming you, embracing and nuzzling you fondly as you walked around trying to see if everything is still the same  way as it was in your last visit? The bean bag was still around, only crying for more beans, the chikoo tree had grown sturdier and taller, the kitchen smelt the same, the passion fruit climbed still higher onto the debdaru tree, more foliage enveloped the house, the well and the tap behind the house silently waited for the kids to come and play.

 Oh yes! These books  within whose pages my imagination took flights into exotic lands and fantastic possibilities, were stacked neatly to be devoured by our children. They already have plans of lazing on the hammock squealing away with Archie, Tintin and Obelisk for company and climbing the Faraway Tree. The younger daughter has already warned me she is in granny's territory so my 'no TV' edict does not hold good. I let her be. It's vacation time for all.

   Waking up to the chirping birds, my mother's friends whom she feeds religiously, as they flutter out of their new homes on our trees, is a pleasant way to begin the day. The old bird house of bamboo had given away and so my mother got these earthen pots for them to nest in. I could watch them for hours together, flitting in and out as they go about their daily business of survival. I could afford to. I was on a holiday, miles away from my daily rut. I could lie down on the floor, after a sumptuous mom cooked meal in the afternoon, and let the breeze caress and lull me into that rare siesta. Why the floor? Because it is much cooler especially when there is no electricity, which is a regular story for most part of the day in that part of the country.  And if the leaves were motionless outside, the bisoni ( hand fan) did the needful while fanning in the day dreams. A luxury when  all year around, our lives are pivoting around the hands of the clock, mentally ticking off the to-do list.

 

       As dusk set in, we sat in the verandah sharing the oft repeated  anecdotes, never tiring of the repetitions. My father, of his childhood days about the self made bunkers, the World War soldiers travelling by, the Great Big Earthquake of 1950, the naughty antics. And me, of our childhood spent in our granny's home, of loitering around her fields and fruit orchards like vagabonds, of catching fireflies in the evenings and squabbling and sharing secrets with cousins, of granny's partiality towards the  grandaughters  and shooing away the grandsons. Old friends gathered and we talked and giggled away treading the leaves in the nostalgia filled lanes. Uncles and aunts descended to look up the girls and remark, " Oh! How they have grown!", " Look at  you, you  have lost so much weight and  colour!" although I weighed a sack more than I did in my last visit. Between the sips of the red liquor brewed from garden fresh tea leaves,( always a complementary for almost every household from a relative working in the gardens) hushed tones and sideward glances were dying to share the latest family gossip, scandal and politics. When there is an extended gargantuan family, be assured of interesting notes replete with the unmentionables and the 'tsk tsk' inspiring,  straining to tumble out of the closet.

          The days stretched languorously and peace descended with nights. Gradually, sanity returned. Amidst all this, and the wining and the dining, we managed to visit a few places, meet some interesting people and catch a special play. The play is very close to me aptly titled "Photo". It's a play that took me to Sibsagar, a place where I spent my first  year of existence. More so, it's a play where for the first time my girls and my husband watched my septuagenarian  father perform on stage in his decades old pursuit of his passion for the theater. A geologist by profession and an actor by passion. I would cherish this memory forever. Memories of  holding back my own lumps in the throat while  answering my daughter's tearful query, "Why does Koka have to die?", of sniffling an indignation "she is so rude to koka!" and the resounding applause at the end of it all. Blessed did I feel to be a part of this moment.                                                                                    

     

  This annual pilgrim to my home, my Tara, leaves me glistening, purging away all the dust and grime that settle obstinately in layers till a good shower shakes it all off, to once again  resurrect the foliage and let it dance in the wind.