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![]() And then came the most waited for day; Redhu’s first birthday. At dawn the kitchen was cleaned to glint, to start the cooking of delicacies of damalloo, chaman and yellow rice seasoned with hot mustard oil - taher. The yellow rice augered the auspiciousness of the occasion. A silver plate was filled with this sumptuous rice, a dot of thick creamy yogurt accompanying. They waited for him to appear with that cherubic little face. There was a knock again and this time a high pitched hi - his blue grey eyes glowing with fervent importance. All of them gave a concerted “happy birthday”, he clapped his little hands. “Come let us assemble in the Puja room- But look at your beautiful outfit; A so small white Pashmina Pheyran with golden embroidery. You look like a little prince. Your father was also called one.” Granny was ecstatic and the baby stroked the soft surface of his dress and quietly remarked “wa-wa”- the baby expression for fresh outfit. Granny held the puja thali in her right hand and in the left one was the yellow rice. Suddenly there arose a wall of flimsy barriers. She waded unsteadily towards these curtains of myriad hues- azure, blue, orange and more. Her eyes could locate the hazy diminutive figure beyond, through the gossamer wall- giggling and clapping his hands. She wanted to put a blob of this auspicious yellow rice dipped in yogurt in his little mouth. She struggled with all her energy to catch this angelic body but in vain. And then, she heard her husband shaking her hand “Why are you wrestling with the pillow?” and chuckled. Granny shook herself out of her dream “Oh I was dreaming. He was back, Redhu came. Oh, these dreams leave me strangely exhausted. This little one’s glimpses online make me crave for more.” She smiled and wiped the unshed tears. Her inner mother wanted more than these abstract glances without any earthly touch. “Come on” her husband expressed, “You should be thankful to these electromagnetic waves- which cause this serendipity of images, to see him hugging his toy doggy and pointing to his crib.” Yes, she thought, these hundred hued curtains, which stood between her and her Redhu manifested the aspirations they had spun for their son to have sent him thousand miles away. ”And are your expectations effected?” he questioned. “Not at all”- she had read somewhere that children are like trees, let their roots be fixed in firm ground and grow to spread their branches in every direction to breathe the scent of all regions. Still thinking about the vast expanse of sky- she would at times look up and feel the distance that divided her and her loved ones. From years now, the only occupation that filled their days- even if outwardly they were quite busily occupied was a never ending longing. Longing that broke the heart. First it was for their own offspring. But, once Redhu took birth, the habit of yearning became a need. At times she would find herself crooning while going through her chores. Thanae yelli piyohom adae raatan, zatuk chone lyukh Bhagwanan- you were born at the stroke of midnight, God came from heavens to write your horoscope. Then she would swallow hard to remove the knot in her throat. And then one day, he came, real Redhu, not the one on the monitor. Everyone wanted to touch him to assure his being with them with a frenzied zest. So many hands vied to cuddle the little bundle, caress the soft pink cheeks and run their fingers through the silky tresses. The jet lagged baby piqued at the overly eager petulant crowd, tried to disentangle and wrench his little body away from the mob. In the process Granny’s ear ring got stuck in a spangle of her Redhu’s dress and the pinna got cut into two halves. His presence, however trivialized this episode. She forgot the pain and deformity later when he pranced the room with his baby fists full of rice grains stolen from the plate. She deliberately conquered her vanity; every time she looked into the mirror, the weird looking ear took her to her Redhu- the animated expression of his sweet face, thus never tried to do something to mend the obnoxiousness. Redhu went back to the adopted home of his parents. The serendipity of images followed again. Everyone followed Redhu’s actions on screen. What exactly forced the parents over there to tie a 20 month old baby with belts and buckles while being fed, was beyond comprehension of the grandparents. The food becomes insipid stuff, the whole procedure, an ordeal for the baby and a difficult chore for the parents. As if the baby was sent on a tedious journey. Granny longed to take the little seraphic being on her hip and show him the colourful patterns on the wings of butterflies flitting from flower to flower. And while he opened his round mouth in surprise, Granny could deposit the dollop of mashed kaliya and rice into it. Or she could put him onto his tricycle, point to a chirping bird, perched on a bow. And yes, the next step – the morsel in his little mouth. That is how feeding a baby became an enjoyable exercise. Granny remembered the way she had introduced the alphabet to Redhu’s father and uncle. An onion or potato was a zero or ‘O’, with peapods she would shape ‘A’, ‘T’, ‘F’, etc. How they would clap their baby hands on accomplishing the feat. ![]() Baby turned into a child. Each visit started with euphoric welcomes and ended in heart-aching adieus. And then he reached an age of understanding. His growing up was typically mixed- up, he ate Indian Kashmiri food and coined strange names for different items. His demeanor, language and mannerism were disparate but not disparaging. His “I don’t care”- conveyed he is not interested or he wanted a little. Granny and others would be sent into peals of laughter. He enjoyed the little games those short stays would enable him to have with his grandparents. “Let us dress you like a Yotch (Yaksha) today- Grandpa knows what a Yotch looks like. On a Yaksha Ketch Mavas, waxed moon night, a Yaksha with his special head dress- comes stealthily to eat the lentil rice. And if a little boy like you succeeds in stealing his cap- he is a real ‘winner’”. “Oh yeah?” the little boy’s eyes shone with joy. Grandpa turbaned his baby head in a red pashmina sash and adjusted some green leaves on the edges. A longish vermillion dot completed his costume. He looked every inch the mythical ogre, “Where is my Kheychari?” Redhu repeated in a hoarse demonic voice, but in English. Granny and grandpa, uncle and his mom and dad came in mock fear and offered a plateful. “Hey folks- this is what we call Halloween. We had it at school- I was a ‘jack-o-lantern’. The six year old was evincing enthusiasm, interlinking civilizations, he was growing up in. It was fun- great fun, his granny enjoyed, his phrased sentences. Children over there even prattle in full phrased sentences. One evening enjoying the mutton balls fed by his granny, he asked in the same adult/child tone of reproach “Hey granny! Why do you cry your eyes out on our every departure? You almost create scenes and we feel sorry”. “I am sort of hurt ….you see it is like when one’s body part is severed”. Granny was half amused but eyes were brimming. She did not tell him that once they leave, every time it felt like the whole house had been plundered by robbers of even a last spoon. The walls and floor looked bare-an emptiness of vast magnitude pervaded for some days. “Oh! Poor poor you, that is why you have not mend your ear. OK, I will mend all these hurts when I grow up”. Then suddenly he added “but why don’t you guys come with us, we have quite an ample space”. “But this is our home” grandpa said quite matter of fact. “Tell me why did your son, my papu, go therein the first place?” This, six year old wanted an explanation of this life in parts. “He went for a more sophisticated education” grandpa boasted. “And moreover”, Granny added “we are happy that you were born in that land of lakes and meadows, wild flowers and cherries and walnuts of opulence and beauty- just like the land of your ancestors”. “Who are my ancestors- where is that land?” Granny pondered a little and did not find any logic to let this six year old’s growing pschye carry the burden of bruised ancestry. Let the verbal prowess, which he possessed sufficiently, be devoid of the words like exile, migration, terrorism, violence, death and debacle. He should grow in a prevailing mood of security of parental care, affection of grandparents, attention of aunts and uncles-of neighbours and friends. “Grandpa and granny, your dad’s and mom’s grandparents are your ancestors”. His little face cupped in his hands, he listened with rapt attention. Granny asked “you do love me and grandpa”? “Yes sure I do”. His voice was serious, as if something was bothering his little mind. Meanwhile granny got a phone call. Her friend was going on a pilgrimage, visiting all holy places across the country. Redhu overheard the term pilgrimage being repeated. He pulled granny by her hand and took her aside. “What is a pilgrimage?” He asked inquisitively. “Why, it is a journey to a holy place”. She replied pinching his nose. “Which is a holy place?” “A place where God resides or is supposed to reside”. “Thank you granny”. Then came the eve of departure. The visits always felt shorter. In the bustle of packed suit cases, bags and weighing balance Redhu asked his Grandfather, “why don’t you go on a pilgrimage, we can avoid her creating a scene”. Pointing to his granny, Grandfather explained that people took hazardous journeys to reach the abodes of God, because they love God. They would take a journey to come to Redhu. Their salvation and bliss came from listening to his talk, his play and feeding him meat balls. Redhu was silent. After some time he came running, “I think I have a solution- I have a great plan-a very capital plan-listen both of you”. They sat flanking the child. “How old will you be granny-say when I am 20?” She would be 77, she said. He brought a sheet of paper and a pencil. “See, this is the terrace of your building”. He drew it on the paper and then a neat arch joining the other point. “This joins with our deck there-I will construct a huge real long bridge towering over mountains, plains and oceans. You will not even need a visa. You can drive across and reach us. But, Grandpa drive carefully otherwise you will fall and float like drift wood”. They clasped his little body and kissed his little hands for having settled for an innocently innovative solution. Now Grandmother dreams that she is running barefoot crossing bridge after bridge to reach the visible silhouette of Redhu on the other side. But actually she had nodded in the plane. She was crossing the mountains and oceans to reach Redhu. |
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![]() Her restless existence had no time to grow as she got married during her university days. Her husband’s career tossed her on to the far off lanes of Paris. Motherhood, responsibilities of a wife and a daughter-in-law and running a household with a scientist husband kept her busy for a good part of her energetic years. When the demand for her other roles diminished – she had time to reminisce. The stored up memories gushed out in a deluge. She started writing short stories for local newspapers.Her first book “ ON THE SHORES OF THE VITASTA” was published from the Writer’s Workshop of Calcutta. The other book “ WE WERE AND WE WILL BE “ was published from Utpal Publications, Delhi. Her stories depict a celebration of life – a continuation of life. Parineeta and her family have been living in Hyderabad from the last twenty eight years.. |
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