Latest Visit to Chirakuti Ashram: A Weekend of Bliss

It was almost lunch time when we reached Chirakuti Ashram. Stainless steel plates were lined up along the floor. We dropped our belongings, washed our hands and found a place to sit behind the row of plates. Prayers were chanted in unison once everyone was seated. One of the girls who lived and studied at the ashram served the food. Vegetables grown at the ashram found their way to our plates. We could dispose off the left-outs at a designed spot in the premises for the ducks to feed. After lunch, I wandered about in the premises, observing the variety of plants that grew here and identifying the ones that have been added to the swaying mass of greenery since I came here the last time.

 A little before dusk, we trotted to the village market to buy chicken and vegetables. The vendors sat cross-legged on the earth, their wares arranged on the cloths spread out before them. We walked to our familiar telebhaja stall. The oven was nothing but a hole in the ground. Inside the kadai, fries sizzled in the oil. The baskets placed upon the counter were heaped with these crispy fries. These were made of some leaves that had been dipped in a batter of besan. Among the other things that caught my interest were ear-rings and bangles that shone among all the other wares displayed on the cloths a few feet away from me.

 By the time we left the market, the sun had sunk behind the trees, tinting the sky with orange. Soon the trees were hooded with darkness; the empty paddy fields by the roadside hid under a black veil. Back in the ashram, we sipped tea and got ready for the evening prayers. 

       

A temple dedicated to Sri Ramkrishna, Ma Sarada and Swami Vivekananda had been erected recently in the ashram compound. Swapan Maharaja, the founder of the ashram commenced the prayers by singing a hymn. Besides the children who lived at the ashram, some other villagers also attended the prayers. The hymn was followed by other hymns. I was happy to find my daughter, who was very naughty by nature, sitting quietly and playing a cymbal to the rhythm of the songs.

   

      

      

This was November and we had celebrated Kali Puja just a few weeks back, when we had set aside some fireworks for the ashram children. After the prayers it was time to take them out of their boxes. Soon, fountains of light erupted in the garden and red and green smoke draped the upper branches of the shrubs. As the crackle of the sparklers and other fireworks came to an end, mats were unrolled on the floor of the corridor in front of Maharaja's room. The children sat down with their textbooks, exercise copies and stationary. Centuries of social apathy and discrimination had condemned them to darkness. We tried to assist them to understand and learn the lessons taught at school. It is not easy to chip away an inter-generational scourge, but the efforts made by Swapan Maharaja and other noble people show that dedication and perseverance are bound to bring positive results. After studies, everyone was treated to a meal of rice, vegetables and delicious chicken curry from the chicken we brought from the market that evening. 

The next day, we helped the children with their studies in the morning before having our breakfast of puffed rice and ghoogni. The ashram children plucked oranges from a tree in the premises and took them to the pond. Subhadip (my husband) and our daughter accompanied them. They sat beside the water body, peeled and salted the fruits, and ate them. Then the ashram kids scrubbed themselves with a soap, bathed and frolicked in the water, swimming, floating and immersing themselves in its cool depths.

                                              

 Before leaving for home, we took a stroll around the lush green ashram once more and had a wonderful time climbing a tree - an activity I can attempt only when I am at the ashram. The most delightful thing about this activity was that the ashram children were now my teachers.

     

     The activities of the ashram are listed in my 1st post about it:- http://theserpentacursedrhyme.blogspot.com/2018/11/a-trip-to-belpahari.html    

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