Haku

It will probably come as a shock if I tell you that if there is one particular thing I really like to do when I visit my mother's village is cross a bamboo bridge. But I would not be saying that if it were not for a special kind of bridge. The "haku" is a makeshift bridge of two (and in some cases only one) bamboo tied together and supported by more bamboos from below so that there is just a narrow footing that one must balance precariously on and cross at the same time. There is another bamboo on the side to hold on to if necessary but most of the time, it is an awkward, jittery walk over the bridge. One of the thrills I really enjoy.

I was nine years old and we were visiting my grandfather. The month of April is a special time for the Assamese because of the new year festival of Rongali Bihu. There is so much to do and so little time. For one, there are the dancing troupes. Every village has a troupe of its best Bihu dancers; young men and girls getting ready for the yearly competitions. For another, this is one time of the year when Assam is intoxicated with a breathtaking spring. Everything about the land is irresistible. The soothing sunshine, the green pastures dotted with grazing cattle, the lush undulating tea gardens from where there lifts, in slow strains, the gentle hum of the tea pickers. A monotone in unison and yet pure, profuse and hypnotic. In the distance, over a pond, a fisherman swings his net and as it is hurled through the air, it unfurls in a perfect circle and hits the water.

My mother kept a close watch over me. Being brought up in the hills, one does develop quite an independent spirit. But the supposed dangers of the valley were, in my mother's opinion, far more than in the hills. I could now argue that I could fall off a cliff and disappear into the vast green abyss below in the same way as I could slip and fall into a pond. But I was to stay away from water or I was going to catch it. Even when we went to visit my aunt in the nearby village, my mother and I walked on the road though I remember quite vividly, pleading with her to take the more adventurous route through the paddy fields. All my cousins walked that way. But I was the soft, city bred, mother's boy. And I trudged along behind my mother as she sailed through the village, beaming and stopping at every third house to exchange greetings over the gate. I would look over the road into the paddy field and see my cousins frolicking as they disappeared into the thick foliage of a bamboo forest that bordered between the two villages.

I was not to be treated like a small child anymore. I was nine and in the 4th standard and I was quite certain I was sprouting a moustache too. So the next time my mother had to visit her sister, I decided to disappear so that she'd have to travel with my sisters and I could come later with my cousins. My cousins ofcourse, were supposed to promise my mother that they would take the road and not the path through the fields. And I could always bribe them with my crayons and WWF picture collection. And thus we set off, down the embankment, into the dry field. For one used to the wet and shiny black roads of Shillong, the narrow path between the fields was quite an experience.

Even to this day I remember that eventful day. We walked through the fields and by the side of ponds. I saw toads and water snakes and fishes. I was in turn stared at by villagers fishing or returning by the same path. They asked whose child I was and my cousins would proudly show me off as their cousin from the city. And so we went, right through the bamboo forest till we came out on the other side. And there, over the shallow stream that bordered the forest, stood the most majestic haku I had ever seen. At least 40ft long and suppored by bamboo supports from below. The haku was so long that it had to have two pairs of bamboo trunks, tied end to end to scale the expanse of the stream. There was a thin, split bamboo that ran along the side as a support.

There are quite a few moments in a boy's life when he experiences a major step into manhood. The first bicycle ride without support, the first shave, the first motorbike...and in my case my first haku crossing. My cousins trotted over in no time. I stepped onto the narrow bamboo footing as if in a dream. I quickly thought of all the people whom I would tell about this. And the jealous faces of my neighbourhood children who would not believe I crossed a haku. I took the next step, still holding the side support and the next and the next. I was enjoying it so much that it was like being in a trance. But wait. My cousins were laughing from accross the other side. I looked up to see what I was doing wrong. And then it struck me. I was sideways, with my hands behind my back, holding the support. That was all right as long as the support was there; only around midway across, one bamboo ended and the other started, just a step ! away. But a step without support was a sure fall. I put up a brave face and scoffed at my cousins and walked upto the middle. And when I reached the centre, I found I could not reach the next bamboo support. I was petrified. The stream trickled below and even if I had fallen, I could land on my feet and not get wet above the knees. But I just could not jump either.

So I squatted and tried to inch my way till I could reach the support. At that very moment, to add to my misery, a band of school children came by and the laughing and shouting and the spectacle and my cousins encouraging me on. I ofcourse would not be helped across. As you can see my situation, over the laughter that had converted into severe concentration with soft whispers now, I inched my way across, unsupported and very nervous, self-conscious and hot. Finally, after a show which I am certain everyone enjoyed very much, I reached out to the next support and then quickly walked past. Once across, without looking back once, I raced like a horse and did not stop till I reached my aunt's house. The shame and the anger.

Later, it was the talk of my aunt's village. Silly village papparazzi. And even later, I crossed the haku again. And everytime I visit my mother's village, I cross that haku. In a way, I might have indeed crossed over to a new state of self realization. And today, just as I remember this beautiful land and its beautiful people with its many colours and music and smells, I also remember the haku that I crossed.

March Madness

Raise the evil to the threshold of greatness
Let darkness prevail and envelop the greater good
And consume in its realm the very essence of mankind.
And then fall, deep...Awake and feel the power of
Stygian gore as it proceeds to envelop the self

Hold. What shines beyond? A shimmer of something I hate,
The sound of the laughter of fate. The triumph of destiny and indiscretion.
Purple and gold and red. But still great.
And then fall, deeper...Awake and observe the asphyxiation of
The womb of man. Any womb. Any being. Undeserved?

A sense of pride. A race to the finish and the temptation of a lifetime
Conspiring to raise the evil to the threshold of greatness
The self screams, "That is madness!" But darkness prevails
And fall. The depth is immaterial now...Awake. A new existence perhaps?
Is it still undeserved? Unpremeditated?

A desperate attempt at order. But evil is too great
A final thrust, an act of kindness. The self is wounded beyond repair.
And fall and awake again. Observe the blinding light and a forgotten emotion
As the heart fills to the brim the self is redeemed from despair
Feel the light of Immortal Dawn as it envelops the self.

The shawl

Dodappa sat on the verandah of his house. His eyes wandered upto the lantern hanging from the slanting roof. In the dim light, one would see a pair of red eyes, tired and waiting. The faint glow was sharply reflected by the sparkle of his eyes as he sat hugging his legs and his shawl wrapped around his back. It was not cold, but he needed the shawl to keep from the menacing mosquitoes. He sat and waited.

Inside a huge row was underway. Sivaram, his son had just returned from wherever he had gone to. The first thing that Sivaram did after returning from his exploits was to throw Dodappa out of the house. The old man had stopped resisting now. It meant lesser blows and kicks. Suhasini was the one who could never escape Sivaram's blows. Suhasini; Sivaram's wife.

Dodappa's mind wandered. Somehow, it always seemed to start from the vision of a bindi, a round big bindi. Then the face around the bindi materialised in the form of his wife, Purnamma. Yes, he could see her now. Those big eyes and that face, stern with concentration. She was weaving. Dodappa always sat beside Purnamma by the loom while she tossed the shuttle from left to right and back. He loved the shifting of the threads as Purnamma kicked the levers to shift the warp and the weft (the "tana" and the "bana"). He sometimes asked to try and once Purnamma had agreed. He had chucked the shuttle so that it got entangled between the threads and clustered the threads. Without waiting to clear the tangle, he had pulled the sliding bar and kicked the lever to shift the threads. "Not that way Puta!!!!", Purnamma had said. She did not like her work to be messed with.

Dodappa was startled out of his thoughts by a sudden wail that came from inside the house. Poor Suhasini. That woman could not keep her peace when required to. Dodappa just sat there. If the husband was beating his wife, it was none of his business. Sivaram had gone all wrong. He was a good son. Infact, he was a graduate. Dodappa had even sold Purnamma's jewellery to pay Munniswamy the 50,000 rupees required to secure the job of a police constable. Munniswamy was a good family friend and a thug. Sivaram was frustrated and had taken to drinking. Often he would come home drunk and the same row started. And Suhasini bore the brunt.

Dodappa pulled the shawl closer and closed his eyes. He did not want to think of anything. Purnamma's face flashed again. She had woven him the shawl. He had created a small fault on the fabric. It still ran as a thick thread, right across one end of his shawl. He felt it sometimes and looked at it. How well Purnamma wove! Especially when a thread snapped, she tied it very cleverly and continued to weave as if nothing had happened. The knot never showed. Dodappa wished everything was like that knot. The knots in his life showed poignantly. His own son manhandled him. His daughter-in-law led a miserable life and his wife had left him one fine day and never returned. Knots everywhere, severed, tied, retied, reinforced knots.

Sivaram tore open the door of the hut and rushed out in a mad frenzy, swearing at the top of his voice. His voice drowned into the night. The wails were sobs now. Dodappa entered the house. Suhasini was there, squatting on the floor and hugging her knees. Her hair was dishevelled. When she saw Dodappa enter, she pulled her sari over her back and turned her face away. Dodappa looked at her for a moment. Then he stepped towards her. Suhasini crouched. What was she afraid of? Slowly, Dodappa removed his shawl from his back and placed it on Suhasini's back and lay his hand on her head. Then he turned and walked out of the hut into the night, like Purnamma, never to return again.

See how they walk away

walk away into oblivion
See how I hold on to threads unseen
Until abject discord of heart and mind
Closes and makes the numbness profound.

I cannot forget you and yet I cannot mourn
Suspended in a trance so numb
That even the best that comes my way seems insipid
The placidity of life's turbulent waters is new

Another one walks away today
Away into another oblivon for sure
Numb still is the feeling
I think, that is how I have learnt to endure