|
|
Ramblings
Ganga's Daughters
by Julia Dutta
Kolkata is fiery red all over. Conches are sounding all over. Hindi
filmy music mixes with Bengali new Poojo sangeet Radio Mirchi is buzzing
with new excitement. There is jubilation in the air. - She is coming.
Only for four days. She is coming home. The rains continue to lash the
streets. The little ponds laugh. The greens cannot be hidden by the
growing grey of the city. The idols of Durga are in their finishing
touches period. From where I am, I am floating on the Ganga….
It has begun with a hair message. Warm hair oil is poured over my head
and I feel the circular movement of gentle hands as they rub the oil
into my scalp…slowly…round and round…turning my head this way and that….
a soft Rabindra sangeet playing in the background…..I breathe
deeply…..and let go…floating inward….still conscious of the hands
working around my head…behind my ears…and at the nape of my neck. Slowly
I am fading out…..my breathing has become heavy …and
slow…….soundless…..with gaps in between…..and moments I am not breathing
at all…….yet I am alive……I know it despite my deeply relaxed state of
being. Fresh mud from the banks of the Ganga river flowing through
Hoogly, touching Kolkata, has been brought, to be laid on a new terrain,
my body. I have asked for a mud bath ... the grey-brown, ever so soft
silt from Ganga’s river bed. Handfuls of it are being laid out on my
………face to be follow by my body. It is cool ... smooth ... creamy. I
guess my face, leaving my eyes, and lip are laden with soil. To enhance
the breezy coolness, I can feel two slices of cucumber being laid out
over my eyes. Now I cannot open them …my ears have become sharper. I can
hear the sizzling sound from the kitchen as seasoning is being done to
dal. The haunting aroma of paanch phoran fills the air and
my olfactory glands take a deep doze of the fragrance of Bengal’s unique
but simple five-spice seasoning. I can also hear the poojo songs on
radio…the hands that are today’s guide to the celestial are on my neck
and my shoulders are now being turned to the banks of the river Ganga……slowly
the silt spreads through my torso...the overwhelming feeling is that of
a cold paste. How easy it is to feel cool in the middle of summer! My
intestines are freezing as the mud spreads over my stomach.
My legs and thighs are in a let go….perhaps I will never walk again as
they cannot be willed to move any more…I will only float like a plank of
wood, without direction, on the body of Ganga……just float aimlessly….
The hands are rolling over my thighs and legs. Together with the
coolness, I can simultaneously feel Ganga slowly but surely taking a
firm grip of me, first my face and then the rest of the body as the mud
dries over my body, slowly embracing my skin in its pores. No! It is not
possible to be away from Her too long….She has caught me today and will
not let me go…..These hands are driving me closer to Her bosom…I don’t
have to make any effort to come close to Her – She grips me to her
bosom. I am in a let go…I cannot resist. My feet and toes are now
covered by Her soil. There is a hand that is transporting me,
transforming me……..the hands that now message my arms in a downward
motion… …and before my fingers move into the soil, spreading themselves
in the cool water of the earth of Bengal, I feel her lips touching the
tips of my fingers….I feel the kiss of death….the kiss which will make
me die to myself. In my head I hear my English School Headmistress, Miss
Thomson read in her clear and British accent, " The Touch Of The
Masters’ Hand" The story of the man who driven by poverty puts his
guitar out to auction. But nobody buys it till he comes and tunes it. At
the touch of the Master’s hand, the guitar fills the room with such
melodious music that it is auctioned at a very high price.
The music in the room has changed and I can hear Beethoven as I am dying
to myself….the Lady takes over what belongs to Her………I am powerless. I
am Hers. She has gripped me now firmly. My fingers are firm and even the
web between them are now cast in her soil. Gently, the cucumber slices
are lifted and I open my eyes…….my vision is filled with Kolkata. My
jaws have fallen slightly and the song on her lips is the song we sang
together at midnight on the 10th of September, 2006 – the night of poems
and song lyrics –
Mamma,
when I look at the clear waters of my soul
I see your face
Mamma, when I hear the voices in my head
A thousand voices speak like you
Tell me mamma,
Is loving another woman, like loving myself
When Kolkata plays on her guitar, your ears can feel like they have got
so finely tuned, like as if you’d smoked some pot…...gently strumming on
her guitar, the strong embrace of the earth over me and around me….I
drift off into a deep slumber……..Daughters of the soil, I see my mother
merging into the beautiful idol of Durga, floating over the large breast
of the Ganga. I am Her.
September 17,
2006
Top
|
Ramblings
The Week of September 17, 2006
Fighting Terror: Musharraf's Offer Too Little, Too
Late! by Rajinder Puri
Clash of 'Words' not 'Civilizations' by Col.
Rahul K. Bhonsle
The Last "J" that Broke Bush's Back by Gaurang
Bhatt, MD
Non-Aligned Movement Summit in Havana, Sept 06
by Dr. Subhash Kapila
Social Rocketry by J. Ajithkumar
Are China's Rulers Illegal? by William R.
Stimson
Empires and Dust: Travels in Modern India II by
Ashish Nangia
Dating the Dunes at Sam a Photo
Essay by Sutapa Chaudhuri
The World is One Family by TA Ramesh
Arguments for including Bhoti Language
in the 8th Schedule of the
Indian Constitution by Stanzin Dawa
Understanding Mahabharata: A Woman's Fury, Soft
Skills and a Hero by Satya Chaitanya
And, the Clock Stopped ! by VK Joshi
Ustad Bismillah Khan: The Shehnai Maestro by
Yamini Ayyagari
Search Engines: Technology Behind Searching
by Ruchi Gupta
In Feline Company by Bijoyeta Das
Friendship Never Ends by Wazhma Frogh
The Night of Ten – La Noche del 10 by Dibyendu
Ghoshal
The Coast of Mendocino by Walter Durk
A Hope by Arya Bhushan
Ganga's Daughters by Julia Dutta
Investing in Women by Stephanie Hiller
Insurgency: The Long Way Down by Nava Thakuria
The Dark Side of Media Hype by Anuja Agrawal
On the Fast Track to Growth? by Usha Kakkar
Struggling to Make It: A Mother's Dilemma by
Rajesh Talwar
Arun Kumar Das: A Beam of Hope by Amarendra
Kishore
Pune: Down Memory Lane by Vikram Karve
|
|
