Taki Diary – I

My father hails from a picturesque little village bang on the Bangladesh border on the banks of the beautiful river Ichamati in the South 24 Parganas region of West Bengal, named Taki. For the first 16 years of my life, Taki, for my cousins and I, remained the symbol of happiness – the spot where the entire extended family would congregate to celebrate that most special festival for Bengalis the world over, Durga Pujo. My grandparents’ big rambling house became the backdrop of our various adventures and misadventures; and the gardens and roads that we’d run wild on during the daytime would become dark, creepy (there were no streetlights) and forbidding come evening, and the only sounds to be heard were the fireflies buzzing, the crickets chirping, and my grandmother’s gentle voice telling us ghost stories while we snuggled as close as we could get to her and listened wide-eyed.

My grandparents died within three months of each other when I was 16, and those happy, carefree holidays came to an end. I, too, was going through the typical self-centred, adolescent phase, and apart from the sadness at my grandparents’ deaths, I don’t think I missed the childhood I’d left behind in Taki very much. A couple of months ago, after exactly 16 years, I returned to Taki, along with my parents, my aunt, and a very excited K, to meet a cousin of mine (my dad’s eldest brother’s son), who’d built himself a house in Sodepur, a hamlet situated about 10 minutes from Taki, and was now about to open up a small shib mandir (temple dedicated to the worship of Shiva) within the compound. We were to stay at my cousin’s place for a couple of days. On the day of our departure, after kissing the cats and Didi (who’s been with our family forever, and pretty much brought me up – she’s from Taki too, and told me to show K their house) goodbye, we piled into a rattling old Tata Sumo driven by a skinny, friendly young man with a singularly dreadful mullet (seriously, what is it with Bongs and mullets? Clearly Mithunda still reigns supreme) – my dad glowing with happiness at the prospect of going back home, my aunt (who’s usually great fun to travel with, as she can leave you in splits of laughter with her crazy sense of humour) and mom chattering and laughing like magpies and talking about the last time they’d been there, the various people they’d met, who they were likely to meet this time, etc., K., crouched uncomfortably at the back with the luggage, but still very excited at finally going to a place he’d heard so much of, and I, happy, yet somewhat nervous – things would have changed, and one never does like one’s sacred childhood memories desecrated.

The drive there took about a couple of hours and was, for the most part, beautiful – along a new road built off the Eastern Metropolitan Bypass, which led through little rural hamlets and the bustling marketplaces of various suburban small towns. We passed through fields of that wonderful verdant green that you only see in Bengal, sparkling lakes given over to fish farming; and best of all were the glimpses we caught of houses and everyday life through the hanging fronds of trees that lined both sides of the roads. Every now and then the trees would thin out and we would be given a view of a tiny hamlet – small part brick, part mud houses clustered together, little children running around, playing, women washing clothes or dishes in the ubiquitous ponds – the men were presumably at work at one or the other of the various brick kilns that we could see in the distance – tall structures emitting smoke that hung forbiddingly over the sky, they were quite an eyesore, and reminded me for some disturbingly unfathomable reason of the chimney stacks at Auschwitz. I caught myself thinking, not for the first time, what the lives of these people – part of India’s teeming multitudes yet, for the most part, invisible, uncared for - must be like. This thought was to recur forcefully during my stay at Taki/Sodepur.

As we neared Taki I discovered, to my delight, familiar landmarks that were still around – my dad pointed them out to K, along with little histories of each old building we passed. And then we were there, except, instead of turning right into the lane that led to our house, we turned left, on the road to Sodepur. Our driver (incidentally, he, too, was called Mithun!) was asked to drive along the narrow path that curved dangerously beside the Ichamati river so that K could catch his first glimpse of it – and it was a sight to behold, really, that broad expanse of sparkling silver river, glittering in the sunshine, looking deceptively gentle. My cousin’s place was built along traditional lines – it was long, low, open on all sides, surrounded by land enclosed by a low wall, and, best of all, had a huge pond with stone benches beside it to the right. K and I, delighted at the sight of it, sat ourselves down on the benches for a while – despite being a hot day, a cool breeze blowing towards us meant we were eminently comfortable even out in the open. The day was spent mostly eating – the traditional Bengali breakfast of luchi-tarkari followed by a lunch for which all of Taki and Sodepur had been invited; meeting people – my dad, surrounded by people from his childhood days, had disappeared in the throng, and my mom and aunt, having launched themselves with shrieks of delight at various people (all of whom, incidentally, had known me since I was a baby, and continued to treat me as such; K, as jamai, was given more respect), were now talking nineteen to the dozen; and the puja happened at some point too, but we weren’t a part of that.

Come evening, and K and I decided to go over to Taki, to spend a couple of hours at home. My uncle lives there now, dad’s youngest brother, and his wife, who I call Chotoma – so along with her and several other Taki women, we clambered on to the primary form of transport – the van, which is nothing more than those cycles with wooden carts on wheels attached behind them that you use to transport goods in cities. I enjoyed my first van ride immensely, though I did find myself clutching the sides nervously now and then – and it was so beautiful, that quiet, balmy evening, trundling down a narrow, winding track with the river flowing softly beside us, the breeze wafting off it cooling the temperature, catching a sight of houses – mostly mud, or wattle and daub; Sodepur is a decidedly poor hamlet – people on the roads calling out to those on the vans (Kothai giyechile? Tomader gache aam hoyeche ebaar?) – and I felt all the tension, the stress that’s so much a part of our everyday lives, so much so that we aren’t even aware of it anymore, draining away, leaving me lighter, calmer, and happy, being here with people who were simpler, unencumbered with the stifling social expectations and etiquette that plague us every step of the way, people who were happy to see me simply because I was me.

After a couple of hours spent at home, where I rushed around nostalgically though K could see very little, there being a power cut, one of the major problems affecting Taki and adjoining areas, we returned on yet another van, this time in the pitch darkness so peculiar to villages – Ichamati gleaming silver on our left while lanterns glimmering through trees in the houses to our right and the occasional voice carried on the breeze provided the only signs of human habitation. Now and then we’d pass a surly BSF guy – because Taki is bang on the Bangladesh border, there’s a sizeable Border Security Force camp there, and sullen guys in the uniforms and high boots, with their rifles slung menacingly across their shoulders is a common sight. ‘They harass the local people a lot,’ my youngest cousin’s wife, herself from Sodepur, had told us. ‘We can’t be out on the road after 8.30 pm.’ Later, we were driven to the Taki guest house, where we were to spend the night, and I promised K that the first thing we’d do in the morning was walk across to Taki, and explore every inch of it.