এলোমেলো পি কিউ

চার পাঁচ বছর বয়সটার কথা অনেকের মনেই নেই, কারো কারো অল্পস্বল্প খেয়াল আছে। টুকরো স্মৃতি কিছু মনে আসে। এ, বি, সি, ডি গান গাইতে শিখেছি, এল, এম, এন, ও, পিঁ, কিউ কে আদো আদো গলায় গাইতাম, এলোমেলো পিঁ, কিউ। লাল নেট এর ফ্রক পরে প্যান্ডেল যাওয়া, হঠাৎ করে চোখের সামনে আসে, আরো আসে, দুর্গা পুজোর নবমীতে আমার গম্ভীর বাবার, হঠাৎ করে ধুনুচি নাচ। আমার ঠাকুমাকে দাদি বলতাম, ওনার হাত ধরে স্কুল থেকে ফেরার পথে হজমি কেনার বায়না, একই হজমিওয়ালার কাছে, স্পষ্ট মনে পড়ে। দাদির হাত ধরে, ইলোরা সিনেমা হল এ ‘জয় বাবা তারকনাথ’ দেখতে যাওয়ার কথাও নিতান্তই ছোট বয়সের অনেকগুলো ছেড়া ছেড়া ছবির মধ্যে একটা।

দশ বছর বয়স থেকে গোগ্রাসে, ‘এনিড ব্লাইটন’ পড়তাম। আমার সমসাময়িকদের অনেকেই ‘ফেমাস ফাইভ’ এর রোমহর্ষক কার্যকলাপ, আর ‘সিক্রেট সেভেন’ এর গোয়েন্দাগিরির কথা এখনো মনে করতে পারবে। যেমন পারবে, মনে করতে ‘সেন্ট ক্লেয়ার’ সিরিজের, ‘প্যাট আর ‘ইসাবেল’ এর স্কুল-হস্টেল জীবনের দুষ্টুমি, পড়াশোনা আর তার মধ্যেই আনন্দ খুঁজে পাওয়ার কথা। এই বই গুলো তে, মাঝে মাঝেই পড়তাম, ‘mind your p’s and q’s’. মানে বুঝতে পারতাম না, পরে জেনেছি যে মোটের ওপর এর মানে হচ্ছে, শিষ্টাচার, ভব্যতা, নিয়ম বজায় রেখে চলা।

আমার ছোটবেলা যে বাড়িতে কেটেছে, সেই বাড়ির পলেস্তরা খসা দেওয়ালে, লোডশেডিংয়ে হ্যারিকেনের আলোর কাঁপা কাঁপা আলো-ছায়াতে দাদির গায়ের কাছে ঘন হয়ে বসে, গল্প শোনা যেন নিমেষে ছায়াছবির মত মূর্ত হয়ে উঠত। আমাদের বাড়ি যে ঘিঞ্জি ছিলো, তা নয়, কিন্তু আজকের নিরিখে অগোছালো ছিল তো বটেই। বারান্দায় দড়িতে গামছা ঝুলত, ঘরেতে, বিছানার চাদরের সঙ্গে মাথার বালিশ কি পাশবালিশের ওয়াড় মিলত না। সেই অগোছালোপনা কেমন একটা আপন আপন গন্ধ বয়ে আনত। বাড়ির সামনে উঠোনে অনেক আগাছার মধ্যে ছিলো, একটা আম, দুটো পেয়ারা, একটা গন্ধরাজ লেবু আর একটা দিশি আমড়া গাছ। পেয়ারা গাছে উঠেই পেয়ারা খেতাম, আর আমড়া তলাতে পাতাবিহীন ডালের তলায় ঘোরাঘুরি করতাম, কখন টুপ করে হলুদ, পাকা দিশি আমড়া পড়বে আর ফটাস করে ফেটে যাবে। দুপুরে তিন জন ভাই বোনের ভাত খাওয়া শেষ হলেই, সাদা এনামেল এর গামলাতে কাঁচালঙ্কা, নুন, চিনি আর কাঁচা সর্ষের তেল দিয়ে দাদি সেই আমড়া মাখত। ছড়িয়ে দিত অল্প ধনেপাতা। সেই স্বাদ, সেই গন্ধও, সেই আমড়া-মাখা খাওয়ার সময়ের অনুভূতির স্মৃতি, সেই সময় টাকে পার করে আসার, আর ফিরতে না পারার যে বাস্তব উপলব্ধি, মনের মধ্যে যে তোলপাড় টা ঘটায়, মনটাকে হু হু করায়, তাকে ঠিক কি যে বলে, জানিনা।

দুপুরে কালো এলুমিনিয়াম এর বাক্স মাথায় কেশরী যাদব কেক ফিরি করতো, বিচিত্র সুরে হেঁকে বলত ‘কেকওয়ালা’ কিন্তু শুনে মনে হত, বলছে, ‘ভীমপলা’। জানলার শিক ধরে বাঁদরের মত ঝুলতে ঝুলতে আমরা তিন ভাইবোন ‘ভীমপলা’ ‘ভীমপলা’ বলে চেঁচামেচি করেই আনন্দ পেতাম। মাসে হয়ত একদিন সেই ভীমপলাকে বাড়ি তে ডাকা হত, সবার ভাগে একটা গোটা কেক কি প্যাঁটি জুটত না, ভাগাভাগি করে খেতাম, যদিও তাতে আনন্দের মাত্রা এতটুকু কম লাগত না। তখন অবশ্যও, কেক আর প্যাটিস বলে জানতাম, পেস্ট্রি অথবা প্যাঁটি বলতে শিখিনি। লাল শালু তে বাঁধা বড় পেতলের হাড়িতে আসা কালো টিনের চোঙ্গাতে কুলফি মালাইতেও ছিল অবাধ আনন্দ। 

দুর্গা পুজোতে জনে জনে দাদি, বাবা, মা, বড়কাকু, কাকিমনি, ভালপিসি, বড়পিসির কাছ থেকে টাকা জড়ো করতাম। সর্বসাকুল্যে হয়ত তিরিশ কি চল্লিশ টাকা জুটত, তাতেই রাজা আমি। এর মধ্যে অর্ধেক টাকা খরচা হত ভাই যুগলের বন্দুকের ক্যাপ কিনতে, বাকিটা ঘুগনি আর আলুকাবলি খেতে। তখনো রোল এর চল অত হয়নি। বিজয়াতে পাড়ার সব বাড়িতে গিয়ে নারকোল নাড়ু আর বাড়িতে বানানো ঘুগনি খাওয়ার রেওয়াজ ছিল। আর রেওয়াজ ছিল, সব গুরুজনদের পায়ে হাত দিয়ে প্রণাম করা। পাড়ার বড়দের বড় বলেই জানতাম, মানতাম ও। পাড়ার নাম করা টেড়ি বাগানো সৌখিন দাদাদের ও দেখেছি, পাড়াতুতো কাকা কে দেখে সিগারেট লুকোতে। 

মার সাথে প্রথম ইংরেজি বই দেখতে যাওয়া হলো, গ্লোবে। তখন সিনেমাকে ‘বই’ বলা হত বাড়িতে। ‘টোয়েন্টি থাউসেন্ড লিগস আন্ডার দা সি’ চলছে, হলে। মনে হল যেন এই ক্যাপ্টেন নিমো যেন কত দিনের চেনা। একাত্ম হয়ে দেখেছি। গায়ে কাঁটা দিয়ে উঠেছে। রাতে অন্ধকারের মধ্যে সিনেমার প্রতিটা ফ্রেমের শিহরন নতুন করে অনুভব করেছি। সেই দিনের সিনেমা হল এর গন্ধটা আজ ও পাই। “কি আনন্দ, কি আনন্দ, কি আনন্দ, দিবারাত্রি, নাচে মুক্তি, নাচে বন্ধ – সে তরঙ্গে, ছুটি রঙ্গে, পাছে পাছে…” 

আমার বাবার ছিলো বদলির চাকরি। বেড়ানো বলতে ছিলো, গরমে আর শীতকালে, বাবার কাছে বেড়াতে যাওয়া। স্কুল ছুটি পড়ার অনেক আগে থেকেই, সেই জায়গার কল্পনাতেই, আর অনুমানেই ভাই বোনেদের নির্মল হাস্যরসে আর আড্ডায় দুপুরগুলো সরগরম হয়ে উঠত। 

নিজের বলতে খুব কম জিনিস ছিল, বেশির ভাগ সার্বজনীন সম্পত্তি। জন্মদিনে, কখনো একটি বই অথবা কাঠের রংপেন্সিল এর সেট পেলে, সেটা স্বাভাবিক নিয়মেই তিন ভাই বোনের সম্পত্তি হয়ে যেত। একটা ছোট কাঠের দেরাজে দুটো তাক ছিলো, আমার আর ভাইয়ের, আলাদা কোন পড়ার ঘর অথবা পড়ার টেবিল ছিলোনা। দেরাজের দুটো তাক আমাদের দুজনের বই রাখার জায়গা ছিলো। ভাগ করে গুছিয়ে রাখতাম, বইখাতা, গল্পের বই, পুতুল, আরো সব নিজেদের ক্ষুদ্র ক্ষুদ্র অথচ বহুমূল্য সম্পত্তি গুলো কে। ছেলেবেলার অনাবিল সারল্যের সাথে সেই ভাগাভাগির দিন শেষ। অথচ যখন ছিল, তার চেয়ে মহার্ঘ্য আর কিছু ছিল না। ২ টাকার ‘অমর চিত্র কথা’ ও খুব দামি ছিল, চাইলেই পেতাম না, বাবার কাছে রীতিমত দরবার করতে হত। মনে হত যে কবে বড় হবো, কবে নিজের ইচ্ছে তে একটার বেশি, আর একটা ‘অমর চিত্র কথা’ কিনতে পারব। তখন কি জানতাম যে ‘বড় হওয়া মানে, বড় বেরঙিন’? 

সুমনের “তোমাকে চাই” আমার কৈশোরের শিরায় শিরায় রক্ত চলাচল বাড়িয়ে দিয়েছিলো সে সময়ে। বারান্দায় গ্রিলের জাফরির আলপনার মধ্যে আধশোয়া হয়ে, বুকের কাছে ‘প্রথম প্রতিশ্রুতি’ তখন ছিল আমার বিশুদ্ধ মনকেমনের বিলাসিতা। সেই বয়সটাই ছিল মনকেমনের বিলাসিতায় ভরা। আকাশ কালো করে এলে মনকেমন, ‘শিলকাটাও’ বলে ডাক শুনলে মনকেমন, ঠাকুরঘরে শঙ্খের আওয়াজে মনকেমন আবার ‘ওগো দুখজাগানিয়া’ শুনলেও মনকেমন। কত অল্পতে মন কেমন, কত স্বল্পতে ভালোলাগা। রাস্তায় কৃষ্ণচূড়ার পাপড়ি ছেয়ে থাকলেও মনে ঘোর লাগতো। যেমন ঘোর লাগত নতুন বই এর গন্ধে। প্রথম বৃষ্টির ফোঁটার গন্ধে সুর আসত গলায়, আপনাআপনি…“আজি বিজন ঘরে নিশীথরাতে, আসবে যদি শূন্য হাতে, আমি তাইতে কি ভয় মানি, জানি বন্ধু জানি, তোমার আছে তো হাতখানি” 

প্রত্যেকটা স্মৃতি যেন এক একটা গন্ধ দিয়ে, এক একটা অনুভূতি দিয়ে চেনা যায়। “তোমার ঘরে বসত করে, কয়জনা, মন জানোনা”। সেই গন্ধ আমার শিশুকাল, কিশোরিবেলা, যৌবন কে একটা Time warp এ আটকে রেখেছে। সময় কোথায় আর প্রলেপ ফেলতে পারল, স্মৃতির সেই পুটুলি তে? সারল্যর মায়া টুকু কাটিয়ে উঠতে পারলাম কই? মনের ভিতরে বাজতে থাকে “ইয়ে দওলত ভি লে লো, ইয়ে শোহরত ভি লে লো…ভলে ছিন লো, মুঝসে মেরি জওয়ানি। মগর মুঝকো লউটা দো বচপন কা সাভন, ওহ কাগজ কি কশতি, ওহ বারিশ কা পানি…” 

আমার মেয়ের অনেকগুলো ক্রেয়ন এর বাক্স আছে, কোনও একটা ক্রেয়ন বাক্সের একটা ক্রেয়ন হারিয়ে ফেললে, সে নতুন একটা বাক্সের জন্যে বায়না করে। তারা অভাব কম দেখেছে, না-পাওয়ার মধ্যে যে অল্পে মানিয়ে নেওয়ার সহজাত বৃত্তি তৈরি হয়, অল্পে খুশি হওয়াতে যে বিশুদ্ধ আনন্দ আছে, তার থেকে তারা বঞ্চিত। আধুনিক প্রযুক্তিতে চলে, এমন বহু খেলনা আছে আমার ছেলে-মেয়ের। আইপড এ গান শোনে তারা, ল্যাপটপ এ সিনেমা দেখে, কিন্ডেল এ বই পড়ে, পিএসপি তে গেমস খেলে, দুই ভাইবোন পাশাপাশি বসে। বছরে দু-তিন বার বেড়াতে যায় তারা, এক আধ বার বিদেশেও গেছে, কিন্তু সেই একটা আস্ত সবুজ মাঠ কে নিজের বলে কল্পনা করে বুক ভর্তি করে আনন্দ ভরে নেওয়ার সাধ্যি তাদের নেই। আমার ছেলে মেয়ে প্রণাম করতে যাওয়াতে, আমার ছেলের এক বন্ধুর মা, আমাকে সাবধান করেছিলেন এই বলে, যে বেশি মাথা নোয়াতে শেখাই যদি সন্তান দের, তাহলে তাদের self esteem and confidence মার খাবে। 

সব পি কিউ গুলো যেন এই বয়সে এসে আবার এলোমেলো হয়ে যাচ্ছে। অথবা হয়তো, সব নিজের নিজের সঠিক জায়গাতেই আছে। ও এর পরে পিঁ, আর কিউ এর পরে আর। নতুন হাওয়ার ঝাপটা লেগেছে। গুছিয়ে নিতে হবে নিজেকেই। এরা এদের যুগে এদের মত করেই পিঁ, কিউ সামলে, দিব্যি এদের ছেলেবেলা আর কৈশোর কাটিয়ে দেবে।

আবহমান

অনেক কথা বলা হল

অবান্তর হাজার-একটা  কথা

ঘুমের কাজল, চোখের কোনে টেনে

আড়াল করি, জমাট বাঁধা ব্যাথা।

আবহমান, নদীর তীরে, আজও

সলিল-নুড়ির, সংঘাতে সখ্যতায়

অস্তরাগে, প্রভা-তিমির মিলন

হৃদয়-তরাসে, হৃদয়ের ব্যাকুলতায়।

ঈশান কোনে রং ওড়ানোর ফাঁকে

মেঘ মেদুরে খেলার সাথে,কথায়

বানভাসি হয় দামাল যত স্মৃতি

হৃদয়ের টানে অথবা অন্যথায়।

~জয়ীতা সেন রায়

Mira

Mira, spread her days shopping on the floor of her dingy kitchen after coming back from the local ‘bajar’. A few potatoes, radishes, onions and chillies rolled out from her red and green nylon shopping bag as she carefully took out two duck eggs from her bag and kept them aside. Duck eggs, in a spicy curry was a delicacy that Arun could die for, and this was something Mira rarely got the liberty to buy. It gave her immense gratification to see the glint in Arun’s eyes when she served him this dish. She then rummaged through the cane basket by her stove and found a shrivelled quarter of a pumpkin and a bit of ginger. She needed to hurriedly rustle up something for Arun’s breakfast. After filling up the aluminium kettle with two cups of water for tea and placing it on her stove, she started upon nimbly dicing the pumpkin and the potatoes for a ‘sabji on her ‘boti’ a metal blade on a stand, which is placed on the floor to slice up vegetables and cut fishes. A hot piping breakfast of chapati’ and a vegetable dish was all that Arun got, to fill up his stomach with for the entire day.

Arun was rubbing dry his wet hair with a towel as he peeked into the kitchen and called out, ‘ma, I am almost ready, my anatomy classes start at 9 sharp and Sumita Madam is very punctual’. Mira replied, I am ready as soon as you are, ‘babu’. This was what, Mira, lovingly called Arun. Mira laid out a steel thali of pumpkin sabji, four chapatis and a cup of sweet tea with some ginger added to it, on the floor. Then she laid out an embroidered square piece of jute rug for Arun to sit down on. While Arun had his breakfast and tea, Mira turned off her stove and squatted down in front of Arun, with her cup of tea. This was a few minutes of daily chitchat with her son, which made Mira contended and happy. “Ma, I am saving up a little every month from my stipend, to buy, ‘Grey’s Anatomy’, but let us go to Charu Market, next Sunday, to buy a bedsheet and a pair of slippers for you, Ma. The sheet on your ‘chouki’ is too tattered now and safety pin on your chappals is hurting your toes.” “We will see about that later, babu,” Mira intervened, “but this month, we need to get a pair of trousers for you, the ends of the ones you wear are in shreds.”

After Arun leaves to catch the tram, to Esplanade, Mira, takes a few bites from Arun’s leftovers, hastily gets ready in a starched and ironed ‘tant’ cotton sari, pins her ‘anchal’ in neat pleats with practiced hand, closes the only window of her small one-room rented place, locks the door and then proceeds to her NGO run school, ‘Mukta’, at Rashbehari Avenue, where she teaches destitute children. As Mira, sat down on the hand-pulled rickshaw, which she rented from near her home, she relaxed and allowed her thoughts to drift for the first time since she had woken up in the morning. There was a faint smile of contentment on her lips as she thought about the one and a half kattah of plot that she had bought recently, near Thakupukur Bajar, on the south-western fringes of Kolkata with her entire life savings of the past eighteen years. She thought to herself that if she had to go back and do that again with the same grit of fighting through each day just for some milk for Arun, and a meal of rice and ‘dal’ for herself, she would surely fail now. She wondered in amazement, at what drove a simple, unassuming, quiet young girl, just out of her teens to fight that battle, when she was abandoned by Arun’s father, just after two years of marriage, on the pretext, that she was a non-brahmin and dark complexioned with a slight squint in one eye, and that since his family was not approving of her, even after he had tried to persuade them to do so for two years, he thought it wise, not to go against the wishes of his family. Arun at that time was a toddler and he was holding on to his father’s pajama, and looking up toward him with a smile while making gurgling happy sounds.

Mira’s thread of thoughts were torn as the ‘rickshawalla’, brought the rickshaw to a standstill, near her school. Mira had come to school early today as she wanted to meet Ms. Mukherjee, the wife of the local councillor, who headed ‘Mukta’. Ms. Mukherjee was quite influential and had always stood by Mira and she had promised to arrange a house building loan for her from the nearest branch of the State Bank of India.

In a few months time, Saturday afternoons proved to be a much-awaited pleasure outing for the mother-son duo as they held the newly- bought bricks, sifted through the cement and lovingly ran their hands over the wooden framework, as they saw their dream taking shape. They both ran over the uneven brick-laden floor, and planned where, and on which side of the rooms to keep, what. They rubbed their hands in glee, when they saw sprouts from brinjal, tomato and cauliflower plants, which they had already planted behind their house. They immersed themselves in serious discussion on their way back home in an autorickshaw, on what colour cemented floor Arun’s bedroom should have, and which side of the kitchen should hold the concrete slab, where, the LPG burner would be placed. After all, Arun’s mother was ageing and it was getting increasingly difficult for her knees to squat on the floor and cook on the stove. Their combined mirth, slowly started lending a cocoon of comfort and security to their otherwise anxious nights and insecure days that they had together led, so far. 

Into his final year, Arun took to teaching Biology to a number of school students, to which his mother objected, severely. She said, “all our efforts will go to vain if you do not do well, in your final MBBS, Arun”. She was very proud of her handsome, fair and brilliant boy, and hoped to see him either in a private practice or in a hospital very soon. Just after he completed, his final MBBS exam, instead of taking a break and hanging out with his friends, Mira observed that Arun spent a lot of time at a nearby cyber café and came home quite late. When questioned, he used to reply that he was at the USIS, going through books. Mira soon learnt that Arun planned to appear for the USMLE exams, the Postgraduate Medical entrance exams for entry into MD programs at United States Medical Schools.

This was the first time that Arun had taken a major decision without even hinting about his plans to his mother, let alone, discussing or consulting with her. Mira was morose and depressed for a few days. She could understand that Arun’s dependence on her was ebbing slowly, which was only but natural. She had to let her boy free into his own world. The time had arrived, when the strapping and the comfort of the nest needed to be loosened.

The night before, Arun was to leave for John Hopkins University, School of Medicine in Baltimore, Maryland, Mira and Arun sat side by side on Arun’s bed for a long time, looking into the opposite wall and clasping on to each other’s hand. This was their world, from the time she was his mother, and, he, his son, and the bond had gone from strength to strength. Though unspoken, but they had promised to each other that they needed no other in this microcosm. And now it was breaking into two, and each of them was innately worried about the other’s wellbeing.

Mira was abruptly reminded of the fact that, a few last minute packing was needed to be completed, and as she started to slide off the bed, Arun held her back and slipped a cardboard box into her hand. “What is this, babu?” Mira uttered in amazement. “Something to keep us connected, Ma” replied Arun. He then opened the box, took out a shining new, smartphone and placed it on Mira’s hands, before touching her feet. Tears were flowing freely, in two pairs of eyes and the hazy watery view perhaps offered them the last contour of what was not to be, anymore, ever again.

Arun called Mira daily, around the time, Mira, woke up in the morning. That would be about the same time, around which, Arun would be returning to his rented apartment that he shared with another fellow Indian. Then Arun would call her up again to ask in details about a recipe while he cooked his dinner.

A school going teen, Aparna, belonged to a family that had built a home next to Mira’s house. Mira soon grew to be very fond of this chirpy girl. Api, as Mira, lovingly called Aparna, came to see her every day, and her presence was gradually filling up the void that had been created a few months earlier at Arun’s departure. Aparna taught Mira to Skype, and mother son were soon happily engaged in a friendly banter face to face, that both of them had been missing for so long. Life was slowly settling itself down for both of them. In a few months time, Mira was adept at using Whatsapp and Facebook too. A whole new world of connectivity and opportunities opened up to her. She held the smart phone close to her chest at night, as if wanting to feel her small ‘babu’, but all she could feel was the chill of the metallic body of the smart phone.

As one year got onto the next, one evening as Mira was instructing Arun on Skype on how to prepare ‘dimer dalna’ or spicy egg curry, the way, Arun liked, he seemed to want to say something to her. After some small talk, he suddenly blurted out that he wanted her to meet someone called Linda. Mira was a bit bewildered at first, but then understanding dawned on her. The news was so sudden that she was in a tizzy and did not know how to react properly. However, she managed a smile and agreed to a Skype session with Arun and Linda the very next day.

At night as she gathered her thoughts to herself, she kept rationalising and fighting her own emotions. This was the second important decision of Arun’s life that he had taken without even informing her. Then she reasoned with herself, that perhaps he must have felt embarrassed to break this news to his mother and actually it was only a matter of time, Arun ultimately would have fallen for one of his white female colleagues. Mira understood the pangs of loneliness and empathised with Arun. In midst of this mental and emotional debate, as Mira floated off to sleep, she felt that she was complete and happy in Arun’s happiness.

Next evening back from work, Mira took extra care to clean her face, put on a bindi and wore a fresh ‘tant sari, as she and Api waited for, Arun’s call. As Arun’s call came through, she could feel excitement tingling at her fingertips, as she pressed the green button. Arun’s nervous face, hovered on the screen. “Ma, here is Linda, I want you to meet her”. Arun moves aside from the screen and a beaming Linda’s face became visible as she folded her hands in a ‘namaste’. Mira felt her smile fading, and her muscles stiffening. The frosted reticence was palpable on both sides. A few minutes of awkward silence followed, and Arun tried to cover up the iciness with a few niceties, but the truth of perception was out in the open.

That night, Mira cried like never before. Much more than she had cried, the day, her husband had abandoned her, more profusely than the day, Arun had left for the US. She had faced many hardships and disappointments in life and it was actually very odd that such a seemingly insignificant disappointment of Linda being a black American, older in age to her son, could break her down to such an extent. But though she kept reasoning with herself, the ice never thawed, and the distance between Arun and her ma kept growing. They now barely spoke to each other in months as Arun and Linda could sense her resentment towards them. The silence between them kept growing as Mira’s ego restrained her from calling up and enquiring. Each month, Arun sent Mira some dollars into her bank account, but Mira did not touch that money.

About a year later, one day, Arun text messaged, Mira to tell her that he was not well and had been admitted to a hospital. She called on Arun’s phone frantically, but it went unanswered. She kept calling repeatedly, but to no avail. However, she observed that Arun was available on Whatsapp but was not responding to her messages. Mira’s appetite left her, she stopped going to work. The only thing she did the whole day was to stare blankly at her phone screen.

Aparna, was worried to see her in such a state, and tried to bring some sanity back into the situation by forcing her to eat and by sleeping beside her at night. She kept consoling her and telling her that if any message came in, then a notification sound would inform her and that it was not necessary for her to keep staring at the screen.

She willed herself to not check her phone to see if he had replied. It had been about three days now. She hated that she was constantly checking his 'last seen at' status and yes, he had logged in just five minutes ago. Yet she couldn't stop herself. This sinking feeling to find absolutely no communication from him was becoming unbearable, almost torturous.

And then, just as she sat down in her chair, her phone vibrated. With her heart thudding in her ear, she unlocked her phone and stared at the screen. Finally! It was his message. But when she opened it and read it, she nearly stopped breathing. She didn't know if he was joking or not. What was this? He had written, “Ma, I am coming to you, next thursday”. She could not believe her eyes and her dry anxious eyes, welled up in tears. All her resentment vanished in a moment.

At the airport arrival lounge, as Mira and Aparna waited with bated breath, the arrival of Arun’s flight was announced. Passengers slowly started trickling in. Mira eagerly scanned each face, until she noticed Linda in the crowd, pulling a luggage trolley and a pram at the same time. She too was anxiously scanning faces and as Mira called out her name for the first time, she came and stood before her. Mira disconcertedly, kept looking behind Linda, but Arun was nowhere to be seen. Linda, picked up the baby, from the pram, and put him in Mira’s hands. Tears of intense, heart-wrenching sorrow and unabashed joy flowed at the same time from both their eyes. And that deluge washed away all the contrast and discrepancy between two loving mothers.

All in the Game

Maya turned back, as she heard her name, being called out. Bhargav, the history teacher was calling out to her. ‘Leaving early today? What’s the occasion?’ he asked after rolling his eyes and winking. She was in a more than gorgeous sari than that was suitable for a teacher in school. Maya smiled back, she replied to Bhargav, ‘in a bit of a hurry today, talk to you later, okay?’ She ran down the stairs and walked briskly across the basketball field. Just outside the school gate, there always sat an old woman, selling flowers and garlands. She bought a jasmine garland from her. Sandip loved the smell of jasmine, she smiled to herself as she thought about it. Sandip was in for a surprise, as she had taken off after half a day at school and wanted to be home early.

The metro was comparatively empty as the ‘office rush’ was still a few hours away. She sat down at a seat near the gate and the cool breeze made her feel drowsy. She went back ten years in her thoughts. At about this time, ten years back, her house was swarming with relatives and friends and the smell of fish fries and pulao, wafted in the air. Her groom was supposed to arrive by dusk, at ‘godhuli’ and the entire household was in a rush. Her friends were getting her ready, the red banarasi lay on one side of the bed, jewellery boxes were strewn about and a cane basket full of jasmine garlands were lying near the foot of the bed. Those were happy memories for her.

Her days at the one roomed apartment were happy. Sandip was working as an accountant at a small Investment Firm. It was very difficult to make ends meet, and she had to wake up at 4:30 in the morning to prepare Sandip’s breakfast and his tiffin, which he carried to office. This way they could save on some money. Sandip walked for about 2 kms to the bus stop and Maya did all the household chores. Having mutton, once a month, bought from a nearby meat-shop, was a day of celebration for them and every month each small thing that they bought for their home made them feel a little more rich and proud of themselves.

The scenario soon changed, however, as one evening, Sandip, rushed in, his eyes flushed with excitement, Maya knew that her days were about to change. Sandip had received a fabulous offer and a company accommodation. The raise in his salary was also considerable. That night as they lay together, and moonbeams filtered in through the net curtains, they felt that they were perhaps the happiest couple on earth. Success and happiness begets more happiness and success and soon enough, Maya, who was looking for a job, secured a teaching position as a geography teacher in the junior section of a secondary school. It was time, Maya thought that they should think about starting a family and Sandip didn’t seem too averse to that.

Soon, they started seeing lesser and lesser of each other as work pressure increased for Sandip. He had more friends now and frequently was late in returning home. He was also a frequent traveler now and had to leave town more often. Sanjay was Sandip’s closest friend at office and he dropped in often during weekends. Sanjay was a bachelor and he accompanied both Maya and Sandip to their trips to movies and dinners out. Slowly, Maya started confiding in Sanjay too and his knowledge about all and sundry, his story weaving capacity kept Maya mesmerized. What she longed for, from Sandip, his companionship, his intimacy, he started looking for, in Sanjay. However, whatever she did, she made sure that she never transgressed the boundaries of her marital vows. Despite everything, her emotional needs, cried out in want and so whatever little emotional support she got from Sanjay, she sapped it up like dry soil waiting for rain. Sanjay’s closeness with Maya did not go past Sandip, and to Maya’s utmost amazement, Sandip was totally indifferent to it. Maya was baffled, and hurt at the same time. Somewhere, still deep down inside, she yearned only for Sandip and hoped to see him angry or jealous. That would still mean that he still had dormant feelings for her. The other side of love was not anger, jealousy or hatred, it was indifference. She was bruised to no end that nothing about her mattered to Sandip, anymore, and in order to ease that pain, she looked up to Sanjay for company, in order to fill up her void.

One night as Sandip was in the washroom and Maya had finished cleaning up the kitchen, she picked up, Sandip’s phone and  his wallet from the living room couch so that she could keep it secure in the bedroom drawer. Suddenly a text message entered Sandip’s phone. ‘My body is aching for you Jaan’. Maya stood transfixed to the ground. There was nothing left to imagination. Nothing could cover up the truth that was glowing in sharp white letters in front of her eyes. So this was it, this was the reason for Sandip’s indifference, this was the reason, he was always tired and never thought of holding her, hugging her or kissing her. This was the reason that her husband turned the other way and snored as soon as he touched bed. She slumped on the floor, still clutching on to the phone and the wallet. Her eyes were dry and glowing in pain and humiliation. 

Sandip, came across Maya, sitting cross-legged on the floor, near their bed. He called out to her a number of times, and when she did not answer, he muttered and grumbled under his breath and then he went to bed alone and started his rhythmic snoring spells. Maya could not still believe that this was happening to her. She kept rocking to and fro, and tried to calm herself down. She knew that screaming, shouting or crying would not help and that things could go worse, that way. She stayed awake the entire night and just to avoid facing Sandip, she went to lie down in the couch in the living room. She heard Sandip, wake up, go to the washroom, she heard the clank of pans, as Sandip made a cup of tea for himself, She even felt, Sandip coming into her room and stand quietly by the couch as she kept pretending to sleep. She was broken, bruised and sleep was coming naturally to her, but before, dozing off, she left a message for Sanjay, asking him to see her before going to office.

Sanjay stood glum faced, his head hanging, before Maya, who was screaming like a banshee. ‘you too, Sanjay?! You betrayed me too? You must have known all along that Sandip had a soft spot for Kanika at office, You must have seen what was brewing between them and now you find the opportunity to come and tell me that they go out together on office trips only after I crossed you??!!’ Sanjay, frantically tried to calm Maya down. ‘Maya, I only did this, because I could not bear to see you hurt and humiliated.’ ‘But could you stop me from getting hurt, or stop the truth from seeing daylight?’, she screamed again. Sanjay, nervously fumbled in his pocket for his cigarette, but found his phone. He waited and thought for a minute or two and then called Sandip at his office and asked him to come back home on an emergency basis.

When Sandip hurried home, already, guessing the situation there, Maya and Sanjay were slumped on the living room couch. Sandip was ready with his speech. Without a word, he sat on his knees in front of his wife and asked for forgiveness. He also promised never to repeat his dastardly act, ever again. Sanjay was a witness to the scene, where the couple clung to each other for their dear lives. Maya was holding on to Sandip as if she would never let him go.

That was about a year back and today on their 10^th anniversary, Maya was all set to surprise Sandip, with his favourite dishes, and an Emporio Armani watch. The only other invitee was Sanjay. The clock was ticking towards 7 as Sanjay, rang the bell. Maya, expected to see Sandip with him, but, Sanjay informed her that he was stuck up with some last minute work and would arrive in an hour’s time. Maya looked up to Sanjay and asked him directly. ‘Tell me, Sanjay, is that woman still running after, Sandip?, is Sandip still talking to her? Please don’t hide anything from me. Is Sandip late today, again, because of her?’ ‘What the hell is going on between my husband and that bitch?' Maya's patience was at its lowest ebb and she was ready to burst. Sanjay knew that she was serious. 'Look, Maya. There is nothing going on between the two of them. Just a little bit of healthy flirting, I'd say.'

'Flirting? Healthy flirting? Really Sanjay . . .' she rolled her eyes in disgust. 'That's what you men call it? There is nothing healthy about flirting, Sanjay, not for a married man. Healthy flirting is a term introduced by perverted men who want to lend legitimacy to their extramarital dalliances. Flirting invariably has a sexual connotation to it.' She got up from her seat and walked around the room gesticulating and muttering something to herself. Suddenly she stopped, turned back, looked at Sanjay and asked, 'Did my husband sleep with her? You are his friend. Did he ever tell you anything about it?' Sanjay muttered something that was not very clear and excused himself to go to the washroom. Suddenly a text message entered Sanjay’s phone which was lying on the dining table. ‘can’t wait to see you, Jaan, even an hour of your absence seems too long.’ Maya clutched Sanjay’s phone, the same way, she had held on to Sandip’s phone. A deathly and eerie silence ensued, as Maya passed out.

The Road Less Travelled - Part II - Where Time Stood Still

Circa 1819. John Smith, a British officer of the Cavalry Division of the Madras Regiment had strayed from the patrol party that was travelling from Paithan to Daulatabad. Their stock of meat was depleted and on suddenly seeing a wild boar, he had, on an impulse, galloped after it. The eerie silence of the jungle, broken only by the sound of crickets rubbing their feet in glee to make a shrill cacophony, suddenly made him pull his reins in sharply. It was high noon, although the dense canopy of greenery hiding the blue could make anybody doubt that, and it was quite evident that he was lost. He thought fast, and decided that his priority was first to get promptly out of this jungle  before sundown and to search for any Gond settlements that sprouted here and there, where he could look for food and shelter.

As he wandered, in the jungle, the track seemed to get a little wet. His ear picked up the sound of water and he remembered that the river Waghora was in the vicinity, and he could follow it up to some human settlements. As he hastened, he came upon a small waterfall in a clearing that was running into a river, a few feet below the hillside. Here was the river he was looking for and he felt that he was in for luck. He galloped by the side of the river upstream, and then it happened...the horse slipped and Smith just managed to jump off the horse before the poor animal fell into the ravine. As he brushed himself and stood up, the entire picture loomed like a scary dream in front of him. Without a horse, lost in this dense jungle, he was as good as dead. he rushed to the edge of the cliff, and peered down, he was surprised to see that there was a rocky ledge just a few feet from where the horse had slipped, and luckily, the horse had fallen on that ledge. Though the steed was hurt, its feet bent and was apparently in pain, it was alive.

Smith immediately proceeded to scramble down the side of the cliff onto the ledge and held on with his dear life to some dry vegetation growth, some clumps of overgrown grass on the cliff-side. When ultimately, he could reach down to the ledge, he tried to calm the groaning horse. All that mattered to him now was to get the steed back to its feet, even if it was limping. He did not stand a chance in this jungle at night without the horse. He tore off his sash, the pride of his regiment and tied it around the knee of the rear right leg of the horse. All this excitement had completely worn him out and he sat down on a a piece of rock nearby, to decide on his next course of action. As he sat down, his hand touched the rocky surface of his seat. It seemed a bit too smooth to him and as he looked down, he was amazed to see that he was sitting down on a perfectly smooth piece of square rock, almost like a seat. As he stared incredulously at it, he found that the rock was not an isolated one and there were others strewn around and not only that, there seemed to be, some engravings on the the side of certain rocks. His curiosity got the better of him and he squatted down to tear off the growth of dry grass, from these rocky sides. 

His amazement was boundless when he found perfectly shaped statuettes, as well as flower emblems engraved on the rocks. He felt in his bones that he was on to something important. In the dying light, he was surprised to notice a flight of steps leading down to the river from the ledge-side and he hoped against hope that he had stumbled upon some sort of human settlement. As he climbed down the steps towards the river to quench his thirst, he noticed that the hill-side was queerly formed. It was as if he was standing in the middle of a horse shoe. Furthermore, he noticed a few openings on the sides of the hills, which looked like caves. He decided that it would be best for him to take shelter in the caves for the night, and to resume his search back home, the next morning, after his steed was rested. With this plan in place, He broke off, some dry branches from trees growing by the side of the river, attached a bit of his torn sash with some dried grass to them, sprinkled some gunpowder on it and lighted a torch. As he approached the entrance to the dark cave, holding his torch firmly, he was taken aback, by a colony of bats that screeched their way past him, their nauseating stench churning up his already empty stomach. 
As he timidly moved in, looking for a dry place to spend the night, his knees folded and he gasped at the splendour of the spectacle that unfolded before him. The stature of his discovery hit him instantly and he was unfalteringly convinced that he had stumbled upon one of the most culturally as well as historically significant discoveries of the century.

Fast-forward, Circa 2015, month of March. A motley group of 6 people had set out from, Hotel Kailas opposite the Ellora caves in an Innova to cover the 100 odd kms to reach one of the finest Unesco, World Heritage sites, Ajanta. We reached a point near the caves from where, transport belonging to the state tourism department alone, was allowed to ply till the cave site. As we disembarked from the airconditioned buses, we were confronted by a hoarding, proclaiming 'Ajanta Restaurant', which promised to serve authentic Maharashtrian thalis and and a variety of fruit juices. We planned a rendezvous with this eatery as soon as we would return from our cave sojourn.

Encircling the Waghora river, is a horse-shoe shaped cliff, that is home to a spectacular testimony of human creativity, perseverence and dedication. Set in sylvan surroundings, there are about 29 elaborate Buddhist cave temples, believed to have been constructed in the time span between 200 BC to the VI th century AD. After the VII th century AD, Buddhism started to decline in India and these caves were abandoned. All these caves as well their intricately carved interiors, have been carved out of one giant rock, that is the 70 feet high, Sahyadri mountain itself. Built by devoted Buddhist monks, depicting the lives and times of Buddha, the enlightened one and those of the Jatakas, the depiction of stories of Buddha in all his previous lives.

This Unesco, World Heritage site is a marvel to watch. Rock was cut from this mountain-side, then it was chiselled out and after that, carvings of Buddha in different postures, flowers, figures, stupas, chaityas and viharas were all built inside these tunnels. To top it all, intricate and exquisite paintings were done on the ceiling as well as on the pillars inside the caves.
These carvings and sculptures are considered to be the beginning of classical Indian art. This form of Indian art has exerted considerable influence in India and elsewhere, in particular to South Eastern Asia, Like Cambodia, Thailand and Java. Basically 5 of these caves were temples and the rest served as monasteries, accomodating about 200 monks and artisans. 

We walked up a winding road, that runs along a terrace towards the cave entrances. At one point of time, each of these caves were connected by a staircase to the edge of the river, most of which have disappeared now. The second group of caves, which were created at a later date, have a mark of the artistry of the Gupta and the post Gupta period. We could only visit the more significant of the caves, like, 9, 10, 19, 26 and 29 as it takes a very long time to go through them in details. By the time we could walk back the entire stretch, marvel at the sculptures and the frescoes, which were peeling away, complete a full circle, only allowing for intermittent breaks in between for water and snacks and photo and selfie sessions, we were completely drained out and were ready for some fresh pineapple juice along with an egg curry meal at the Ajanta restaurant. One reminder, for visitors. This is a good place to buy small rock cut statues of, Tathagata Buddha and the all time favourite deity of the Maharashtrians...Ganapati Bappa.

Soon we were speeding back towards Ellora, through a wide black road, flanked on either side by trees which seemed to be on flames, on the black soil of the Deccan. The palash was in full bloom in this part of the country. The friendly chit-chat and banter in the car was somehow silent now. Partly it was the tiredness, but, I feel, largely because of the enormity of the experience that we were all trying to grasp and to absorb, all in our own little ways.

Just about 5 kms before reaching Ellora, and about half an hour before sun down, Sandeep, our driver asked us, whether, we would like to visit, Khuldabad, which he said, had the mausoleum of Aurangzeb, the 6th Mughal emperor, and from where Aurangabad had derived its name. I certainly had no clue about Khuldabad and am sure, none of my fellow travellers did. Just like other lay people, I had assumed that all the tombs of the Mughal emperors were either in Delhi or in Agra. We readily agreed, to visit Khuldabad, and Sandeep screeched into a left u-turn and turned onto a dust road. 

Suddenly, as if in a blink of an eye, the entire ambience changed. It somehow seemed that we had reached medieval Agra. Where, there had been only vast stretches of farmlands, small shops, shacks and a few fruit vendors and wayside trees on the highway, the dirt road towards Khuldabad was lined with mosques, groups of middle-aged, slightly bulky ladies in black burkhas accompanying young giggly girls, with large colurful danglers in their ears, in bright-coloured hijabs, lining the narrow road. Men in white kurtas, with white taqiyah or the skull cap on their head and striking checked lungis were relaxing near paan shops. Their large guffaws could be heard from far off. It was time for the Maghrib namaaz. Ittr shops and shops selling mogra garlands and incense sticks, lined the place where we finally disembarked at the corner of the road.

I had read that the emperor Aurangzeb believed in austerity. however I was not ready for the totally inostentatious and nondescript building that stood before me in the name of the final resting place of Alamgir Aurangzeb, A person, who ruled Hindustan for 50 long years.

Abul Muzaffar Muhi-Ud-Din Mohammad Aurangzeb, the fanatic, unscrupulous, intolerant, religious zealot was one of the most hated names in our history books and not without reason. As a ruler of India, he was biased and discriminated against other religious beliefs. He destroyed temples, imposed the Jiziya tax, a discrimintory taxation system, against the hindus and the sikhs. Instead of consolidating his territories, he waged constant wars against the Marathas, Sikhs, Jats and the Bundelas, which, depleted the already depleting treasury, as well as added fuel and purpose to the resistance movements of these communities. With his death on March 3rd 1707, in Ahmednagar, he left a corrupt and crumbling empire which was too large to be handled by any single despot, he left behind alienated subjects, a demoralised army and a depleted treasury.

However, as I stood before the grave of this man, great or otherwise, I could not bring myself to believe, that, this unassuming cloth covered austere grave, with no enclosure fit for such a royal, was, where he lay in peace. This was the same man, who did not use the royal treasury for his own personal expenses. Instead, he used the money he earned from making the taqiyah, and writing the Quran to locate and buy a piece of land for his grave. Lord Curzon, ( the Governor General and Viceroy of India from 1899-1905) on visiting this grave, had instructed the Nizam of Hyderabad to build a marble screen around the grave.

Aurangzeb is buried according to his own wishes, in the courtyard, towards the right of the southern entrance at the Dargah of Sayyad, Zain-Ud-Din Sirazi, a muslim saint, he revered as his mentor and spiritual guide. The tombs of Azam Shah, Aurangzeb's son and that of his wife, lie to the east of Aurangzeb's tomb. 


Sayyed Zain-Ud-Din Sirazi is a highly revered muslim saint, and at one point of time was the chief qazi of Daulatabad. Strains of sufi music caught my ear, as I was moving around the courtyard engrossed in photography. As I entered the main entrance to the Darga, dusk was slowly descending on this almost surreal world. The sufi singers were in a trance like state, and men, women and children were engrossed in the atmosphere of incense and mysticism. I got absorbed in the whole ambience too, as I was offered a scarf by one of the old ladies and was asked to cover my head. I sat down, cross legged with them and drank the beauty of the moment to my heart's content. 

The sun had set, when we were leaving the Dargah. The day had taught me two diametrically opposite lessons. One, that of grandiosity and flamboyance in the creativity of Ajanta, where the basic tenet was simplicity...while on the other hand, the extravagance and pomposity of a much-hated emperor, subdued amidst unimposing and humble culminations. This was perhaps the essence of life, the existence of duality of simplicity amidst sophistication. Simplicity as the ultimate form of sophistication has always existed. One can never do without the other.


Author: Jayeeta Sen Roy

Photos by author

The Big Day - 'Borodin'

The Yuletide season is all over us again. Christmas or X-mas as it is known to many, is is a global phenomena.  Christmas carol, Christmas trees and cakes are an inherent part of Christmas. But again, though it is celebrated all over the world, albeit with a slight variance in divergent cultures, to us, here in Kolkata, it is known and acknowledged as the ‘Borodin’ or the Big Day. Allow me to clarify. Christmas in Kolkata is more of a social festival than a religious one. Just like Durga Puja or Deepavali or for that matter, even Eid.

The sleepy row of red brick houses, comprising of six blocks of three storied buildings  in Central Kolkata, behind Bowbazar, called the Bow Barracks is normally dormant throughout the year. But with the advent of December, prodigal sons and daughters of the dwindling Anglo Indian community of Kolkata start trickling in. The neighbourhood is suddenly alive with activity as rice bulbs adorn these heritage buildings, once built as a garrison mess for the British Army during the First World War. Sounds of laughter and mirth along with smell of fresh home-made wine and cakes waft out through the windows.

If Christmas ever had an address in any Indian city, it would be Park Street. Christmas celebration in India is synonymous with Park Street. Park Street and its adjoining areas have through ages been inhabited by a majority of the Anglo-Indian community of Kolkata. From about mid-December, Park Street is decked up like a bride. From Carol singing competitions to a huge bejewelled Christmas Tree, Park Street is known for  the heritage tearoom and confectionary ‘Flury’s’ founded in 1927 founded by Mr. and Mrs. J Flury’s and introduced Kolkata to the best of rich cream pastries and Christmas puddings, perhaps one of the best outside of the continent. Park Street boasts of other  eateries like the ‘Peter Cat’ and the ‘Mocambo’ whose inception dates back to the 50s and where you are destined to have a tryst with typical British Christmas lunch and dinner.

Kolkattans are infatuated with Christmas Cakes. The ritual of cake baking, goes back a long time at the ‘hole in the wall’ bakeries of Beckbagan. In fact, Beckbagan, a Muslim majority locality in Kolkata, got its name from baking of cakes. Much before dawn on Christmas, huge earthen ovens are lighted up by muslim workers who work with efficiency and diligence for their clientele, who still hold on to the traditions of the British Raj and prefer to bake their own cakes, from the recipes handed down through generations in bakeries like the Ahmad Hussain Bakery. Mohammad Hussain has been baking cakes since 1975 and people still swear by his cakes. The Ahmad Ali Bakery or the Kanchan Bakery are other bakeries of repute in Beckbagan.

The iconic jewish bakery of the Nahoums at New Market in Kolkata, set up in 1902 by Nahoum Israel from Baghdad became an instant hit with the British expatriates and the Anglo-Indians before the Bengali taste bud was tickled with the taste of its plum cakes, jam tarts and chocolate pastries.

I being a Bengali Hindu, have always seen Christmas celebrated in my home and neighbourhood most spontaneously. ‘Notun gurer payesh’ or kheer prepared from freshly brewed palm jaggery is a must on ‘Borodin’, as is the clamouring for gifts by Santa from little ones in every home.

These same communities of the Muslims, the Jews and the Christians are fighting it out tooth and nail in West Asia and it is said that, religion is dividing humanity. What then is the common factor that binds Kolkattans to celebrate any festival with equal fervor? Perhaps one needs to visit Kolkata to find that out.

 Article & Photos : Jayeeta Sinha Roy

The Road Less Travelled Part I

When in school, especially in senior classes, the detailed study of the conquests of the Mughal emperors was one thing, I generally avoided, especially the innumerable Deccan conquests of these countless emperors, both distinguished as well as the inconspicuous types. Firstly, I could never demarcate the area called 'Deccan'. It seemed to me, to be various overlapping areas of a venn diagram. However, to these kings, this area called the Deccan is where they seemed to have a field day. They just loved to send their generals there, chop off a bunch of heads amd levy the strangest of taxes, based on the even stranger logics.

My reader must be wondering about what exactly, I want to start off with, after beating the bush and flattening it almost to the ground. I know that it is a little difficult to bear with me when I am into this 'ringmarole' mood. But enough of it, let us get to the meaty part of the story. Our 7 seater Innova was gliding like a swan on Mumbai-Nashik Expressway, inching closer towards the region we now call Marathwada, after clearing the Mumbai traffic in 2 hours flat. The road was like a mirror, shining and smooth. There is a clan of Bengali-Mumbaikars, who are all gaga about not only Mumbai, but also about entire Maharashtra. They are always ready to show off their superiority to their poorer cousins from West Bengal. One of my Mumbaikar cousins informed me that, after travelling on road in West Bengal, we would feel quite privileged to make a road trip in Maharashtra. However this proved to be a statement that he had to swallow with his pride, later, as other than the expressways, most of the Maharashtrian roads, after travelling for about 100 kms beyond city limits, are as bad or as good as any other Indian road and I can quite vouch for that.

The present day, Marathwada is a revenue division of the Maharashtra State. Most of what we knew as the Deccan of India under the the Tughlaq, Khalji, Lodi, Mughal dynasty was within this greater Marathwada, some parts of Andhra, on the Deccan plateau , between the Vindhya range and the Krishna river. This area was of strategic importance to the rulers, and thus one of the finest forts, which were very similar to each other architecturally, were located in this region. Important amonst them were the Golconda, the Daulatabad or the Devagiri and the Bijapur Forts. We were headed towards one of these stunning forts, the Daulatabad fort. 

We took a short lunch break at Nashik. One thing that I must and must ask my reader to try a staple Maharashtrian thali. This thali is normally vegetarian and consists of salt, a wedge of lime, chutney, achar, raita and pakoras. Maharashtrians are particularly proud of their astonishing range and diversity of chutneys, achars, brine pickles and koshimbirs.

The arrangement of the rice in the thali is of importance, it is placed at a side of the thali with a thoor-dal puri on top. One dry vegetable and one curry is usually staple in the thali. However, what I liked the most was the masala-papad. The hot baked-papad was sprinkled with diced onions, tomatoes, chanachur and coriander leaves.

Nashik, Pune and Mumbai is the golden triangle of Maharashtra. Earlier, Nashik used to be considered inferior to its two big brothers, but with the advent of the wine industry, Nashik and its adjoining areas are fast spreading its wings, both for the thrill associated with factory-bought wines, as well as with new wine tourism concept with vineyard tours, and a stopover at resorts in the middle of vineyards. This place reminded me remarkably of Napa Valley in California. The Sula winery are at the forefront of the wine revolution in India. They have facilities built to serve wine connoisseurs. I was reminded of the Robert Mondavi Winery in the Napa Valley, where we were served a variety of cheese and fruits with the world-famed Fume Blanc, Pinot Noir Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay. The ambience was somewhat similar, but as any Indian reader will understand that much leaves to be desired in terms of infrastructure.  

Turn right from Nashik, towards the heartland of India, and you are entering the rutty, dust laden, pebble-strewn, narrow lanes, that goes by the name of roads in India. Welcome to real India, your are now entering Marathwada. The only soothing effect that only one of our senses was privileged enough to have was miles upon miles of brilliant-green vineyards upon the rich black soil of plateau, India. 

We were halfway there, had travelled about 170 kms in 3 hours. Another odd 170 kms needed to be traversed. we were moving at a very slow speed. The beauty of the vineyards with the outline of the Sahyadri in the distance, with peasants walking home, tanned skins in very bright orange and pink sarees, with flowers in the braided hair...a local village marriage party with trumpets and the bride and groom walking side-by-side, and red 'palash' trees in full bloom, made for a very pretty picture.

Very soon, on the left side of the road, on a medium-sized plateau, loomed a dark and ominous structure. The mere sight of the Daulatabad Fort made me realise the the word 'magnifique' was coined for this fort alone. instantly, all 6 of us, moved to one side of the vehicle and tried to crane their neck out of only two windows. my daughter who has a great penchant for ghost stories, and films, immediately was convinced that this fort definitely had quite a few of those, whose, names should not be uttered in the evening. Thus the fort already famous world-wide, had another value-addition to it.

Very soon, we entered Aurangabad. This city is the largest city in Marathwada and is also known as the 'City of Gates' and is named after the Mughal Emperor, Aurangzeb, who lies buried in nearby Khuldabad. Soon we passed the 'Bibi Ka Maqbara' a replica of the Taj, which Aurangzeb's son, Azam Shah had built for his mother, Dilras Begum. This monument is also called the 'Dakkhani Taj' or the Taj of the Deccan. It is also cited as the poor man's Taj as it lacked the grandeur and the opulence of the original Taj, which was built by Azam Shah's grandfather, the great Shahjahan.

Evening was soon dropping its shroud over the horizon as we turned up towards the plateau which leads towards the world heritage site, Ellora. The Fort again loomed even larger than before, as rains started to fall in big drops. There was a dense jungle enroute to the Ellora caves and even I started to believe in my daughter's conviction of paranormal activities, given the ambience. Our car soon rolled into the portico of the Kailash Hotel at Ellora. Would like to add a little side-note here. "Kailash e Kelenkari" the thriller written by Satyajit Roy and filmed by his son Sandip Roy was shot right here in this hotel. And from that time onwards, I have always wanted to stay in this hotel, if I ever got a chance to visit Ellora. My fantasy was not unrealistic as it was a beautiful property with cottages which had huge terraces facing the Ellora caves. I had always thought of 'Kailash' as mount Kailash, as the abode of Mahadev and only got to understood why this barren land, hundreds of kilometers below the Himalayas was termed as Kailas, only after visiting the Ellora caves. 

The next day would be a day full of travelling and activities. We were ready to turn in but it was not to be without the highlight of the day....a bottle of chilled wine from the Sula stable, called the Madeira. and it felt like heaven on earth.