The Song of the Brook in my Heartland

Many places in this world remain inconspicuous despite their natural beauty. The apathy of poor tourism vision by the government authorities and therefore inadequate infrastructure ensure it remains forlorn from the outside world. Today I am going to narrate a similar story of a Brook flowing through a belittled village called Shunuri in the State of West Bengal.

Before writing this article I have contemplated long and hard whether I should disclose this wonderful natural beauty to the outside world. We can never be sure what catches the attention at social media and if God forbid if fame follows, hordes of tourists will add ghoulish pollution to the otherwise serene and virgin territory. On careful consideration, I figured out a simple flaw in this deduction. My overestimation of my ability as a writer to catch the attention in social media is as good as Suniel Shetty winning a Filmfare award!

Many of us who happened to have studied in the ICSE board would have grown up reading the famous poem of Tennyson called “The Brook”. This poem especially had a profound impact on me as I was able to relate to it more than many others in the class. In my native village (Shunuri) I first hand saw a Brook that used to swell to enormous proportion during the monsoon. The brook is locally named Jor(a Bengali word) meaning the Force and I am living proof of its belligerent current that I will disclose subsequently.

During my childhood day, it was customary to visit Shunuri twice a year. Between the Durga Puja and Holi, I cherished the latter. The fun of playing with colour was enchanting akin to any child, although other reasons attributed to this affinity. Firstly, Holi was a wonderful occasion to meet all our cousin brothers and sisters in a single place and we used to put the house on fire.

Along with the family members, arrived strangers (mostly friends of villagers) to participate in the festivities. From my childhood, my favourite pastime is to observe people and most of these visitors were extremely talented singers, painters, poets etc. My surveillance allowed me to pick a lot of information and facts from various fields of specialisation, allowing me a special place among my school friends later as I revealed limited daily dose to them!

All these amalgamations were to be a part of the Holi celebrations in Roy Baari( house). The actual excitement knew no bound on the day of “Nera Pora”( Bengali). In other parts of India, this ceremony is known as “Holika Dahan” and is celebrated on the penultimate day of Holi. It is a simple practice where a pyre of wood and straw is burnt signifying the victory of good over evil. The legends say that Holika was a demon who tried to kill Prahlad the devotee of Lord Vishnu and thus the name Holi.

In Shunuri Nera Pora is celebrated with a lot of pomp and fanfare. The compound of Roy Bari has a Vishnu Mandir(temple) which reverberate with a unique prayer from devotees, ” Ore Baka Madan Mohan, Doya koro he”– ” Dear Lord Krishna(an avatar of Vishnu), do bless us”. After the worshipping ceremony, the priest carries the small idol of Vishnu to a large open field followed by a huge procession of villagers gathered from all the nearby villages.

In the middle of the open field, a huge pyre is kept ready beforehand. The priest on reaching the ground seek the blessings of Lord Vishnu before lighting up the pyre amidst a deafening roar from the crowd. The showstopper was however the scintillating fireworks glittering the clear night sky of spring. This spectacular firework draws visitors from far and wide and continues to be the talking point for the next few days

The grandeur of the festivities has ostensibly reduced as many from the Roy family have migrated far and wide. Notwithstanding the devotion and the enthusiasm of the celebration have lived on over the years till today and are a treat to watch for any mortal being on this planet.

Among all this magic, my predilection to love Holi was the Indian Jujube( Kul we say in Bengali) that ripens at this time of the year. These berries grow in thorny plants and are very difficult to pluck, except at this time of the year when it falls on the ground, ready to be cleaned and eaten. There was a forest of these trees on the other bank of Jor where I surreptitiously crossed over with my band of followers every evening during my stay.

The moon with all its imperfection draw poets romancing its beauty. At times I have imagined Jor to be a beautiful maiden within my reach, yet her scary stories drilled into our young mind made us woo her with caution. There is one particular spot in Jor called the “Saat Khatiya Da”. It means that if the ropes of 7 Charpoys are tied together and immersed in the water, they would still not reach the ground.

Sometimes I wondered if my parents purposely re-iterated this fact to keep a check on my Bedouin nature. However, there is no denying that the colour of the water was blackish at this point instead of the whitish hue at the other part of the brook. It was a chimaera for even the terrific local swimmers who could hold their breath underwater for more than a minute and a half. On several occasions, they attempted to dive down to the bottom without success. Given my mediocre swimming skills, I avoided this spot unless accompanied by a responsible adult (identified by my parents). But on that ill forgotten day, something was waiting to happen!

I am going to narrate an incident when I was 12 years old. We reached Shunuri 2 days ahead of Holi without knowing that something dangerous yet life-changing was about to happen. It was evening by the time we reached Shunuri and immediately ran to the football ground to display my newly acquired dribbling skills. After the game, I proposed to venture out to Jor to eat juicy Jojobas. I was accompanied by my cousin brother and 2 local lads who decided to join us. The daylight was still on when we crossed the Jor from its narrowest point and went to the other side without an incident.

The joy of picking the fresh jojobas from the ground, wiping it on the trouser and then transporting it straight to the mouth was the norm.
We kept eating for a long time till darkness descended on the ground. As a child, I always thought that ghosts descend on earth after darkness with their sinister schemes. In Shunuri stories of ghosts floating in the air were common and the conviction at which it was illustrated by multiple eyewitnesses was impossible to ignore.

Slowly, the realisation about us outside our comfort zone made us yearn for the safety of our houses. Thus we started walking rapidly back but the anxiousness and the darkness started to play mind games. Every step we took was followed by equilateral footsteps behind us, making us run for our life.

For the first time in my young life, I understood it is better to be alone in a scary situation than in a group. The cumulative anxiousness of a group acts as a catalyst and adds to the panic. Petrified, we ran for our lives losing a sense of direction, till we reached a different cross over point. However, with our backs against the imaginary spirit, there was no time to lose in strategising.

It was my cousin who sprinted and jumped safely on the other bank. I was next omniscient about the Long jump techniques, went back a few yards sprint. Like an Olympian, an athlete I leapt like synchronised opera music, except that my slipper got stuck on the ground as I was about to raise my body in the air.

With no control over my body, I landed straight into the gushing stream, that swept me 10 metres downhill in a flash. Water always flows on the edge of the bank and instinctively I tried to catch hold of the rocks but the ineffable force was too much for me to handle. Inspite of the ferocious sound of the water I could hear a tumult on the banks caused by my companions, as I tossed and turned in the water. Suddenly, I got a grip and used all the force of my body to hold on to a rock

I shouted for help at the top of my voice, well aware that I cannot hold on for too long. Before long a wave hit me with a smite and I was set free once again. Slowly as I struggled to keep my head above water a vision passed my eyes showing the faces of my parents, sister and my I felt the epicaricacy of the ghost following us knew no bounds and it was time to let go of the struggle.

At that moment miracle struck and my legs were as if clamped between two rocks and immediately I could sense the worst is over. Gently, I raised my head over the water and could see 2 tiny figures manoeuvring through the rocky terrain. The adrenaline was high and the heart was pumping so rapidly that I could hear its beat. After a few long breathe the nerves soothed and slowly the body’s senses started coming back. All of a sudden, I started to shiver stuck in rocky cold water and wished for warm milk.

Help was still, quite a distance away. Hence I tried to free myself by pulling my leg out, but to no avail. The water current was manageable though not timid, but the fear of losing the grip forced me to maintain the status quo. Holding on to a large rock boulder, gradually I turned around my neck my heart froze for a few seconds. The Sat Kathiya Da was metres away waiting to swallow me in its large pit!

My mind immediately put forward a cogent warning to stay still and wait. Little by Little the 2 tiny figures grew larger and larger till they arrived by my side. The gentle moonlight on their faces displayed horror written all over it and I burst into a peal of laughter. Both of them laid down on the ground and hugged me melting my heart with sheer joy

I don’t recollect how long we were stuck in each other’s embrace, except that when help arrived they decided to get up on their feet. That is when I spotted the other boy who gathered men, light and a shovel to bring me out from the chokehold. I have to agree that I was mortified that I did not realise his absence and felt sorry for my selfishness.

It took about twenty minutes and a lot of effort to finally free myself from the clutches of nature. My shirt and the slippers were washed away and I was glad the shorts remain! Anticipating the worst I started checking for broken bones but thankfully could find a few cuts and bruises. The joy of being alive soon turned to misery wondering how do I defend myself after reaching home!

My friends in the village did their best to camouflage me by obtaining a similar shirt to the one I was wearing. I thought luck was on my side because the power went off as I was entering the house. Stolidly I walked in and went straight to my room to change without anyone noticing anything abnormal. I was supremely confident that even a clairvoyant would not be able to point something amiss.

This overconfidence is probably the nadir of my whole life as I learnt that news travels faster than air in a village, that too with a significant amount of spices. I will leave it to the imaginations of my readers to predict what happened afterwards. I would love to see you commenting on your predictions in the comment section.

That incident taught a few very important life lessons. I stopped taking nature for granted and believe even the most beautiful thing has a darker side to it. A month back I had the opportunity to return to the same spot, albeit not for Jojoba. I relived the entire incident seating on a rock and watching village women drying the cow dung cake on the rocks. There were a few children who kept diving from an elevated point to the water and wallowing with joy.

Change is probably the only constant. How strange that I cannot even recollect the name of the boys who accompanied me for the excursion and the promptness of one brought me back to my feet. The realisation struck me that I hardly even speak to my cousin being busy in our own lives. Even the village has changed with broader roads and seldom power cuts. However, Jor has not changed a bit! It tirelessly keeps flowing drawing sculptures on the rocky terrain and witnessing us change as per our priorities. Suddenly the poem of Tennyson started to make real sense for the first time.

With many a curve my banks I fret
   By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
   With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
   To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
   But I go on forever.

Excerpts from ” The Brook” by Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)