Chirakuti Ashram: A Roof for the Sabar Tribe

                                                            

"Look there," someone pointed at a tree.

In the darkness that had imbibed the evening prayers long back, I could make out the form of a white bird perched on a branch. It was a baby peafowl. We were a large group - my mother, daughter, husband, Swapan Maharaj, his students and other village children, making our way to the to the Durga Puja in the next village. Soon we left all traces of the road and found ourselves treading an embankment that snaked through dense paddy fields. I was right behind my daughter, who was clutching my husband's hand. In order not to trip and tumble into the crops, we had to be conscious of each step we took. Catching a strip of uniform darkness ahead, we guessed we had reached the river. Suddenly a child from our motley group howled. We stopped in our tracks, nudging the ones ahead of us to tell us what had happened.

"A snake bit him," someone said. 

"No, it had just swept across his feet," someone else said. 

                                                        

The boy continued to cry out of trauma. Once it was established that the snake was of a common, nonpoisonous type and the boy was calmed to an extent, though we could feel it would take time for the shock to wear off, we proceeded towards the river. It had enough water to drench us till our knees and a growing chilliness was infiltrating the autumnal air. So, we stuck to the trail of rocks bridging the river. The rocks were slippery and at one point, my right foot lost its grip and plunged straight into the water. I regained my balance and carried on. Trudging to the other bank, we landed on a solid, cemented road. We advanced along this path and after a while we found shoals of tiny fish frolicking in the water accumulated in a brief, low-lying stretch of the road. This thrilled me a lot: there was no dearth of puddles in Kolkata, especially during the monsoon, but I had never seen any fish in them. Finally we reached the Puja. A large bamboo structure was erected in a grassy field. Many villagers had gathered to watch the song-dance performance by children in bright attires. Due to the covid situation we put on our masks and maintained an adequate distance from the gathering. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of Devi Durga and her children. After the trek in the dark, we soaked in the dazzle of lights, rejuvenated by the dancing swirls of color.

                                            

Back in the ashram, we gobbled down our dinner, hungry from all the walking. A simple meal of rice, dal and vegetables had never tasted better. My daughter Nirjhorini fell asleep soon afterwards. Subha (my husband) and I strolled in the ashram premises for some time, gazing at the stars dotting the unpolluted skies before retiring to our beds.

                                                   

                                               

          

                     

We had arrived at the ashram at noon, after a six-hour long journey from Kolkata with Subha at the wheels. Before the outbreak of covid 19, my mother would visit the ashram frequently to assist Swapan Maharaj, a former monk of Ramakrishna Mission, in his noble initiative to empower the impoverished Sabar tribe. After lunch, I ambled in the ashram's garden, reveling in the soothing embrace of the lush green foliage and the splendor of fully bloomed flowers. Nirjhorini was soaring past the branches of the Lokhhitaru tree, in her swing. Spices like jeera, dhania, powdered tamarind, pepper, aniseed, methi, panchphoran were spread neatly on the surface of medium-sized gunny bags and left to dry. These spices and puffed rice are made in the ashram. The earnings from their sale are used to fund the many activities of the ashram which include providing food and education to underprivileged children, imparting job skills to their parents and adopting every step possible to haul the area from the pit of poverty (I have described the objectives and work undertaken by this non-profit organisation in more detail in the earlier post - A Trip to Belpahari. 

                                                    

I got a glimpse of the heartbreaking deprivation plaguing the area when a local woman took me for a walk across the village. She paused by her relatives' tiled roofed, mud huts, each of them a reminder of India's fathomless poverty. The dark hollows of the wall functioning as the doors were openings into a world no politicians could boast of, no self-centered, privileged urbanites would dare to look at in fear of bursting their bubbles of smug ignorance. On arriving at her hut, she introduced me to her husband, who was sitting on his haunches at the door. Even though they exchanged just a few words in my presence, it was hard to overlook the palpable sense of their camaraderie. Unlike many women across Indian cities and villages, educated and uneducated, there was no air of servility in her demeanor. While walking along the uneven road my slippers had got torn. Noticing the condition of my footwear, she picked a stick laying on the earth and poked the errant strap into position. It took her less than half-a-minute to accomplish this task. Her feet were bare. Her face was furrowed though I was certain she was not older than me. When I asked her how many children she had, she fumbled at first. It took her a while to recall she had seven. It is an unspeakable tragedy for our country that a woman like her, who is smart and capable, had never known and would probably never know about the experiences of life beyond the pangs of hunger, clutches of alcoholism and threats of diseases. Before leaving the precincts of her home, she directed my attention to the gourds hanging down a bamboo grid. I wished Swapan Maharaj and his trust's efforts would soon reach fruition.

    

Link to my previous post on Belpahari:- http://theserpentacursedrhyme.blogspot.com/2018/11/a-trip-to-belpahari.html?m=0

Jharkhand: The Temple and the Forests

                                                 

Driven by Shubha, our car zoomed through the empty lanes of Kolkata at 6:30 AM, and soared along the Second Hugli bridge. After crossing Howrah, it rushed past the agricultural fields, most of which were fallow at that time of the year. Date palms dotted them. Shallow irrigation channels flowed along their edges. Soon we found ourselves walled by the impenetrable sal forests, and after a few more hours shadowed by a range of densely wooded hills. When we checked into our hotel in Ranchi, it was around 6:00 pm.

The Chinnamasta Temple at Rajarappa would ring a bell for those who love reading Feluda stories. We woke up early the next day as we intended to reach the temple by noon. From the car parking to the main shrine, it was a terrible walk on barefoot. The lanes were slippery, wet and constricted. We struggled to maintain our grip on the puja paraphernalia occupying both our hands while keeping an eye on Nirjhorini lest she fell behind. As there wasn't much space inside the temple, only a few people could trickle in at a time, resulting in a long queue. We had to stoop to enter the abode of the Goddess and once inside, it was again a struggle to ensure that Nirjhorini didn't get separated from us in the darkness. As most of us know, Chinnamasta is the representation of the Mother Goddess who drinks her own blood from her severed head. But no such gruesome sight awaited us as the idol was covered entirely by a velvety red cloth. Stepping outside the main shrine, we cracked coconuts against a rocky pedestal and lighted incense, sensing the fumes scenting the breeze blowing in from the confluence of Bhairavi and Damodar. Those who wanted to sacrifice goats were led to a demarcated area. We returned to our car along the same wet lane, our discomfort enhanced by the drops of blood from the slaughtered goats.

A few kilometers away from the temple, we wolfed down our late lunch at a dhaba. When we crossed the road outside the eatery and got into our car, the sun was about to set. Our ears yearned for the roar of waterfalls. We decided to visit them the next day before taking the route to Palamau.

                                     

Different branches of the same river dashed down the slope to mingle at the plunge pool. It looked like some sprightly girls in white saris were racing each other to the same finishing line. This was Dassam falls. Another falls we visited was Johna - several separate strands of water descended in parallel down a steep slope made up of rectangular chunks of rock which reminded us of the walls in ancient temples. Following the turns of the highway that winded its way among the towering trees like a bit of loose string, we reached our lodge in Palamau at 11:00PM. Unaccustomed to such a low temperature, we scrambled to get under the blanket soon after dropping our luggage on the floor of the spartan room and cleansing our hands and feet in the attached washroom, which thankfully had a geyser. Early in the morning, we queued up for the forest safari in the Palamau Tiger Reserve. I had the great fortune of spotting a tiger in the wild at Kaziranga. This time the majestic beast eluded us. Elephants too didn't appear on our way. But I believe in the saying that one should trip to the jungle to enjoy the ambiance. Sighting wildlife should be treated as a bonus. We caught a herd of deer frolicking among the bushes and a couple of bison ambling behind the trees. There were also monkeys - peering through the leaves and sprinting across the road.

The many adventure stories we have read, and films we have watched played in our mind as we approached the derelict Palamau Fort inside the forest. The chamber with its exposed brickwork, the steep stairway with no support and the seemingly bottomless well embraced by thick stemmed creepers were enough to make us wander into the past. After lingering here for a considerable time, we drove to our next destination. Series of steps going upwards or downwards(thankfully more upwards than downwards as this meant the journey back would be less grueling) took us to the Lodh falls, the highest waterfall in Jharkhand. Water ripped the rock facade, scooped out a deep, wide plunge pool and hustled down the hills as a sea-green river. 

We reached the sunset point at Netarhat just before the last fleck of purple faded from the sky. Spotting a tiny children's park, Nirjhorini made a dart for the swing. Given the huge number of tourists who had gathered to watch the sunset, their SUVs and our car had to brave a traffic congestion during the return journey, however incredulous the idea of a jam in the remote hills might seem. After checking into our hotel, we swung open the door of the balcony, imagining how the sun would greet us in the morning uncoiling its rays across the slopes, streams and meadows. For now, Nirjhorini flipped open her drawing book, took out her pencils and let the colors siege the blank pages. We nibbled at the snacks we had ordered, till it was time for dinner.

It was pitch dark when the alarm went off. Even as we hurried through our ablutions, the revelry grew louder outside. Large groups of tourists were trooping to the sunrise point, their chatter and excitement echoing in the night air and reaching us in our hotel room. We hastened to the roof when it was almost time for the dark curtains to part. First it was just a pink blush between two trees. Then a speck of gold pricking at the horizon. In a few moments it became a glowing orange curve. Little by little the round shape emerged like a fistful of light molding itself into a ball. Soon the light burst out from the crooks of the trees and the crevasses of the hills to pour upon us.

                                       

A couple of hours later we trudged down the steps of the hotel and shoved our luggage into the car. A long, tortuous path through the dense forests took us to the lower Ghagri Falls. Without our guide - a thirteen-year-old local boy - we could have been lost among the teak trees. The falls, like a white ray of light, blazed its way through the dominion of green. We tuned into the silence suffused only by the rasp of leaping water.

From Netarhat began our journey back to Kolkata. It was almost 2:00 AM when I blinked my groggy eyes and caught the lights from the Second Hugli bridge strung across the regal Hugli river. Subha had been driving non stop, battling drowsiness, darkness and a host of apprehensions fostered by the Maoist infested forests along the highway. Back in Kolkata, looking at the rows and rows of buildings stamped against the smoggy sky, the five days spent in the lap of nature seemed surreal. We slipped back into our daily lives, roused by the frenzied waterfalls, lifted by the dreamy hills and tinged by the stunning sunsets.