March 20 is International Day of Happiness. Happiness is not absolute. I have tried to look at ‘What makes me happy’ and I have tried to express it visually.
My fully-charged laptop (bought with my hard-earned money during the thickness of COVID-19 pandemic) always makes me happy. She’s ( well, I can only think of this beauty as a woman) my window to the world of knowledge, music and films. I really respect her and take great care of her.
(The pic is used from a poster that was on Parvathy’s instagram account)
The best part of being a journalist is meeting people from diverse fields and having a conversation with them. Without realising, these conversation also become a part of your consciousness. And they nudge you from deep within on an otherwise dull day. Today, I just remembered my conversations with Parvathy Baul. At a young age, she decided to follow her heart and the passion called Baul music. As a Baul singer, her music speaks of love, compassion and inclusiveness. She has touched many hearts across the world through her mesmerising music.
During our conversation, I asked Parvathy how has music changed her as a person? She shared with her gentle smile, ”Baul is much more than music. It is a way of life. It’s all about connecting with nature.” She added with a laugh, “If you go to a Baul ashram, you will see only smiling faces. There’s joy everywhere in the ashram. The beauty of life lies in being a moner manush (person of the heart) —that’s what we all are aspiring to be.”
Parvathy started performing in 2001 and her guru had told her then, “Now Ek Tara (the musical instrument she plays) will decide where you go and what you do.”
Parvathy, who’s from West Bengal, now lives in Thriruvanthapuram. Talking about her moner manush life, she shared, “I am as ordinary as anybody. I see life as very simple. Singing, writing poetry, cooking and feeding keeps me happily occupied.”
Here’s to living life as a moner manush.
For me, 2023 will be the year of Home, Once Again. I left home when I was 19. I only visited home during my semester break holidays, When I became a journalist after finishing my higher studies, my visits became more limited due to leave crunch situations. After I quit my Times Of India, Ahmedabad job in October 2022, I spent more than six months in my parents’ home in Bhubaneswar (Odisha’s capital city and popularly known as the temple town). After I lost my father (2011) and my mother (2013), I did not enjoy being at home. I felt as if the house was eating me up. The grief of losing both my parents in less than 30 months was too overwhelming. There was a sense of melancholy and deep loss within me that haunted me. But I am immensely grateful that I am home, once again. I will always remember 2023 with this dominant emotion of finding home again.
This post is also dedicated to all those children, teenagers, youngsters and adults — who have lost their homes in Palestine in recent war. To lose your home in seconds is soul-ripping. Where does one go after one loses home? Where does one find that sense of comfort, love and warmth? Even as I am writing this on December 31, 2023, my heart is filled with gratitude and love for the home my parents built with their limited resources, love and dedication. I relish the delicious feeling of being at home. Here are some glimpses of my home and life around it.
I love having my adrakwali chai (ginger tea) in my father’s tea cup and saucer. I had gifted this beauty to my father way back in 1996 when I was working as a journalist in Press Trust of India (PTI), New Delhi. You can call this the art of soaking in material memory
Diwali, the festival of lights, is one of my favourite festivals. There is something about the romance of lamps flickering in soft breeze, colourful rangolis, varieties of sweets, namkeen and dry fruits. And the overall feeling of love, togetherness and generosity in the air. And I am happy to say that it has been almost 20 years since I have stopped bursting fire crackers. But the celebrations remain wonderful. This blog post is a love note to India’s rich diverse cultural traditions.
To start with, I will go back to the Diwali celebrations of my childhood and teenage/ young adult years in Odisha, the Eastern Indian state. For us, Diwali or Deepavali is also about remembering our ancestors and worshipping of Goddess Kali. On Diwali night/ the night before, family members get together and invoke their ancestors with lighting of kaunria kathi ( thin bamboo sticks) and calling in unison, “Bada badia ho, andhare aasa, aluare jao” ( Oh honourable ancestors of ours.. come in darkness but go back on the path that has been lit). This ritual is also about respecting the cycle of life, death, darkness and light. They all are interconnected.
Diwali memories of childhood in Odisha
My dominant image of Diwali celebrations in Odisha ( then Orissa) include my mother carefully taking out all earthen lamps from our attic, washing them properly and drying them out in the sun. We all believed in sustainability and mindful consumption without knowing anything about these fancy post-modern terms. Another beautiful image that keeps coming back to me is my mother sitting on the verandah and rolling out cotton wicks with her hand. Everything was home-made and organic. And we, as children, loved bursting fire-crackers. As money was limited, my parents bought fire-crackers in limited quantities. The entire collection was divided among my siblings so that we all had our fair share of fire crackers. Sometimes, we used to hoard it till the end so that we could take it out when it was all silent. Interestingly, we never had dry fruits ( which has now become a symbol of Diwali celebrations) during those days. In some Odia houses, mutton was cooked on Diwali night. But there was neither gift exchanging nor any fancy gourmet lunches or dinners.
JNU hostel life & looking for food on Diwali night
Diwali celebrations took a different meaning when I shifted to Delhi in the early 90s to pursue my higher studies in Jawaharlal Nehru University ( JNU). As our hostel mess staff members used to be on leave on Diwali, there used to be no lunch. We used to get our breakfast and then packed lunch. Our packed lunch was mostly puri & dry aloo ki sabzi. Most of us used to finish that packed lunch during the breakfast time only. Dinner was a tough affair as the choices in the university campus were limited to (mostly) the famous Ganga Dhaba only. Many of us used to walk down to the Udipi restaurant in Munrika for our share of Mysore masala dosa. Till now, my dominant Diwali image from JNU is looking for food in the night.
Diwali Nights in PTI newsroom
When I joined the Press Trust of India ( PTI) as a journalist, work took over Diwali celebrations. As a news agency works 24x7x365 — very often Diwali nights were spent in the newsroom only. I really do not have memories of celebrating Diwali in my rented home in R K Puram while working as a journalist.
Narak Chaturdashi & Diwali coming together in Bengaluru
When I shifted to Bengaluru, Diwali became Narak Chaturdashi. As per Hindu Scriptures, Lord Krishna killed the demon Narakasuraalong with his wife Satyabhama and saved 16000 gopis. Narak Chaturdashi is celebrated to commemorate the victory of good over evil. My husband and I started our Diwali Lakshmi puja in our rented home in Bengaluru and the tradition has been continuing for the last 25 years. The Diwali puja gives us a sense of continuity amid all the changes around us. And we still have the same glass framed photo of Goddess Lakshmi. Even as we changed houses, this photo travelled with us.
Celebrating Diwali & Gujarati New Year in Ahmedabad
Diwali celebrations took a whole new meaning when I shifted to Ahmedabad in 2001. I got to know about Bestu Varas ( Gujarati New Year) and the beautiful tradition of people visiting each other on the New Year and wishing each other Saal Mubarak. I got to know about various Gujarati delicacies like mathia, chora fali, chavana, mithu marcha puri, mohan thal, magaj ladoo and kopra paak.
However, life is really tough for a newspaper journalist. Working in a newspaper during Diwali means back-breaking schedule which even surpasses Narayan Murthy’s 70 hours work per week. During Diwali, I literally lived in a daze not knowing what was happening in my house. I used to come home at 2/ 3 am and again leave home within few hours. During the pandemic (when I worked from home), my husband was shocked to see the way I sat on my work desk for hours and hours. One day, he saw me working at 6 in the morning and he asked in utmost sincerity, “Did you even work this hard during your JNU student day?” No, I did not.
The only silver lining was the two days break we used to get post Diwali ( as these two days were Press holidays). But by the time, we used to get these two holidays, most of us were like in a state of near collapse. But I do have very nice memories of celebrating Gujarati New Years with my friend Prerna’s family ( my second home in Gujarat) in Vadodara. We all used to have lots of fun and food formed a major part of celebrations.
Slow living & relishing Diwalu celebrations
I enjoyed Diwali in the true sense of the term only in 2022 after I quit my job in the Times of India. For the first time in decades, I felt light during Diwali. I attended parties, pre-Diwali dinners, went for puja in my friend’s office. I finally could breathe easy and enjoy the festivity around me without thinking of innumerable feature ideas, feature writing, special features, editing, early deadlines, the most dreaded double editions.
Of love, light and new beginnings
This year, we celebrated Diwali for the first time in our own home. So, it has been a special feeling. This year, I decided to spend the Gujarati New Year in my mother-in-law’s house ( as there was a day difference between Diwali and New Year). And thanks to my friend Prerna’s blog, I got to know about this beautiful tradition of children coming early in the morning and waking you up with “ Sabras ( salt) le lo.” After accepting salt, you offer some money to the kids. This is all about celebrating the essence of life (salt) and also starting a new journey of prosperity, abundance, hope.
Even though I have lived in Ahmedabad for 22 years, I never had experienced this. May be it is because I live in the Western parts of Ahmedabad. Today, on the day of Gujarati New Year, at 5 in the morning, I heard someone pressing the doorbell of my mother-in-law’s house ( she lives in the Walled City) and telling, “ Sabras (salt) le lo.” I literally jumped out of my bed and opened the door. I saw a little girl with her mother. The girl offered me sabras (salt) and her mother gave me asopalav leaves. I offered them some money and they wished me happy new year and went back with a smile. At that moment, my heart was full of gratitude and love. I called up Prerna’s mother immediately and told her about this experience and wished aunty a very happy new year. It was a moment of celebrating life and intimacy.
Kashtandi Flower (scientific name Saccharum spontaneum) is a common sight while you navigate through curved roads in rural Odisha. In West Bengal, it is called kash flower. It is a grass native to the Indian sub-continent. It signifies the end of monsoon and the beginning of autumn. It is a visual delight to watch the kashtandi flowers leaning on each other under a clear autumn sky. Kashtandi flowers also signify the festive season in Odisha — especially Durga Puja.
During my recent travels in Odisha, I was very happy to see the kashtandi flowers dancing in gay abandon. But I have been waiting for the arrival of autumn in the true sense. When autumn comes, you can feel that distinct nip in the morning air. There is no doubt that the climate catastrophe has stolen the magical autumn.
I have never experienced such a hot October in my life. The only solace amid this gloomy hot October is the gorgeous kashtandi flowers.
I am waiting for that autumn nip and milder mid morning sun.
This story was originally written in Odia by Bhubaneswar-based Shyamsunder Agarwalla. When I read this story during my visit to Odisha early this year, I was deeply moved. I remembered Guru Nanak’s words “Goodness must travel, ” and I said to myself, “This story must travel.” Luckily, there was a mention of Mr Agarwalla’s mobile number at the end of the text. When I messaged him about my intention to translate the story into English (and also about the copyright issue), he was kind and generous enough to give his immediate consent. I can’t thank him enough. And this translation is also about fondly remembering my mother, who encouraged me to discover Odia literature during my growing up years. I have tried my level best to retain the essence of the original story.
Literature in a tiny paper bag (Writer: Shyamsunder Agarwalla, Translated by: Deepika Sahu)
Circa 1966-1970
Age 17. From a village named Chandipur to Cuttack, a big city. Eyes full of dreams. A dream to study at the prestigious Ravenshaw College. I took admission in the Science stream. I was reluctant to stay in the East Hostel. When I went there, I found that the rooms were small and cramped. There was hardly any space to move around. If you stood in the room, then there was hardly any room left for sitting. And then if you sat down, there was hardly any space to sleep. Everything felt limited and suffocating. I felt as if the college was inside a house and inside the house there was a college. Disappointment made me go and check rooms in the New Hostel. It felt like a fresh breeze. The rooms were spacious. The verandah was wide. The windows were big. There was a huge ground in front of the hostel. There were houses on one side of the ground and the college buildings on the other side. It felt nice and warm. I thought of staying there and I stayed there for four long years.
Every morning, Bhima used to come with a tea kettle and a big bag packed with hot snacks. The bag contained tiny paper bags full of piping hot snacks. Each little thunga (little bags made from old newspapers, notebooks, discarded papers) had two bara, two aloo chop or singada. The tea kettle had a piece of paper fitted on its edge to prevent the steam from escaping. He used to run from one room to another — a master operator. He would keep the tiny paper bag on the table, pour the tea in a glass kept on the table and then move to the next room. He was in the afternoon of his life and he used to wear a dhoti that came till his knee and a white shirt. He was a kind soul and even when we could not pay him money on time, we got our snacks, thanks to a notebook in which he kept an account. The mornings were comfortable because of this ritual of hot snacks and tea.
The snacks always came in the paper bag. The oil that stubbornly did not leave the snacks, somewhat gave a different look to the paper bag. One day, I discovered that the thunga/the paper bag was made from some old letter. After I finished my breakfast, instead of throwing away the paper bag, I unfolded it gently. It was a handwritten letter. As it was soaked in oil, the ink was more thick and the letters were more prominent. I could make out that it was a letter written by a woman. I could not resist my desire to read the letter. At that moment, I forgot that one should not read another person’s private letter. The letter was written by the mother of Dina (a boy) to her husband. It had a vocabulary of love, care and gentleness.
The letter went like this – “Dina’s father… We all are doing well here. We are hoping that you are also doing fine. There has been no news from you for the last two months. Both Dina (son) and Munni (daughter) are remembering you a lot. You have not sent any money for the last two months. We have not had any food since yesterday. The lender refused to lend money to us. I am just borrowing from our neighbours. Munni has not gone to school for a long time. We could not pay her school fees. Dina is suffering from fever. There is no money to buy medicine. But you don’t get worried by all this. You take care of yourself. Don’t worry about anything. Everything is fine here.”
At this point, the letter is torn. The other half of the letter must have gone to another paper bag. I did not have the opportunity to read the entire letter. I imagined the rest of the letter like this, “I don’t know why am I writing all this. Please don’t get worried. Cuttack is a big city, so take care when you navigate on the road… Let us know about your salary. The moment you get your salary, just do a money order. Please don’t delay. Hope the Almighty is taking good care of you. Don’t worry about us.. everything is fine here. Yours Dinabou (mother of Dina).”
At that tender age of 17/18, this letter on the paper bag taught me something invaluable about life. There were many struggles for this lady writing the letter. There’s no food in the house, her son had a fever, the daughter was forced to drop out of school because of fee issues, the money lender was not giving the money… but she was still saying that everything was fine. Maybe there was something much more fundamental and precious left in her journey of life. So, in spite of all her daily existential struggles, she still felt everything was fine. She held on to her innate faith.
After getting a glimpse of her philosophy, I got this intense desire to dive into these little paper bags in which my morning snacks arrived. Someday, I got a poem longing for love, someday a letter from a father to his son. Someday, I got a solution to a mathematics problem. And someday, I got a grocery list which had many subtractions/additions. When I connected all these, it became literature in a paper bag.
My dear friends, whether it’s the love/conflict between a husband and wife, father and son, a love affair gone sour, complicated mathematics problems or even a not so free-flowing poem, it is not essential to take life’s cuts and bruises to heart. In the end, everything can be just given wings so that it can fly to another destination in the form of a little paper bag.
Times have changed. The market is now full of different plastic bags and there are many colourful papers too. They all look pretty but they lack that fragrance. Fragrance of life, love, loss, longing, belonging.
There is a sense of deep gratitude within me now because at that age of 17/18, I could smell the fragrance of life. And that’s why, years later– I am now remembering Bhima, the snacks provider, his oil-soaked little paper bags or thunga and the New hostel, my home for those four fulfilling years.
Memory is a lover, memory is a stranger. Memory also changes colour as we add our own dash of imagination to it. Memory also carries a slice of romance. Memory is like a collage – there is an image, there is a sound and there’s an element of touch too. There is a romance in the sounds we carry from our growing up years. There are some sounds which we can still listen to. Some sounds we lose as loss is a part of growing up. Even if we are not hearing them now, these sounds still play in the deep crevices of our hearts.
The sound of thunderstorms and falling raindrops. There’s something about the sound of rain in Odisha (a part of Eastern India). In the stillness of the night, when you listen to the falling raindrops, it’s like God singing a lullaby for you. You can feel the magic in your heart. Same goes for the thunderstorms especially in the late afternoon. You know – the rains are just about to arrive. The anticipation of the rains lashing, the sky changing its colours and the darkness enveloping everything around you and taking you to a surreal world. Now, far away from home, the sound of raindrops (no matter where I am) gives me a sense of longing for home. A kind of desolate feeling of being away from my childhood roots. You might say rain sounds the same everywhere. But I beg to differ on this. You have to experience the rains in Odisha to understand what I am talking about.
The voices of street hawkers walking in our neighbourhood. Each one of them had a distinct voice. They carried their signature voice with their footprints. The one with the kulfi, ice-cream and sonpapdi always came with a bell. The moment we used to hear the sound of his bell, we used to run outside to get our share of joy and happiness. There was a man who used to come on a bicycle to sell fish. And he used to shout at the top of his voice, “maccha”, “machcha” (which means fish in Odia, my mother tongue). We could hear him from a distance and brace ourselves to buy the fish. “ Paper, Paper,” asked the man who collected the old newspapers, books, magazines and any junk household items. And there was the snake charmer who came with snakes in a beautifully woven bamboo basket and he had a sapera (the musical instrument to which the snakes played). There was a monkey man who came with his dambooru (a kind of wooden instrument that made a typical sound) and we used to literally plead our mother to give us some money so that he could come inside our front yard and show us the tricks. I have not seen a snake charmer since decades. In an age of development, concretisation and changing laws regarding animal treatment, there is no space for the snake charmers and the monkey man to earn a living this way. But the sounds announcing their arrivals still ring in my ear.
There was an old man who used to come to our neighbourhood every evening with a bag full of peanut laddoos (sweets). He never raised his voice. He came to our neighbourhood exactly at 5 pm every evening. His timing was his voice. He needed no sound to mark his presence. We used to wait outside at 5 pm to buy goodies from him. He had a dignity that was unmatched and that dignity was his voice. I miss him and his presence. It has been decades since he left this world but he remains a part of my childhood memory.
The cuckoo bird’s lovely voice: Our favourite childhood activity was to say ‘Ku ku’ just immediately after the cuckoo (koel) made that lovely sound. For some reason, the louder we said, ‘Ku ku’, the cuckoo used to be in competition with us. It used to go on and on till we used to get a scolding from my mom to not to irritate the lovely precious cuckoo. Now, when I hear a cuckoo bird, I smile and just soak in the richness of life, nature and memory.
My mother’s glass bangles: My mother always wore glass bangles. There was a very soft sound of those colourful bangles. When she stirred a curry on the pan or just moved her hands, it was always accompanied by the sound of the bangles. Sometimes, while sleeping next to her, I just moved her bangles upwards so that it would make a sound. In absence of my mother, the sound of glass bangles are gone from my house. Sometimes, I now wear glass bangles just to feel that sound in my heart. I knowingly move the bangles upwards or shake my hand a little bit so that I can go back to the sound of my mother’s bangles.
My father’s arrival: First it was the little bell on the right side of the cycle. And that bell announced the arrival of Baba. And then my father’s older brother gifted him a Bajaj scooter and the sound of his arrival changed. One of my happiest memories was going for a scooter ride with my father. I felt like a little bird. And when I was in middle school, my father got an Ambassador car and again the sound of his arrival changed. From the little steel bell of the humble cycle to the honking of the car, the sound announcing the arrival of my father changed. It was also a sign of his journey of earning a living through his sheer hard work and integrity. His coming home was always a happy sound for me. Later on as an adult when I used to visit home during vacations, I used to sit on the balcony waiting to hear the sound of his car’s horn. From a distance, I could make it out that it was his car and it invariably made me happy. The sound of his home coming was always reassuring — a kind of continuation of life with its myriad emotions. With his passing away, only the memory of the sound of his home-coming remains.
Few months ago, I experienced something beautiful and organic. This March, I had gone to visit the National Tribal Crafts Exhibition in Bhubaneswar/Odisha (India). I fell in love with the Sabai Grass products at a stall and picked up two beautiful baskets. As I was making the payment, I asked the young artisan woman, who was also managing the cute little stall, “What’s your name?” She told me that her name is Niyati. I paid the money, thanked her and left.
(Here I am seen (middle) with Niyati (on my left side) and Anjali (right)
I again went to the exhibition after three days as I wanted to buy some more craft items for my friends. After visiting some stalls, I went to Niyati’s stall. As soon as I entered her stall, I warmly greeted her with her name. She literally jumped out of her chair and could not just believe that I have remembered her name. She is from a little village in Mayurbhanj district of Odisha and loves making beautiful products out of Sabai grass.
She was just so happy that I had remembered her name. She told me to pay whatever I would like to pay because now I am her friend. She even said it was ok if I didn’t pay because this connection is more important. We clicked the above pic at her stall . We exchanged our mobile numbers and promised to stay in touch. She told me no matter where I will be next year but I must come back to this exhibition (it’s a yearly affair) in 2024. She told me that she would keep the best products for me. I could feel the love and warmth. At that moment, everything between us just melted and we chatted like old friends. We laughed and talked about our mutual love for craft. Of course, she is the one with magic in her hand. Our conversation felt like water. There was no mention of help/fix/or even serve. It was just affection and love.
I would call this conversation & connection with Niyati as ‘organic’ as a human connection can become.
In 1996, with my little salary as a journalist in Press Trust of India (PTI), I had bought this tea cup and saucer as a gift for my father. Every morning, my father used to have his tea in this cup. I had bought this tea cup and saucer from the Cottage Emporium in New Delhi. Shopping at the Cottage Emporium in Connaught Place in those days meant you had arrived in life. At least, so we thought as young women trying hard to earn our own money and tasting the spirit of independence. Now, I have no idea about the recent look & the brand value of the Cottage Emporium. I had last gone there more than a decade ago. But in my heart, the Cottage Emporium still retains a very special space.
I lost my father in 2011. This tea cup was lying unused in the cupboard since then. This year, I stayed at my parents’ home in Bhubaneswar for more than three months. This is the longest I have stayed at Bhubaneswar in decades. And then one fine January morning in 2023, I took out this tea cup from the crockery cabinet and made a cup of milk tea for myself. As I sat down to enjoy my tea in this beautiful ceramic tea cup, I could feel my father’s presence all around me. Suddenly my father was not far from me. He was there sitting next to me. I could close my eyes and see him sipping his tea with a smile.
Some things never lose their essence. They retain an element of preciousness. Baba’s ( That’s how I called my father) tea cup has now become my cuppa of joy and beautiful memories. The tea cup is a reminder of a young woman earning her livelihood through sheer hard work and also sharing her joy of that economic independence with her father. It’s about celebrating one’s wings and roots.
Today is International Tea Day. Here is wishing you all many many more cups of tea with your loved ones. Cherish the moment. Enjoy your cuppa of joy.
There’s beauty in letting go…
A relationship in which you can’t recognise yourself
A job that makes your soul stifled
A friendship that does not make you feel lighter and loved
A space that does not make you feel safe and secure
Memories that make you feel bitter and negative
As we are all set to welcome 2023 and say goodbye to 2022 it’s time to let go of any emotion that makes you feel small. It’s time to embrace largeness, love and compassion
Ruminator on a qwerty keyboard 