A Trip to Belpahari

                                                              

It was a whopping six hours long car ride from Kolkata to Chirakuthi ashram in Belpahari. On entering the ashram premises, I spotted a nylon mesh swing hanging from a Lokhhitaru tree and pink hibiscuses peeping from the gaps framed by the branches of different plants. I carved my way through a crowd of colourfully dressed villagers to bundle our belongings inside a three-roomed (two bedrooms and the office) hut. While rinsing my daughter's hands from the tap water in the washroom, I heard the bustle outside grow louder and couldn't wait to be a part of the bonhomie. The villagers who had assembled for the community meal settled down on the clean, open corridor that ran along the front of the hut connecting its rooms.  Lunch items - rice, dal, vegetable, chicken curry and chutney - were scooped out of large steel buckets and served on sal-leaf plates. The first batch comprised of children only, the smallest of them had their mothers hunched behind to help them erect miniature hillocks of rice that could easily slip into their tiny mouths. The meal would be followed by the distribution of clothes collected from many generous people in Kolkata, inspected to ensure there were no tears or stains, packed in large cardboard boxes and bags, and crammed inside the boots and backseats of the cars which brought us and the other volunteers from the city.

My daughter Nirjhorini found immense delight in the swing and wrangled with a village-boy to be the sole occupier of it. Not to be daunted, the little boy, named Shibesh, stuck to his ploys of dethroning her and finally when he got a chance, he established his proprietary over the swing by pulling it up and coiling it around the branch of Lokhhitaru, out of reach of my daughter. I consoled her by taking her out for a walk, promising she would get another turn at the swing before we set out for our return journey to Kolkata.

The narrow, red-earth road winded past similar looking mud huts, skirted round dense clumps of trees and branched to explore the meadows. I noticed the village lacked water bodies although they were aplenty in other parts of Bengal.

The ashram, which is engaged in empowering the impoverished Shabar tribe populating this region, consists of a couple of longish huts with thatched roofs, a small, cemented, rectangular pool for the ducks, two tinier pools – created out of tarpaulin covered ditches - for cultivating Azolla, and several flowering shrubs. Founded and managed by Swapan Maharaj, its activities include imparting education along with nutritious Tiffins to around a hundred children (from four to fourteen years of age), providing dry food to ten poor families, distributing garments to the villagers during Durga Puja, arranging medical camps, and training the youth to attain a means of livelihood so they emerge victorious in the ultimate fight against the scourges of hunger, disease, ignorance and alcoholism plaguing their families. To achieve this objective, the ashram has started sewing lessons for girls and supported some in completing their nursing training; enrolled several teenage girls and boys in CIPET(Center Institute of Plastic Engineering and Technology), involved the women in making jams, jellies and pickles under 'PHAL UDYOG' department and is growing a fruit orchard to create more job opportunities for the villagers. It has bought a few cows and plans to build a large cowshed to address the problem of malnutrition among the locals and also to facilitate some of their employment. I am humbled to be one of the (several) contributors to this noble endeavour undertaken by the monk Swapan Maharaj, who formerly belonged to the Ramakrishna Math. I am also inspired by my mother,  who, despite her ailments, had toiled relentlessly to convince the children to embark on the path of education and encouraged their mothers to attend the adult literacy classes. She has also been instrumental in developing their sewing skills.  

We reached an open air school, trailing the sun baked road and traversed a grass less expanse, at times concealed by the shades of towering trees. On returning to the ashram, Nirjhorini dashed to the swing though another little girl in a bright yellow and red frock was also trotting towards it. She soared high, with her eyes to the clear skies, occasionally rocked by my mother, sometimes even by Shibesh and finally she vacated the swing for the little girl. I am indebted to Mrs Monica Sengupta, a tireless soul dedicated towards empowering the downtrodden though this ashram and many non-profit organizations, for taking the initiative to arrange the trip to Belpahari, which granted me an opportunity to experience the upheaval of this often difficult voyage to freedom from deprivation.  

                                       

Love Jihad: Is interfaith marriage a ploy to convert?

The motive behind a marriage might be anything but love. It could be money or status or the desire to further one's career prospects or the need to flaunt an attractive spouse. Or the simple reason that the prospective bride/groom happened to the first one in the array of faces and profiles in a matrimonial site to fit the criteria of his/her idea of a life partner. Or the only one willing after countless rejections.

In some cases, especially in a country like India, the motive is made explicit by the demand for dowry. On the other hand, a man who had not asked for any dowry will certainly gain financially, even though not immediately, from the marriage to the daughter of wealthy parents or a self-made woman with a lucrative career. The same applies to a woman marrying a professionally successful man or the son of one. No matter what jealous gossip-mongers would like to say, the motive behind such unions might not be money after all. Or might be. The point is if Mr X and Miss Y decide to marry, it is impossible for a third person to know the motive. Then how is it that when two people belonging to different religions wish to marry, entire villages/towns/political outfits/newspaper readers/random Facebook users, who do not even  know the couple personally, jump to the conclusion that the man's motive is to convert the woman to his own religion?

The common accusation against men from the minority community who choose their wives from the majority community is that they have brainwashed the women. Such a statement is infuriating for more reasons than one. When a man fancies a woman he will try to impress her (unless he is a rapist)  - influence her into thinking that he is the most suitable partner for her by highlighting his strengths and concealing his shortcomings. Through thousands of years, that is how couples have courted, settled down and produced off springs. To call his natural inclination to woo a woman 'brainwashing' just because she happens to belong to a different religion is preposterous to say the least. Moreover, it considers women to be hapless creatures robbed of any agency or intelligence. It overlooks the fact that a women might be self-assured enough to make the first move in a relationship and that it might be she who had sought to impress the man - in the words of those who oppose their union 'brainwashed' him.

When two people fall in love, they will naturally wish to spend their lives together. It is nothing but an act of cruelty to separate them in the name of religion/caste/tradition etc. Romantic feelings can develop between two people who study/work/travel/play together or even steal glimpses at each other at a bus stop. It is also against the interest of the nation to prevent members from different communities from interacting with each other lest they fall in love and marry. Such restrictions can only breed intolerance, discrimination and terrorism and is against the very idea of individual freedom cherished in every civilized nation.

It is no surprise that people nurture a lot of affection for their own religion as it is an intrinsic part of their identity, but it escapes me how the same people, many of whom are highly educated and well placed professionals, harbor no love for the constitution which is also indelibly linked to their national identity and which grants full freedom to every individual to chose their own partners irrespective of religion, community and caste.

The self-appointed guardians of religion who think their religion is under threat because of certain marriages which they refer by the strange term 'Love Jihad'; people who would violate the law and the constitution and cause untold emotional distress to young people in love to prevent such unions perhaps should pause for a moment to ponder that when their religion had survived the many twists and turns in history, the series of foreign invasions, the shifting of tastes and territories, and probably happens to be the oldest surviving religion in the world, practiced from the times of the Indus valley civilization (as far as I am aware none practices the religions that were prevalent in ancient Egypt, Greece or China though the religion of ancient Persia still has a few but highly distinguished followers in India), how can it be crushed into extinction by someone's choice of a life partner.

To force apart two people who intend to marry(or had already married) is against the principles of kindness, respect and justness which are embedded in all religions. Even in the epics venerated by all such as the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, the bullies get defeated in the end. Ravana was punished for trying to impose his will on Sita and the Kauravas for depriving the Pandavas of their rights. People who disrupt marriages (nowadays even friendships) through mob violence and other forms of intimidation might be enjoying popular support from certain outfits and some bigots like themselves on social media, but they can never be considered as true believers of their religion.

My Musings on Valentine's Day

I was in the 7^th standard. I stepped inside my school premises, located the queue of girls belonging to my section and hastened towards it, when one of my classmates stretched out her hand to shake mine and wished me “Happy Valentine’s Day.” Before I could comprehend what it was, I found the other classmates wishing the same to each other.

In a few hours, I came to know all about Valentine’s Day though I was not sure whether it was supposed to be celebrated between lovers or with anyone one may love including one’s parents. My classmates insisted it was the latter: studying in an all girls’ convent and being chaperoned by our parents at all other times ensured that we never had any boyfriends, but we too wanted to partake in this grand phenomena called Valentine’s Day.

For the next few years on Valentine’s Day, after returning from school I would unzip my bag, spread out the books and exercise copies on the central table, switch on the TV and click the remote to select MTV. Listening to romantic numbers by Boyzone, MLTR, No Mercy, Elton John, Backstreet Boys, Carpenters, Cardigan, Celine Dion, Shania Twain and many others, I would try to replicate the Life Science and Physical Science diagrams in the lab book for my homework, negotiate with numbers to solve Mathematical problems and wonder whether I would be asked out for a date on Valentine’s Day next year although that was impossible due to the above mentioned reasons.

In India, there is a lot of controversy surrounding Valentine’s Day, which I find absolutely unnecessary. To those who criticise it as an import of the West, I would like to ask whether they have shunned everything that had originated in the West. Don’t they attire themselves in Western clothes? Don’t they eat or drink anything that is not native to India? To those who frown upon it saying love is not just for one day, I would like to tell that yes, we love our partners everyday but due to the busy schedule, we might not get time to go out of our way to express it. So it’s nice to have some occasions when we do something special for the person who is sharing his/her life with us. So what’s wrong if one celebrates Valentine’s Day just like one marks other occasions like birthday, marriage anniversary and any other day of some personal happiness? I agree with those who say that Valentine’s Day has been introduced and popularized in India for commercial gains. But is that stopping anyone from taking it to a more meaningful level if one wants to? As for commerce, what’s wrong if one avails, as per one’s budget, the delights that shops and restaurants have to be offer? We all survive by selling something – whether it is knowledge, software or diamonds.

I can understand that this day might be painful for those who had just suffered a breakup/rejection/betrayal by their partner. I have been through such low phases too. I think the best way to deal with such a situation is to stay away from TV, radio and social networking sites and indulge oneself in an activity that it is devoid of even the slightest whiff of romance.

Coming back to myself, I will have to remain confined in my office cubicle for most part of the day. After that, I will definitely rustle up some delicacies for my husband – that will be special for us as I rarely cook on other weekdays.

     

My visit to Antyodoy Anath Ashram: An Oasis of Beauty and Harmony

Swathed in woollens to resemble two oversized pupas, my daughter and myself hopped into the back seat of the car. My husband was at the wheel: it was a pleasure to be driven around the streets of Kolkata before the office going traffic took over the thoroughfares. Punctuated by two meal breaks for my three year old daughter Nirjhorini and a sumptuous breakfast at a dhaba, our journey to Pausi village took more than four hours. On reaching the ashram I got swept into a flurry of activities revolving around my daughter. Once she had been bathed, changed into a fresh set of clothes and fed with rice, dal, aloo bhaja and fish curry, I turned my attention to the beauty of the sprawling ashram comprising of two blocks, a park, a playground and a couple of ponds. The most remarkable thing about this ashram is that one is gripped by an immense sense of positive energy as one strolls through its premises, interacts with its children and observes the staff engrossed in their diverse duties, yet attending to the needs of the visitors. Nirjhorini dashed to the swings and squeezed herself on the wooden seat beside an ashram kid. Once she was done with swinging, it was time to play with a ball. While an ashram boy, who was slightly older than her, could aim a fine kick, Nirjhorini was content with picking up the ball with her hands. They streaked across the playground, under the watchful eyes of my husband, who had to intervene whenever the ball rolled dangerously close to the pond. A little way away from the ashram, a slender blue-green river hummed along, setting to tune the whispers of the fast growing saplings of eucalyptus and fir. 

This was my second visit to the Antyodoy Anath Ashram (http://antyodoyanathashram.org.in/) but it was the first trip for my husband and daughter. The orphanage, set up by Mr Balaram Karan and his family, provides food, shelter and education to around one hundred children, besides running a school for the other villagers and arranging medical camps for the poor. Other than academics, the children are trained in music, dance, painting and sewing. A little distance away from the ashram, Mr Karan has established an old age home as well.

We jaunted to Mandarmoni in the evening. It took us around two and a half hours to reach there by car. Fastening our scarves and zipping up our jackets, we traversed the considerably wide beach to reach the sea, which rushed out to us in a multitude of frothy curls. In the darkness, my eyes found the fuzzy white crest of the rising waves and the faint outlines of a blinking lighthouse. Unwilling to wet my socks and shoe clad feet at this time of the year, especially since I was suffering from cold, I scurried back as the water ran past the embedded sea-shells and gave me a chase down the shore. As the sea receded in jest, the foam bubbling along the indented edge of its drape, I tiptoed towards it, the soft wet sand squishing under my shoes. After enduring the tussle between our clothes and the sea-breeze - one struggling to keep us warm and the other conspiring to freeze - we nipped to a tea shop that was stacked with varied kinds of merchandise including plastic balls for kids. Sipping hot tea, and munching on onion pakoras, prawn and crab fries, we stared into the nothingness above the horizon and answered to Nirjhorini’s innocent queries, which were inexhaustible like the stars.

Dinner was served at the Mandarmoni guest house, also owned by the Antyodoy Ashram. After polishing off the fabulous thali, my husband drove us back to Pausi down the narrow, winding roads, the cloak of darkness frisked only by the streetlights and nothing else. A room had been arranged for us on the first floor of the old age home. My daughter, who had dozed off in the car, woke up with a loud wail as we stepped inside the room, and demanded that she be taken back to our home in Kolkata. Much to our embarrassment, her cries got louder, snatching the sleep from the aged inmates of the house. Finally, my husband managed to lull her into sleep with a self-invented tale of a sea-captain and a baby. We crept under the spotlessly clean blankets and closed our eyes in blissful exhaustion.

Swilling glassfuls of date palm juice, offered by one of the caretakers, I watched the winter morning seep between the serrations of the coconut leaves. Low swells of water broke slowly in the ashram pond, framed in green by the reflected trees. One of the elderly inmates extended her warm hand of friendship to me. Nirjhorini found company in the housekeeper’s daughter – one was below ten and the other around fifteen. They raced in the corridors, sprinted up and down the stairs and pranced about on the roof from where we got an extensive view of the rippling ponds separated by lacy strips of green. After completing my ablutions and helping my daughter complete hers, we settled down for a hearty breakfast of crisp round luchis, begun bhaja and potato curry. Then we drove back to the ashram, where we soaked ourselves in the gaiety of the children, who kicked the football, swung their cricket bats, smacked the shuttles and bounded after one another. Some of them darted out to cuddle my daughter, gave me a peek into the hostel rooms and regaled me with descriptions of their lives and activities. Paintings showcasing the exceptional skills of some of the amazingly gifted ashram children adorned the walls of a spacious hall, where a sit-and draw competition had been held the previous day. Stepping inside the office room, I discovered that CCTV cameras were capturing everyone’s movements in the corridors and the compound to ensure protection for the children. Moyna, Mr Balaram Karan’s daughter, was receiving guests, supervising the cooking and coordinating the different activities of the ashram with superhuman efficiency.

After a delicious lunch, it was time to bid goodbye. I took a lingering glance at the frolicking children bonding in the sunshine warmed compound, the stout buildings and the glimmering pond water before picking up our belongings. We hopped into our car with a halo of memories, the pristine laughter ringing in our ears, and a whole new world throbbing, breathing, evolving and orbiting the stagnant sphere of our familiar realm.