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The Needle Prince

2008-02-21T21:35:00.001-08:00

A folk tale from Bengal

Once upon a time there lived a prince. His best friend was a lowly raakhal (cowherd). The prince learned how to be a king. The raakhal’s time was spent tending his cows and goats. But they sometimes played together. The raakhal played on his flute and the prince listened happily.
‘Will you forget me when you are king?’ the raakhal would ask sometimes.
‘Never!’ said the prince, ‘I shall make you my chief advisor.’
‘But will you have time to listen to my flute?’
‘I shall give you a flute made of gold’ the prince would reply.

Years flew by. The prince and the raakhal went their different ways as a matter of course. The prince was busy learning all that a king needs to know to rule a kingdom. The raakhal continued to care for his cattle and play on his flute. But he never made another friend. After some time the prince, now a young man, married a beautiful princess called Kanchanmala. He completely forgot the friend of his childhood and did not even call him to his wedding. However the raakhal went to the palace uninvited to congratulate his friend. But the prince did not recognize him and threw him out of the palace. The raakhal left quietly with tears in his eyes. But no one had the time to see how he felt.

And then a strange thing happened. When the prince woke up the next morning he found that his entire body was covered with lakhs of needles!
There were needles on his face and needles on his hands.
There were needles in his hair and needles on his feet.
His eyes, ears and lips were tightly pinned up with needles.
His entire body was a huge mass of needles!
He lay there in agony, unable to see, unable to move and unable to speak. And the people called him the ‘needle prince’.

The king, queen and Kanchanmala were shocked to see his plight. Everyone tried to pull out the needles. But they soon realized that it was a hopeless task! The moment they pulled out one needle another appeared in its place. So they made no headway at all!
‘Oh dear! What shall we do?’ cried the king and queen.
‘Go and visit every pilgrimage until he is cured’ advised the royal priest, ‘Kanchanmala should stay back and try to lessen his pain.’

The king and queen left for pilgrimage weeping bitterly. Kanchanmala sat by the prince and pulled out needles all day long, until her hands were sore and bleeding. One morning, bruised and tired she went to take a dip in the river thinking it would make her feel better. She saw a young woman sitting on the bank of the river.
‘Do you need a maid, fair queen?’
‘I need someone to help me pull out needles. Can you do it?’
‘Of course’ she replied.
‘Wait till I take a dip in the water’ said Kanchanmala.
‘The water is muddy. Let me hold your clothes and jewels’ said the woman.
Not realizing what she was up to Kanchanmala left them with her and plunged into the river.

Kanchanmala had barely taken a dip when she heard an arrogant voice say, ‘Hurry up, woman! Don’t take all day. You have a lot of chores to do!’
Kanchanmala looked up amazed and found the woman dressed up in her clothes and jewels.
‘I am the queen now’ she said laughing, ‘I’ve tricked you properly, haven’t I? No one can possibly find me out!’
Kanchanmala was a bride so she always had her face veiled as is the custom in Bengal. So the people in the palace did not realize that the woman in Kanchanmala’s clothes was an imposter. The only people who could have found out the imposter were the old king and queen. And they were out on pilgrimage. The prince had his eyes tightly pinned with needles so he couldn’t do anything either.

The imposter had a marvelous time ordering everyone about and punishing people for no rhyme or reason, sending them to prison or having their heads chopped off. Everyone in the palace was shocked by the change in the new queen’s character. Kanchanmala had been such a gentle, soft-spoken person! They did not suspect that it was a different person altogether! The imposter made poor Kanchanmala work all day. And didn’t allow her to go anywhere near the prince. It might get very awkward indeed if Kanchanmala somehow managed to get his eyes opened!

One day Kanchanmala could bear it no longer and begged permission to go and take a dip in the river. The imposter agreed because she knew that Kanchanmala would not be able to do or prove anything by herself. Poor Kanchanmala sat on the bank of the river and cried bitterly for having fallen into an imposter’s trap from which there was no escape. She suddenly pricked up her ears. A man sitting under a tree nearby was singing a funny song:
‘If I had a hundred needles I would buy a town
If I had a thousand needles I would buy a crown
If I had ten thousand needles I would dance and sing
If I had a lakh sharp needles I would be a king!’

Kanchanmala was astonished. Who was this funny man wanting needles, of all things?
‘I can give you all the needles you want but you will have to pull them out yourself. Can you?’
The man nodded. Kanchanmala burst into tears.
‘Dear sister, why do you cry?’ he asked.
Kanchanmala broke down at his kind words and told him the whole story.
‘Don’t worry. If you do all I say, soon everything will be fine. Take me to the palace with you and tell them that I am a great astrologer come from a far off land.’

It was the day of pous parvan when the goddess Lakshmi is worshipped and special sweetmeats called pithe are prepared by all, both rich and poor. Women decorate their homes with alpana, painting designs on the floor with rice-powder paste. All guests are made welcome. Everyone welcomed the stranger and asked him to take a seat.
‘Where is the alpana done by the queen?’ he asked, looking around, ‘I have come specially to see it.’
‘Oh, I haven’t done it yet’ stammered the imposter queen.
‘Better hurry up and ask your maid to do it too. It’s something every woman in the house must do. After that I must taste the pithe you prepare and the pithe prepared by your maid.’

The imposter did not dare to refuse. She did not want the entire palace to see her ignoring or refusing an important tradition. So she set about it and asked Kanchanmala to get on. But the imposter could only prepare some crude and lumpy aaske pithe, which is cooked in the poor households, because she did not know anything better. Kanchanmala, on the other hand, prepared many kinds of tasty and delicate pithe such as khir muruli, mohan banshi, payesh and others always prepared in royal households. The imposter’s alpana consisted of some crooked lines and blots. Kanchanmala’s alpana was a thing of beauty and contained all the significant symbols of Lakshmi puja. Everyone in the palace marked the difference. They were now convinced of what they had been suspecting all these days – that the new queen was an imposter.

The stranger took out a huge mass of threads from his bag and chanted:
‘Needles, now your work is done
Needles now your cause is won!
Threads, rise up - quick at last
And pull out every needle fast!’

The mass of threads rushed out of his hands and reached the prince smothered in needles. Every thread got into the eye of a different needle and pulled them all out at one stroke. The prince was free at last and opened his eyes to find the friend of his childhood, the raakhal, in front of him. The prince got up and embraced him. ‘Oh forgive me, my friend! Forgive me for having forgotten you all these years.’
‘I had forgiven you long ago’ said the raakhal smiling at the prince, ‘But wait. My work is not yet complete.’ He looked at the threaded needles and said:
‘Needle and thread, so tough and strong
Go, stay put where you belong!’

The needles rushed past them and stuck all over the imposter. The thread tied up her hands and feet so she was unable to run away or move. The raakhal told the prince how the imposter had tricked the queen. ‘She deserves her punishment’ said the people, ‘She will not die but will suffer like she made so many innocent people suffer, specially our queen Kanchanmala.’
After that there was a grand celebration. The old king and queen returned and crowned the prince. Everyone was happy. And this time the prince did not forget his promise.

When Revati fell from Heaven

2008-02-06T19:45:00.000-08:00

Long, long ago there lived a sage named Ritavak. He was childless for a long time. Finally a son was born to him rather late in life. Ritavak was overjoyed at first. But his happiness was short-lived. Unfortunately, despite all his teachings, his son grew to be a total scoundrel – lazy, unprincipled and wicked. In fact, ill luck struck his entire family from the moment his son was born. His wife caught an incurable disease which caused her tremendous pain. He himself suffered from a variety of ailments which he had never had before. And, to crown it all, his son became a good-for-nothing bounder. Sage Ritavak was unhappy and puzzled at the same time. He had always led a pious and decent life. He had never hurt or harmed anyone knowingly. He had always tried to help others to the best of his ability. Then why did such a series of misfortunes befall him? He decided to ask Garg, another great sage, about it.

After telling him everything Ritavak asked him, “Have you any idea why all these things happened to me? I can’t think of any sin that I have committed to deserve such unhappiness.”
Sage Garg closed his eyes and meditated silently for a while. Then he said, “Your suffering has not been caused by any action on your part, Ritavak. It is because your son was born under the Revati nakshatra. Now, this star has some highly inauspicious moments and your son was born during one such moment.”
“But that was not my fault” cried Ritavak.
“No, it wasn’t” agreed Garg. “It was your star’s doing.”
“A mere star has no right to ruin my life” said Ritavak, “Especially when I have done nothing to deserve it.”

Ritavak was seething with rage as he thought about what his life had been in the past and cursed Revati that it might fall down from the sky. Ritavak was a great sage so his curse carried tremendous power. Revati fell from the sky and landed on top of the Kumud Mountain. Its light lit up the entire mountainside and all the forests, caves, rocks and waterfalls around it. Part of the light rolled along the mountainside to the valley below and turned into a crystal lake. And from the water of the crystal lake a beautiful girl arose and lay asleep on the bank. The Kumud mountain came to be known as “Raivatak” ever since.

Sage Pramucha had his hermitage in the Kumud valley. Surprised to see so much light all of a sudden he went to the mountainside to see what had happened. He saw the newly created lake and the baby girl lying on its bank. He brought the baby home and brought her up like his own daughter. He called the baby “Revati” after the fallen star.

Revati grew up to be a radiantly beautiful girl. Pramucha loved her dearly and wondered where he would find a young man worthy of being her husband. He worried about it night and day for he could think of no one who seemed good enough for her. Finally he put the question to Agni, the fire god.
“Do not worry about Revati, Pramucha” said Agni. “The great king Durgam, who is excellent in every way, will come to your hermitage some day and marry her. Wait patiently for the day and all will be well.”
Pramucha was very happy to hear it and returned to his hermitage.

A few days later King Durgam, out on a hunting trip, passed that way and dropped in at sage Pramucha’s hermitage just as Agni had predicted. Revati was picking flowers in the garden when he arrived. “Is sage Pramucha in?” Durgam asked Revati. “I would like to pay him my respects.”
“Please wait and I shall tell father that you are here” said Ravati.
“Are you sage Pramucha’s daughter?” asked Durgam, struck by her radiant beauty.
“Yes, I am” replied Revati and went inside the cottage.

Pramucha had heard them talking and came out at once. His joy knew no bounds when he discovered that it was none other than King Durgam himself. He called Gautam, his chief disciple. “Gautam, arrange for a special welcome ritual” he said, “King Durgam is not just my guest today, he is also my future son-in-law. So I must welcome him properly.”
Gautam rushed around, getting everything ready. King Durgam was astonished at Pramucha’s words.
He touched the sage’s feet and said, “My lord, what did you mean by saying that I am your future son-in-law? I know nothing about it and have no marriage plans.”
“My dear, I should have explained before” said sage Pramucha smiling at him. “You have seen my daughter Revati, haven’t you?”
“Yes I have, but…”
“It is destined that you should wed her. Agni, the fire god has said so, and I know she is worthy of being your queen. She is as good as she is beautiful. You have no objections, do you?”
“No, my lord. I would be honoured if Revati married me. She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen” replied King Durgam.
The inmates of the hermitage rejoiced at the news, for Revati was very dear to them all. Everyone got busy preparing for the wedding.

Sage Pramucha called Revati and said, “I hope you are happy with my choice, Revati? Actually it was god Agni who had told me that King Durgam would marry you. I think you are a very lucky girl. What do you say?”
“I have nothing to say about your choice, father, but there is a special request that I should like to make. I hope you will keep it.”
“Of course” said Pramucha unhesitatingly. “What is it, my daughter?”
“I would like to be married under the Revati star” said Revati.
“Good heavens, what a strange thing to ask for!” exclaimed sage Pramucha. “But it is not possible, my dear. Revati is no longer a star and is no longer in the sky.”
“Why not?” asked Revati amazed.
“It fell down from heaven because of sage Ritavak’s curse. It came crashing down on Kumud mountain which has been called Raivatak ever since.”
“But, father, I had taken a solemn vow to wed under Revati star and no other” said Revati obstinately, “I cannot marry otherwise.”

Sage Pramucha looked worried. “My child, you have placed me in a strange predicament. I have already promised King Durgam to wed you to him. How can I face him or anyone else if I do not keep my word?”
“But father, you promised to keep my request too” said Revati.
“Why are you so adamant about the Revati Star ? There are plenty of others, far better in every way. I shall choose a really good star for your wedding.”
“I don’t want any other star. I want the Revati” said Revati in a determined voice.
“I really don’t know what to do” said sage Pramucha losing his patience. “I never imagined you could be so obstinate or so disobedient!”
“But why should it be such a problem, father?” asked Revati. “If sage Ritavak could knock it off the sky, could you not put it back once again? I don’t think your power is any less than that of sage Ritavak.”

A sudden smile lit up sage Pramucha’s face. “You are quite right, Revati. I didn’t think of that. Of course I can put the star back where she belongs.”
Pramucha sat down to pray and the power of his tapasya was strong enough to put back Revati among the other stars once more. In fact it looked as though she had never been displaced from there. Revati and Durgam were married and left for their new abode.
And Revati, the star, has been a part of the original constellation ever since.

The Mantle of George Washington

2008-01-29T04:11:00.000-08:00

The Mantle of George Washington

Aunt Namita had always been one of my favorite aunts. Unlike most grown-ups she did not believe that children should be seen and not heard. Nor did she feel that a youngster who could read stories for herself had no right to ask for an occasional story at bed-time. In fact, Aunt Namita enjoyed telling stories quite as much as I loved hearing them.

I still remember the thrills I felt down my spine as Aunt Namita recounted Treasure Island or brought me face-to-face with The Gorilla hunters. I vividly recall how I longed to be one of The Swiss Family Robinson or The Children of New Forest, or a member of the March Family after listening to Aunt Namita. But what she loved to relate most of all were true stories of bravery and loyalty, honesty and sacrifice. And I loved them too. The fact that they were true often made me wonder if, given the chance, I couldn’t do them just as well! It was one of my favorite pastimes, visualizing myself in their roles and thinking of all that I would say.

It all began after Aunt Namita told me the story of Casabianca. It was not a true story, but I could not help being impressed by the boy who stood on the burning deck. Couldn’t I do something equally brave, I wondered. True, there were no “burning decks” to be had, but perhaps I could set fire to Papa’s study and wait there heroically for his return!
But how did one set fire to a room, anyway? I sneaked a box of matches out of mummy’s kitchen and tried lighting a fire. I still remember the throbbing pain of that first blister on my finger! I decided then and there that getting burnt wasn’t my cup of tea, whatever Casabianca’s ideas might have been!

Some weeks later Aunt Namita came to stay with us. This time she told me the story of Grace Darling rescuing ship-wrecked people at the risk of her life. This story also set my imagination ablaze and I promptly saw myself pulling out people from the fish-pond Papa was so fond of. Unfortunately there was no sea near my place and not even a river!
Only, I couldn’t imagine any one falling into the fish-pond. No one ever used it for bathing as it was full of reeds and water-hyacinths. I wondered if I could possibly push in some of Papa’s fishing cronies and then pull them out again. Considering how absent-minded most of them were, it would not be difficult at all. I could almost hear the first victim declare, “You know, I had fallen into the pond. . . but Tina was there and she fished me out! She never even thought that she might get drowned herself! Brave girl!”
I could plainly see Papa blushing with pride! Just then another thought struck me. What if Papa were to ask him, “But how did you fall in, Mr. so-and-so?” The cat would be out of the bag in an instant. I sighed. Here was my second dream of becoming a heroine dashed to pieces!

A whole month passed by, leaving me in a state of depression. Then the Easter holidays arrived and Aunt Namita invited me to spend it at her place.
“You look morose, Tina,” said Aunt Namita looking at me keenly, “anything the matter?” “N. . . no,” I said, “when are you going to tell me a story, Aunt Namita?”
“You’re big girl now,” said Aunt Namita unexpectedly. “Why don’t you read the stories yourself?”
“Oh, no!” I protested, “It isn’t the same thing at all.”
Aunt Namita laughed. “Very well, I’ll tell you one after tea. It’s raining, so you can’t go and play in the garden.”

After tea I waited eagerly while Aunt Namita turned over the pages of her favorite Book of Golden Deeds.
“Did I tell you the story of George Washington as a boy?” asked Aunt Namita, looking up from her book.
“No Aunt Namita,” I said promptly, “I’d like to hear it.”
It was the story of George Washington’s honesty and truthfulness as a boy, how he had once unknowingly chopped his father’s favourite cherry-tree with his new axe and owned up bravely, knowing full well how angry his father would be. He was not punished. George Washington had spoken the truth. So his father rewarded him instead.
“And George Washington grew up to be a great statesman,” concluded Aunt Namita, “one reason for his greatness was that he was never afraid of facing the truth.”
“I guess it wouldn’t be difficult to be truthful if one had such a poppet of a father” I said, “now, if I were to break one of Papa’s fishing rods, I know what I’d get!”
“That’s all the more reason why one should be truthful,” said Aunt Namita. “No matter what it costs, no matter what punishment you may get. That’s what I call being heroic!”

Now, this was a new idea to me. Who wanted to get burnt or fish people out of ponds if one could be a heroine just by speaking the truth? But I was a truthful child and yet I was by no means a heroine! What, then, did “being truthful” really mean? I supposed it meant going out of the way to make confessions. I imagined Mummy’s best china lying on the floor in uneven fragments. I could hear Mummy say, “Good heavens! It must be Mini the cat again!” Then . . . yes, then . . . I could see myself stepping out of the playroom, saying in a tone no less dramatic than George Washington’s, “It was not Mini, Mummy. It was I who broke it!” After that. . . frankly speaking, my imagination just refused to work ay further! In the first place, Mummy wouldn’t think Mini responsible for the catastrophe. No, I thought regretfully, I was just one of those unfortunate people who could never be a hero!

The next morning was an unusually sultry one. Aunt Namita had slept badly and had one of her headaches. Uncle Ravi announced that he had invited three of his friends to dinner and had completely forgotten to tell Aunt Namita before. Almost immediately the little son of Aunt Namita’s maid toddled in to say that his mamma had fever and would not come for the next two days.
“This is the last straw!” said Aunt Namita mopping her forehead.
“May I help you, Aunt Namita?” I asked eagerly.
“No, dear. Just go and play in the drawing room. If any one calls, come and tell me in the kitchen. I better get on with the dishes”

I went to the drawing room and settled down with my sketchbook and crayons. I had barely finished sketching the outlines of a teddy-bear when the door bell rang. It was Mrs. Parker from next door, a lady with a long nose who spoke with a funny accent. I knew that neither Aunt Namita nor Uncle Ravi liked her though I did not know why.
“Aunt Namita!” I cried at the top of my voice, “here’s Mrs. Parker from next door to see you.”
Mrs. Parker guffawed loudly and said, “you’ve got the name wrong, little girl. I am Mrs. Suri and not Mrs. Parker. I don’t look English, do I?”
“Oh no!” I said promptly, “uncle and Aunty always call you “Nosey Parker” so I thought it must be your name.”

Mrs. Suri’s nose turned a lurid purple as she glared at me. I thought she was still cross about my mistaking her name. I wanted to convince her that the mistake wasn’t mine. Just then Aunt Namita walked into the room.
“Aunt Namita, you made a mistake about her name” I said promptly, “It isn’t Parker but Suri.” This time it was Aunt Namita’s turn to turn purple. “Don’t talk rubbish, child!” she sad in a stern voice, “I never mistook her name.”
“I’m not talking rubbish” I said, “I have heard both you and Uncle Ravi calling her Nosey Parker.” This time both Aunt Namita and Mrs. Ahluwalia blushed like fury.
“For heaven’s sake go and dust your bedroom, Tina,” cried Aunt Namita, shooing me out of the room. Then she turned to Mrs. Suri and said, “You must not mind what she says. She’s highly imaginative and makes up the most absurd stories.”
“No need to blame the child” said Mrs. Suri in a booming voice, “children merely repeat what they hear from their elders. I’ll never bother you again.”
“Oh dear!” cried Aunt Namita. “I don’t know how I can make you believe me.”

I wondered why Aunt Namita was so keen to convince Mrs. Suri that she hadn’t called her Nosey Parker. What did a name matter, anyway? My friends often called me ‘fatty’ or ‘tubby’ and I didn’t mind! And what if Mrs. Suri never came again? Neither Aunt Namita nor Uncle Ravi liked her. I supposed it was because Aunt Namita was peaceful by nature and hated falling out with anybody—even Mrs. Suri!

I was lost in thoughts for quite some time. When I heard Aunt Namita and Mrs. Suri again they seemed to be talking quite amicably. When at last Mrs. Ahluwalia rose to leave, Aunt Namita said “you can’t go without having tea with us.”
When I was called in for tea I saw a groaning table, full of goodies. Mrs. Suri’s eyes shone. “This is a gorgeous spread, Mrs. Sen” she said. “By the way, I hope I’m not wasting your time!”
“Not at all,” said Aunt Namita, “I hardly have any work in the evenings?”
“Good heavens!” I cried, “have you forgotten Uncle Ravi’s dinner guests? When are you going to cook it if you speak to Mrs. Par… er… Suri all evening?”
“For Heaven’s sake, speak when you’re spoken to!” said Aunt Namita frowning.
I subsided at once and attacked the pudding with gusto. Mrs. Suri did the same. “The kababs are absolutely delicious” she remarked, smacking her lips.
“Have some sauce,” said Aunt Namita and poured a generous portion on the kababs.
“Lovely!” said Mrs. Suri, “you made it yourself?”
“Yes,” said Aunt Namita.
“Have some, little girl” said Mrs. Suri, pointing to the bottle of sauce.
“No, thank you,” I said. The mantle of George Washington was still upon me. “You see, a huge spider fell into the sauce when Aunt Namita was boiling it. So she said we were not to touch it. She said she’d either throw it away or……give it to the beggars!”

There was pin-drop silence after my words, while both Aunt Namita and Mrs. Suri turned white and red in turn. (I learnt later that Aunt Namita had thrown away the pot of sauce then and there and made a fresh lot the same evening. But how was I to know that?) I merely looked from one face to the other. That postscript about giving the sauce to beggars had been my own bright idea. But I failed to see how it mattered.
Mrs. Suri threw the plateful of kababs on the floor and covered her face with her handkerchief. “Good bye” she said and left the room abruptly. This time Aunt Namita did not make any attempt to stop her. She sat down in a crumpled heap.
“How could you, Tina?” she said more in sorrow than in anger.
“I was merely trying to speak the truth. To be like George Washington, you know. You said it was the greatest thing in life!”
“Don’t rub it in” said Aunt Namita, “And it was NOT the truth. That sauce was not the same and I never said I’d give the first lot to anybody.”
“I’m sorry,” I said feeling smaller than a cockroach, “I’m awfully sorry.”
“I guess it was partly my fault,” said Aunt Namita. And she never told me another story again!

Approving of Anila

2008-01-29T01:54:00.000-08:00

Approving of Anila

The news spread across the household like a gust of cool breeze on a hot summer day.
“Thank God” said Mrs. Lahiri mopping her brow.
“At least Nili won’t have to remain an old maid” added Mrs. Bhaduri, her younger sister, who was on a visit with her school-going twins.
“I only hope the gentleman will approve of Anila” said Mr. Lahiri, “that’s most important. Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched.”
The gentleman in question was Anila’s future father-in-law, arriving shortly to “see” her formally.

If you’ve been thinking that there’s any particular reason for Anila’s single-blessedness, you’re mistaken. She was attractive, a graduate and did not turn up her nose at housework. In fact, her only fault lay in meekly giving in to everyone. But that’s precisely what Mrs. Lahiri considered her biggest plus-point.

This story “happened” decades before the advent of the internet-email era. And the all-pervasive presence of “shaadi.com” that has now made the picking up of a spouse as simple as picking up bhindi from the bazaar! In those days getting hold of the right rishta meant either depending on newspapers or going by word-of-mouth. The present connection had come through Mrs. Bhaduri’s mother-in-law’s younger sister’s nephew’s friend’s uncle. Anila’s prospective groom was a doctor in Pune while his parents lived in Bombay. Anila’s photo had been approved by the entire family so the boy’s father was coming down to finalize matters.

“I wish we knew a little more about the family” grumbled Mrs. Lahiri, “we have no idea what the boy’s father likes or what he is looking for …”
“You should be happy that it isn’t dowry” said Mr. Lahiri puffing at his pipe, “anyway, we’ll see what he is like when he arrives.”
“I do know something about him” said Mrs. Bhaduri in a half-whisper, “he is mad about animals. Atul’s uncle said so.”
“What on earth do you mean?” asked Mrs. Lahiri raising her eyebrows.
“That he is terribly fond of animals and can’t bear anyone ill-treating them and…”
“And what?” asked Mr Lahiri, “is his house full of animals?”
“I expect so” said Mrs. Bhaduri looking embarrassed, “you see, the first thing he wanted to know about Nili is whether she had a ‘heart for animals’. Atul said a creature has only to stray into their compound and it is made welcome for keeps.”
“Good gracious! Poor Nili!” cried Mrs. Lahiri, “what a life!”
“Don’t be silly” said Mr Lahiri, “Nili will stay with the boy in Pune and not with her in-laws and whatever animals they may have in the house.”
“And I’m sure they won’t ask her to feed the straying bulls or bathe the muddy buffaloes the moment she steps there” assured Mrs Bhaduri, “one simply can’t ask it of a bride! Anyway, there’s nothing very dreadful about animals. Not much, anyway”
“Not the domestic kind like cats and dogs but wild animals like…” began Mrs. Lahiri.
“Since we don’t know which particular animals he likes, it’s silly to worry beforehand” said Mr. Lahiri firmly, “but I’d better lock up Tiger in the attic in case he does bring some creature with him. Better not risk a free-for-all before we’ve had a chance to settle matters. Might ruin Nili’s chances!”
Tiger was the much–petted Alsatian.

Mr. Moitra, Anila’s father-in-law-to-be, sent word that he would come the next evening and was formally invited to dine. Anila’s mother and aunt went on a regular orgy of frying and grilling and baking assisted by half a dozen helpers, since ‘help’ was both cheap and a-plenty in those days. Anila was commanded to sit quietly with a layer of besan-and malai on her face and arms.
“Do you think he’ll bring along one of his pets?” asked Mrs. Bhaduri, “just to give Nili a foretaste of things to come?”
“I’m glad Tiger is locked up” said Mrs. Lahiri.
Bullet and Poppet, Mrs. Bhaduri’s 12-year-old twins, had been listening to the conversation eagerly.
“I hope he brings a monkey or a tame bear” said Bullet.
“Or a nice, furry mongoose or squirrel” added Poppet.
“Don’t be silly” said Mrs. Bhaduri in a stern voice, “go and stand at the gate, you two, and show him into the drawing room when he arrives.”

Bullet and Poppet scuttled off obediently and almost immediately an elderly gentleman walked in, a billy-goat trotting obediently at his heels.
“He’s here” cried Poppet, “and he’s got a billy-goat with him.”
“How disappointing!” remarked Bullet, “he can’t care very much for animals. The goat looks dirty and grubby.”
“Come on, we’ve got to show him in” hissed Poppet, “and the goat too, I suppose. Ugh!”
“Hello, my dears” said the gentleman smiling at the children. Then he bent down and patted the goat, saying, “Nice, well-grown goat, isn’t he?”
“Yes” said Bullet and Poppet obediently.
By then Mr. Lahiri had realized that his guest had arrived.
“Welcome, Mr. Moitra” he said cordially, “do walk right in.”
Mr. Moitra stepped inside. The goat leaped in after him.
“Remarkable goat!” muttered Mr. Lahiri trying his best not to look annoyed.
“Yes, a fair specimen” agreed Mr. Moitra.

The goat made a beeline for the centre table pulling down Mrs. Lahiri’s elaborately crocheted tablecloth. The porcelain vase brought out for the special occasion crashed down breaking into a hundred pieces. The goat took no notice and slouched into a corner chewing the tablecloth merrily.
“Oh dear, isn’t it a hot day!” cried Mr. Lahiri opening the door wide in the hope that the goat would vamoose on its own. After all, one couldn’t very well drive out a pet belonging to a special visitor when so much was at stake!
“Don’t worry” said Mr. Moitra settling down comfortably in the rocking-chair, “goats will be goats! Ha ha ha!”
“Yes” replied Mr. Lahiri eying the goat murderously. The goat spat out the half-chewn tablecloth and went for the Time magazine.
“It arrived just this afternoon and poor uncle hasn’t even looked at it yet” whispered Bullet.
“Poor Nili didi, I feel sorry for her if she has to put up with this goat all the time!” muttered Poppet.

Mrs. Lahiri had heard the sounds from the kitchen and rushed into the room, rolling-pin in hand. “What’s happening here?” she cried, “Good heavens! What is the blasted goat doing in my drawing room? WHO let it in?” Then her eyes fell on the stranger and her manner changed abruptly. “What a dear little goat!” she said gulping down her wrath, “never mind the vase and the tablecloth. I was getting tired of both.”
Bullet and Poppet gaped at her in astonishment. They had been scolded roundly for daring to touch the vase the same afternoon.
“Great to come across a family where everyone is so fond of animals” said Mr. Moitra with a beaming face.
Mr. Lahiri nodded miserably looking at the Time magazine, now reduced to a pulpy mess.

The goat having the time of his life attacked one thing after another, throwing everything helter-skelter.
“If only Tiger were here!” whispered Poppet.
“Shall I go and undo him from the attic?” whispered Bullet, “he’ll make mincemeat of the scrubby goat in no time.”
“Better not” whispered Poppet, “our guest might reject Nili didi if Tiger hurts his precious goat.”

Except for his tiresome pet Mr. Moitra seemed a nice person and spoke of interesting things. Mr. Lahiri visibly warmed up when he spoke of his six Alsatians.
“Six, by Jove! I’ve just one and he’s a handful!”
“Where is he?” asked Mr. Moitra eagerly.
“Somewhere about” replied Mrs. Lahiri vaguely, “I expect the gardener has taken him for a walk.”
Tiger, in the mean time, had managed to undo the catch of the attic door and bounded in that precise moment.
“Woof! WOOF!” he barked leaping on top of the astonished billy-goat which dashed out bleating pitifully.
It all happened in a moment!
“I hope Tiger hasn’t hurt your goat” said Mrs. Lahiri trying to suppress her delight at being rid of the pest.
“My goat?” asked Mr. Moitra blinking, “What do you mean? Surely you don’t mean this goat,?”
“Of course I do. Isn’t he yours?” asked Mr. Lahiri looking at him in blank astonishment.
“Certainly not!” cried Mr. Moitra, “I thought he was yours! That’s why I said nothing!”

For a minute there was pin-drop silence in the room. Then everyone burst out laughing!
How they laughed! “Oh dear! If this doesn’t beat everything!” cried Mrs. Lahiri mopping her eyes as she called everyone for tea. It was brought in by Anila looking her very best. Mr. Moitra’s eyes flashed approval as they rested on her.
Later as everyone sat talking cosily, Poppet asked, “Do you have any other pets except the dogs?”
“Oh yes. A cat and a parrot. But NO billy-goats, I assure you!” said Mr. Moitra laughing.
And everyone joined in the laughter.

Juneli's first Term: chapters 1 & 2

2008-01-14T06:00:00.000-08:00

Juneli’s First Term is the first of a trilogy. The stories were first serialized in Children’s World, a popular children’s magazine in India, between 1978 and 1985. They were published as books in 1992 by Harper Collins (India). They have been out of print since 2002, after the children’s section was discontinued. Here are the first 2 chapters, for anyone who feels interested:

Juneli’s First Term

Chapter -1

Juneli at home

The sun shone brighter than ever and the sky looked twice as blue when Juneli opened her eyes and looked out of the window. It was a cold January morning. The doubly-folded blanket seemed the very refuge of snug comfort. But for Juneli, the world outside held greater attractions that morning. For today was the day of days! The day she had dreamt about and longed for, for months in the past. She was going to school for the first time at long last. She threw off the blanket and ran to the window overlooking the garden.
“I am going to school!” she called out aloud, “Yes, really I am!”

Twelve-year-old Juneli Ray was the only child of a loving father who had chosen the life of a recluse. Rajat Ray was a rich man, the owner of several tea gardens in Assam and Bengal. At one time he had been a very sociable person with many friends. Juneli could vaguely remember those grand parties held in the lawn of their house in Calcutta; the jolly picnics and rides in Darjeeling and the lavish ‘at homes’ given by her parents in different places. Juneli’s tiny, gentle, doll-like mother had been alive then. Juneli could just about recall her beautiful eyes, her soft voice and her loving ways. It was her mother who had named her. She belonged to Assam and was proud of her native tongue which her Bengali husband had never managed to learn. When Juneli was born one bright and sunny June morning he had wanted to call her “June”. But her mother had laughed and protested.
“No, not June. We shall call her Juneli. The word means ‘moonlight’ in Assamese.”
“But there was no moonlight when she arrived!” said her father laughing, “sunlight would fit her better. But I agree with you. Juneli is a lovely name.”

Jayati, Juneli’s mother, did not live long. She died of pneumonia when Juneli was barely four years old. It was so sudden that there was no time to do anything. They were in Darjeeling at the time. There was a sudden cloudburst followed by particularly bad weather. Landslides cut them off completely from the major roads. Juneli’s father rushed out on horseback to fetch the doctor. But she breathed her last just before the doctor arrived. Juneli’s father never got over the shock. His grief changed his entire life. He lived the life of a recluse ever since, shutting out everyone from his life. All but his motherless child. He bought a little cottage in the heart of a remote forest in Chotanagpur and moved there with his little girl and a few old and trusted servants.

Juneli and her father had lived there all these years in quiet seclusion except for a maid, a gardener, a driver and a couple of servants. There was Bindu who had looked after Juneli all these years and was the housekeeper as well. Ramu, another old hand, was Rajat Ray’s Man-Friday. Juneli had no near relatives except for an uncle, her father’s younger brother. But he was away at Canada with his family and had not been home for years. Juneli knew very little about her mother’s people. Of course, her father had cousins and other distant relatives. But after her mother died they hardly saw anyone at all. And letters were few and far between. As far as Juneli knew, there were merely her father’s business letters.

Father and daughter had been quietly happy in their secluded life and Juneli had no desire for anything different. She studied and played with her father, went hunting and fishing with him and worked with him in the garden. The tiny cottage was a spacious villa now and there was a flourishing garden as well as an orchard flanking it on both sides. Mr. Ray had been a keen tennis and badminton player long ago. He had courts made at the back of their cottage and had taught Juneli to play. Then there were Duke and Queenie, the magnificent Alsatians. With the two of them close by, Juneli wanted no other friends. Her little world had seemed quite complete.

Things might have gone on just like this. Juneli might never have realized the need for anything more for years to come had she not made a sudden discovery in the little-used store room. It was a trunk full of books that had belonged to her mother. Most of them were stories for girls. Juneli had looked at the colourful dust jackets and the intriguing titles curiously. There were several books by the same authors – L.M. Montgomery, Louisa M. Alcott, Susan Coolidge, Elsie J. Oxenham, Elinor Brent-Dyer, Enid Blyton, Dorita Fairlie Bruce, Angela Brazil and many others. Jayati had loved school stories and had an enormous collection which she insisted on carrying everywhere, much to her husband’s amusement. Juneli seized the books joyfully and read them eagerly. She had never read anything so fascinating in her life!

It was this discovery that turned her little world upside down, filling her with a craving for the happy-go-lucky school life depicted in many of the books and the companionship of girls of her own age. She dreamt and longed to experience all the thrills of school life – lessons and games, pranks and jokes, and even examinations. But she was much too shy to speak out her longings to her father. How could she possibly tell him that she wanted to leave him all alone and go to school somewhere else? There were none nearby so the question of being a day girl did not arise. She was all her poor father had! Even the 12-year-old Juneli was intelligent enough to realize that he lived for her and her alone. So nothing was said and Juneli had kept her dreams and longings to herself.

Of course any normal father would have realized the child’s need for school education and friends of her own age. But intense grief had turned Rajat Ray into an eccentric, unable to see beyond himself. He strongly felt that no person or institute could do more more Juneli than himself. And he had no idea that she badly needed the companionship of children. Juneli stepped into her dream world of schools whenever she was alone and tried to tell herself that the fun described in the school stories existed only in books.

But something happened that suddenly made her dreams come true. One August evening as Juneli sat resting in the garden after a game of badminton with her father, some strangers turned up in a lovely white car and stopped just outside their gate. Ramu had taken Duke and Queenie for a walk or they would have raised the roof. But they were deep inside the forest chasing rabbits. Juneli could not help staring at the three people who alighted from the car – a tall man, about the same age as her father, a lady who smiled at her and a girl of about seventeen or so. The lady came forward and opened the gate. Then she looked at Juneli and said, “You must be Juneli. Where’s your daddy, dear? I am your Aunt Alo, his cousin. And this is my husband, your Uncle Sandeep, and our daughter.” Not being used to visitors, Juneli felt strangely tongue tied. She silently led them to the kitchen garden behind the house where her father was busy weeding.
“Daddy” she called somewhat nervously, not knowing what her father would say to these nice and friendly people, “here are some visitors to see you.”

To her astonishment the lady rushed to her father and threw her arms round him, crying, “why, Rajat dear, how solemn and grey you look! It seems like decades since I saw you last! How are you? Aren’t you glad to see me? Sandeep and Vineeta are here too. Won’t you ask us to stay?”
Juneli’s father, though taken aback by her sudden appearance, was obviously delighted.
“Alo, by all that’s wonderful! And Sandy too! Where have you sprung from? Lovely to see you after all these years! But I thought you were at Trivandrum, the other end of the country? When did you come here?”
“Last week” said Uncle Sandeep, who was an old school friend of Juneli’s father.
“We had come to see the National Park in Hazaribagh and thought we’d look you up” added Aunt Alo.
“Luckily Alo was able to dig out your address from one of her ancient notebooks or we could never have made it” said Uncle Sandeep laughing, “talk of being buried alive! This must be the remotest spot I’ve ever come across in these parts.”
“Of course you must stay” said Rajat joining in the laughter, “I’m afraid I’ve been rather unsociable for many years and lost touch with friends and relatives. Juneli dear, go and ask Bindu to get the upstairs room ready for you uncle and aunt. Vineeta can share your room. You have a double-bed in any case.”
“How nice of you to remember my name, Uncle Rajat” said Vineeta in surprise.
“Well, it was I who named you all those years ago – seventeen, I think” said Rajat smiling at her, “don’t you remember, Alo?”
“So you did!” said Alo and Sandeep together.

The days that followed seemed like a dream to Juneli. Aunt Alo was affectionate and jolly and mothered Juneli in a way that won her heart completely. Vineeta was friendly and great fun to be with. And Uncle Sandeep had a stock of the most amusing stories Juneli had ever heard. Every day seemed like a picnic whether they went out into the forest or stayed indoors. Juneli had never seen her father so jolly before. He seemed like a different person altogether.

Juneli showered Vineeta with questions about her school and was never tired of hearing about it. Amused at her avid interest, Vineeta told her all she could. Of course, she was in college now. But the memories of her happy school days were still quite fresh in her mind. Then one evening as Juneli and Vineeta went boating in the lake near their house, Aunt Alo decided to speak her mind to Juneli’s father.
“Rajat, that child is simply pining to go to school. Why don’t you send her?”
“Don’t be crazy, Alo. She does very well here” said Juneli’s father, “I teach her myself – both studies and games. In school they’ll merely turn her into a snob.”
“You are wrong, they won’t. Juneli isn’t the kind to become a snob!” said Aunt Alo, “and there are so many good schools.”
“I think I’ve been teaching her fairly well”
“I know you have and with great care” said Aunt Alo, “but she’ll never have an all-round education unless she goes to school. I am quite sure of that. Especially in today’s world.”
“I’m not so sure” grunted Juneli’s father, still unwilling to consider another point of view.
“She needs friends of her own age” said Aunt Alo, “I know she is just longing to go to school. You should hear the number of questions she asks Vineeta about it. And why not? It’s every child’s right, after all.”

Rajat Ray frowned. There were not many who would dare to speak to him so frankly, he knew. But he also knew that Alo was genuinely fond of Juneli and wanted the best for her. “Aren’t you making a mountain of a molehill, Alo?” he asked at last, “Juneli has all that she wants here and has never been anything but happy. Ask her if you don’t believe me.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment” said Aunt Alo, “but she’ll be much happier to have her share of schooling.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes, I do” said Aunt Alo, “You have seen life and a great deal of the world, Rajat. It doesn’t matter if you choose to remain a recluse for the rest of your life. But what right have you to shut this little girl from life and all the joys of childhood, all its fun and merriment? Tell me that. You are being most unfair to her just because you want her to be near you all the time.”
“Is that what you really feel?” asked Juneli’s father after a brief pause.
“Yes. I feel you are being both unfair and selfish” said Aunt Alo looking him straight in the eyes, “and I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t care for you both.”

Rajat Ray said no more. But when he came down for breakfast the next morning he looked pale and heavy-eyed. “You are quite right, Alo” he said without any preamble, “Juneli ought to go to school. I know that’s what her mother would also wish. Could you choose a good one? Not too far away, if possible, so that I could see her sometimes, apart from the school holidays.”
“Good for you, Rajat” cried Aunt Alo joyfully, “I knew you would see my point. As it happens, I know just the right school for Juneli. Send her to St. Brigid’s at Ranipur. It’s only about 50 miles from here.”
“How do you know about it?” asked Juneli’s father surprised, “you don’t live here!”
“I know about it because it is a branch of the same school which Vineeta went to near Trivandrum. It’s a very good school. Mother Benedicta, who is the principal of St. Brigid’s is an old teacher of Vineeta’s. I’m sure she’d be delighted to welcome Juneli.”
“Why don’t you send for their prospectus, Rajat?” said Uncle Sandeep coming into the room, “that will tell you all that you want to know about the school.”
“Right. I’ll do that first thing after breakfast” said Juneli’s father sounding a little more cheerful.

So the prospectus was sent for and Juneli was so enraptured with everything that she was duly registered as a pupil for the next term. She would have an entrance test when the school reopened so that they might decide which class she’d be in. when Aunt Alo and Uncle Sandeep left for Trivandrum leaving a radiantly happy Juneli behind they were satisfied that they had done the right thing. Juneli and her father took a short trip to Calcutta to buy the things mentioned in the school prospectus. All except books and uniforms which would be supplied by the school.

Juneli thought of the last few days as she got ready for school. The much expected day was here at last. Bindu had packed all her things neatly in the school trunk. That and the kitbag with the smaller items like pencils, pen, the tuckbox and the like were already in the car. They were to start soon after breakfast as it was rather a long way to go. Juneli knew she would miss her father badly. But he had promised to come and see her every weekend. And there would be vacations.

“Juneli, are you ready as yet?” she heard her father call, “ breakfast is on the table and we must start early. Better hurry!”
“Just coming, Dad” she replied, giving a quick glance at her room. Feeling that her cup of joy was quite full, Juneli ran down the steps in eager impatience.

Chapter -2

St. Brigid’s

Juneli sat wrapped up in dreams throughout the journey and had no eyes for the scenery outside. In fact she did not even realize that their car had come to a halt until her father said, “Wake up, Juneli. Here’s your school.”
Juneli sat up with a jerk. “I wasn’t sleeping” she said, “are we really there, daddy?”
“At least the gate says so” said her father laughing.
Juneli looked out of the window curiously. They were in front of a big white gate on which were printed in bright red letters – St. Brigid’s. A man in khaki uniform opened the gate and let them in. Juneli’s father stopped the car in front of a green and cream building. This was the convent where the nuns lived. Here was the parlour where Mother Benedicta interviewed parents and welcomed the new children.

Juneli’s father rang the bell which hung outside the parlour door. Almost immediately a young girl in a green sari opened the door and showed them in. Juneli felt strangely nervous as she looked about her. Everything was so new and unfamiliar! How on earth was she to live in this completely unknown place chockfull of strangers? What madness had prompted her to imagine that she would like it? Things sounded marvellous in books but in real life……? It had all been a big mistake! Could she lump her pride and tell her father that she didn’t want school after all and beg him to take her back with him? Aunt Alo and Uncle Sandeep would be disappointed but she’d try to make them understand. Poor Juneli was very nearly in tears.

In all probability she’d have let them fall but for the stormy entrance of a tabby cat chased by an indignant pup whose piece of meat the tabby had made away with. They knocked against the prim parlour maid who was new and terrified of cats. She let out a wild scream at the unexpected assault and dashed out into the garden with both cat and pup running after her. It was such a hilarious sight that both Juneli and her father burst out laughing.

Just then Mother Benedicta came into the parlour. Juneli stood up instinctively, looking at the tall and stately figure with awe and admiration. Mother Benedicta was not exactly beautiful but she had a lovely warm smile and kind, sympathetic eyes that seemed to read people’s thoughts. She greeted Rajat Ray and gave Juneli a welcoming smile. “So, you are Juneli? I am sure you will be happy with us, dear. St. Brigid’s is like a big family, you know. She turned to Juneli’s father who said, “I am sure it is just the right school for her, Mother. She has had a rather lonely childhood with no one but myself for company..”
“Yes, I know” said Mother Benedicta gently, “Mrs. Mukherjee, Vineeta’s mother, told me all about you when she came to see me.”
“I ought to have sent her to school years ago… but somehow I couldn’t bear to part with her” said Rajat Ray with a catch in his voice.
“She will be carefully looked after” said Mother Benedicta, “please don’t worry about her, Mr. Ray. Rest assured, she will be very happy with us, like the rest of our students.”
“The classes start tomorrow, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes. But I asked you to bring Juneli a day earlier so that she might settle down and make friends. Most of our girls will be back by this evening. And now I’d like to take you round the school. You’d like to see it, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh yes indeed” said Juneli’s father eagerly, “and I know Juneli is dying to explore every corner.”
“Come on, then” said Mother Benedicta smiling at Juneli as she led the way, “the central building where you have been waiting is the convent. The chapel is just behind. It used to be the main church not so long ago but they have a new one now so ours is just the school chapel. The big building to our right is the school and the smaller one to our left is the boarding house. You can see our playground and playing fields from here.” Mother Benedicta took them round the place showing them everything. She also introduced them to Sister Deirdre, the “Boarders’ mistress” as she was called, and her two assistants, Esther and Mary. Juneli never forgot the tour of the place. It seemed to her as if all her dreams of school were taking concrete shape at long last. It was now a real world to which she already belonged although she had to find out all about it.

“I must be going now” said Mr. Ray as he thanked Mother Benedicta for showing them round.
He saw Juneli’s face fall as he turned to go and felt a queer ache in his heart. But Mother Benedicta came to the rescue by saying, “ah here’s another arrival. It’s Rita Kapoor. She will look after Juneli until she settles down. Juneli, say goodbye to your father, dear. He has a long way to go.”
“Goodbye, little girl. I’ll come and see you soon” said Juneli’s father forcing himself to sound cheerful.
“Goodbye daddy. Give my love to Bindu and the dogs” said Juneli blinking back her tears.

But there was no time to think as Mother Benedicta called the new arrival at once.
“Rita, this is Juneli. Look after her and show her round” she told her, “it is Juneli’s first school so I’d like you to help her settle down and make friends.”
“Yes, Mother” said Rita looking curiously at Juneli. She grabbed her hand as soon as Juneli’s father’s car went out of the gate, “better hurry up and come with me if you want a bed by the window. I just saw Sister Deirdre with the lists. Have you met her yet?”
“Oh yes, I did” said Juneli.
“Well then, you might have guessed that she’s a lovely person. What about Esther and Mary? Have you seen them too? Esther or Esthu as we call her, is the thin one with glasses. And believe me, she has eyes all around her head– never misses a thing! Mary is more easy going. I only hope we don’t have Esthu in charge of our dormy this term! That would be simply awful! We won’t be able to have any fun at all!”

Juneli listened to Rita’s chatter enraptured, quite forgetting to be homesick. She took a great liking to Rita. “What class are you in?” she asked.
“I shall be in the eighth standard this term and I am looking forward to it. What about you?”
“I don’t know yet” said Juneli looking troubled, “you see, I’ve never been to school before so I’ve no idea what my standard of work is like! I am supposed to have a test tomorrow. I only hope I’ll be able to write something. It would be too bad if I am put down amongst the kiddies. I feel quite worried about it.”
Rita looked at Juneli in surprise. A girl of her own age and not been to school ever! She had been hoping Juneli would be in her own class.
“Well, who taught you if you didn’t go to school? Did you have a tutor?”
“No, my father taught me. But I’m afraid I only read things I liked and found interesting and those daddy liked to teach! There are so many things I don’t know. Why, I had never even heard of some of the subjects until I looked at the prospectus.”
“Oh you’ll soon pick up things” said Rita in an assuring voice, “I don’t think you’re a dumb belle!” Juneli burst out laughing at her words. “What funny things you do say!”
“It’s what we call the really stupid ones” said Rita.

They ran to the boarding house together. Rita knocked on the door of Sister Deirdre’s room. She asked them to come in and smiled at the girls. “Hello Rita, welcome back.”
She looked at the list on her table and said, “I have put both you and Juneli in Faith this term. Mary will be in charge. You may go and select your beds.”
“Oh good!” Rita cried joyfully, “come, Juneli, Faith is in the first floor and has the nicest balcony overlooking the garden.”
“But who or what is faith?” asked Juneli looking bewildered.
“It’s the name of our dormy, stupid!” said Rita laughing, “The middle school has three dormies, called Faith, Hope and Charity. The kiddies have Gladness and Joy. The two highest classes have four-seaters and double-seaters. Lucky souls!”
Juneli was presently led to the big and airy dormitory which she was to share with a dozen other girls. The walls were a soft pastel green. The curtains were dark green. The bedspreads were also of a green and white printed material.
“I am glad everything is green” said Juneli, “it’s my favourite colour.”
“Come on” said Rita throwing her coat on a bed by the big window, “take the one next to mine. It’s got the same nice view. Mary will be sending up our trunks and hold-alls soon, I expect.
“I say, Rita” said Juneli a little shyly, “are you sure you’d like me to have this bed? Wouldn’t you rather your best friend had it? I could easily have one of the others even if it isn’t by the window.”
“Jolly nice of you to think of it but it’s quite all right” said Rita. “I don’t have a special friend right now as Pushpa, my best pal, left last term. I’m friends with most of our lot and haven’t any favourites.”

Just then Mary came in. “Have you chosen where you are going to sleep? Those beds by the window? Well, you may have them. But no unpacking now, I’m afraid as it’s almost lunch time.”
“Come Juneli, let’s go and swing” said Rita, “we won’t have a chance once the kiddies arrive.”
“Can we hear the lunch bell from there?” Juneli asked anxiously, “I wouldn’t like to be late for my first meal in school.”
“Oh yes, we can” said Rita, “we won’t be late”.

While they were in the playground several cars arrived followed by one of the school buses. “Here comes the party from Calcutta” said Rita, “the train must have been on time for once. The Jamshedpur party will be here around tea time.”
“Does everyone come a day early?” asked Juneli.
“Nearly everyone – except for mamma’s darlings like Balbinder and snobs like Poonam who hate leaving their grand homes.”
“Don’t the others tease them?”
“Don’t they! And they get it fast and thick from the staff as well. But all comments roll off them like water off a duck’s back” said Rita.
Juneli laughed. She was quite enthralled by Rita’s nonstop chatter.
“Rita” she said a little hesitantly, “please tell me something. Is boarding school really like what you read about in stories?”
“Depends on which stories you’ve been reading” said Rita looking at her curiously.
“Well Mallory Towers, for instance or the Chalet School stories….” said Juneli.
“Not quite” said Rita at once, “I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, Juneli, but a school in India can’t possibly be like a school in Cornwall or Switzerland. Our pattern of education is quite different and we don’t play hockey or lacrosse in our school and of course there are many other differences as well.”
“Are there?” asked Juneli looking so downcast that Rita laughed outright. “Cheer up” she said, “ours is quite a decent school and we do have plenty of fun even if it isn’t Mallory Towers.”
“I thought I’d come across the same kinds of things and people here” said Juneli.
“Oh well, there are plenty of things common to all schools wherever they are. And I guess schoolgirls are basically the same all the world over” said Rita.
“You mean we have characters like in the storybooks here as well?” asked Juneli sounding eager.
“Of course” said Rita. “We may not have Gwendolyn- Mary but I’m sure our darling Balbinder is quite like her in many ways. Even if we don’t have an artist as clever as Belinda, our Ina is a marvel where cartoons are concerned. It is her ambition to become another R. K. Laxman. You should see her sketches and how fast she does them!”
I’m dying to meet everyone” said Juneli, “I’ve never had any friends of my own age.”
“Good gracious! How weird!” cried Rita in round-eyed astonishment.
“I suppose it must seem odd” said Juneli, “I only hope the others are as nice and friendly as you are.”
“Tosh!” said Rita brushing aside the friendly compliment, “Tell me, what else are you expecting at school?”
“Do we have midnight feasts and tricks like those I read about?” Juneli was quite determined to find out as much as possible.
“Well” said Rita screwing up her eyes, “I haven’t been to any midnight feast myself. I tend to sleep like a log! But there’s no reason why we can’t have it some time. But NOT if Esthu is in charge! She’d wake up at the sound of dewdrops I should think.”
“What about tricks?”
“I haven’t heard of anyone trying things like stink balls and sneezing powders, bubbles on the ceiling and that sort of thing” said Rita with a chuckle, “are you thinking of trying any? Better be careful as it’s your first term.”
“I wasn’t thinking of it for myself – just wondering if anyone has done it before” said Juneli.

A group of youngsters walked into the playground.
“They want the swings, I expect” said Rita, “come on Juneli, let’s go to the dormy and do our hair. Yours looks frightful and mine isn’t much better. Sister Deirdre always insists on neatly done hair.”
“Will you tell me something else?”
“Gosh! What a question mark you are!” said Rita, “what is it now?
“Who is St. Brigid? Why is our school named after her? I don’t seem to have heard of her before” said Juneli, “and shouldn’t it be spelt Brigit?”
“No. That’s how the Irish spell the name. St. Brigid of Kildare was an Irish saint, one of the three patron saints of Ireland, actually.”
“But why an Irish saint?” asked Juneli puzzled.
“The Irish missionaries – both protestant and catholic – were the first to come to this part of India. So we have lots of places named after Irish saints. There is St. Columba’s College, St. Patrik’s School and of course, St. Brigid’s.”
“Could you tell me a little about her? I know daddy will ask me as soon as I go home.”
“I don’t know very much myself” admitted Rita, “but I remember Mother Benedicta telling us that she lived in the fifth century and founded the abbey of Kildare near Dublin. She is particularly known for her generosity to the poor and is considered the special patron of scholars. I guess that’s why our school is named after her.”

They were in the boarding house now. Both girls rushed in to comb their hair. The dormy was quite empty except for a few bags here and there which showed that their owners had already arrived.
“By the way, how many pillows have you brought, Juneli?” asked Rita.
“Pillows?” asked Juneli surprised, “only one of course. Should I have brought more?”
“Oh no” said Rita with a sudden hoot of laughter, “I merely remembered what dear Balbinder had done the first time she came here. Brought six pillows of different sizes, if you please! Said she couldn’t sleep without them! You should have seen Esthu’s face! Her eyes were literally popping out!”
“What happened?” asked Juneli with interest “was she allowed to keep them?”
“No fears! Sister Deirdre confiscated five of them and had them returned.”
Juneli burst out laughing. Rita certainly knew how to keep people amused!

Suddenly there was a booming noise. “The gong for lunch” cried Rita, “hurry up, Juneli or Mary will skin us alive. She can’t bear latecomers.”
“Mary?” asked Juneli astonished, “I thought you told me that Esther was the fierce one?”
“Juneli Ray, you must learn not to take everything so literally” said Rita, “that’s the first lesson you’ve got to learn. See?”
“OK” said Juneli laughing, “I’ll try. But it may not be a very easy lesson! People hardly ever joked with me before and daddy has always been rather serious, you know.”
“You’ll learn it fast enough if you stay with us” said Rita, “I can see that you’re the sporting sort and not a spoilt poppa’s pet!”
Both burst out laughing and ran towards the dining room.

Clouded in Mystery

2007-12-28T04:13:00.000-08:00

Clouded in mystery

(first published in Open Sesame, Deccan Herald, May 18, 2007)

Swapna Dutta takes us to an island in Seychelles, said to have been the haunt of pirates and the hiding place of their treasure!

Many of you must have read Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island and Enid Blyton’s adventure stories that centre round islands— The Island of Adventure, Five on a Treasure Island and so on. Did you know that there is an island in the Indian Ocean that looks like it is straight out of an adventure story? It looks grim, remote, forbidding and its peak is perpetually covered in clouds. The only way to get there is by boat. It used to be a shelter for pirates long ago, many of whom are said to have buried their treasure there. What might interest you most is the fact that people still go there to dig for treasure!

I am talking about Silhouette, the third largest island in the Seychelles. When I saw it first from the Beau Vallon Beach in Mahe, I thought it was called Silhouette because of its shadowy outline etched against the bright blue sky. It looked like a lost world from a Conan Doyle novel, the emerald hills covered in a cloak of clouds. But actually the island was named after an 18th Century French officer. Although it is just 19 km away from Mahe, the largest and most important island of the Seychelles archipelago, it seems to belong to another time and place!

Silhouette has one of the thickest virgin forests in the Indian Ocean. An important reason for its isolation is the fact that for a long time no boat could get near it because of the coral reef that surrounds it. There is a long pier now which makes landing much easier. But even then the boat cannot reach it directly. There are rubber dinghies which ferry visitors from the boat to the pier. The island is three miles long and three miles wide and is the home of around two hundred people.

As you alight from the boat, the mountains peer down somewhat forbiddingly. The peak, Mount Dauban, is 780 meters high. Marshes overgrown with prickly pears and creepers loom up all around. If you look carefully you can make out some strange looking graves among them. They are said to belong to very early Arab traders who sought shelter here. They knew the place long before the Europeans who first arrived in 1910.

Hodoul, the famous pirate, made Silhouette his home at some point of time and buried all his treasure here. The islanders firmly believe that it is still here, as do many others. Silhouette seems to have been the favourite resort of other pirates as well, especially those who were driven out of the Caribbean at the beginning of the 18th century.
They used the place as a base from which to operate and loot the traders sailing between the prosperous colonies of the Indies to Europe. I was told that many come to look for buried treasure in Silhouette even now! Also among the marsh is a mausoleum with marble columns. It belongs to the Dauban family who once owned this island. It holds the graves of many members of the family.

Like other islands in the Seychelles, Silhouette is full of coconut palm and cinnamon trees. Copra is the main industry here and the main livelihood of the people. People here also grow coffee, avocados, cinnamon and tobacco. Another typical product of the island is bigarades, a tiny fruit which tastes like a bitter orange. It is used for making marmalade. Close to the pier landing is La Passe’s main square, shaded by takamaka and breadfruit trees.

It might interest you to know that since no grains grow in the sandy islands of the Seychelles, breadfruit forms an important part of their diet and is sometimes eaten as you would eat potatoes. I asked one of the locals who told me that it is boiled or baked first and then either mashed or fried like potatoes. People also make a kind of bread with the dough of the mashed fruit.

Silhouette is a place for nature lovers and for those who love adventure. Two tracks join the island from north to south. There are no proper roads, no cars, no post office and no police station! And of course no mobile phones or iPods! You come across hushed silence everywhere and feel as if you should speak in whispers! There is a rough track through the equatorial forest but it is unsafe to venture there without a local guide. That is because in places the forest is so dense that you need to clear the way with an axe.

Most people come to Silhouette in the morning and return (to Mahe or elsewhere) well before sundown. But people who want to see ‘moutia’ danced to the accompaniment of the ‘tam-tam’ around bonfires at night stay in Silhouette Lodge, the only hotel in the island.
It has log cabins built among the lush greenery and flowering shrubs. The view of the bay and the lonely beach is beautiful. Sea bathing is said to be safe and the hotel makes provision for snorkelling as well as water sports. But what makes Silhouette special is its eerie and unshakable air of mystery. The kind of stuff dreams are made of!

FACT FILE
*Silhouette Island lies 20 km northwest of Mahé in the Seychelles.
*It is the third largest island in the Seychelles.
*The island is mountainous with five peaks over 500 meters high; Mont Dauban, Mont-Pot-a-Eau, Gratte Fesse, Mont Corgat and Mont Cocos Marrons.

The Way to School

2007-12-28T03:55:00.000-08:00

The way to school

Tinku peered out of the drawing room window and frowned. It had stopped raining at last but the sky still looked as black as an old umbrella - mouldy black, faded in streaks. It felt as though it might start pouring again at any moment! Not the kind of steady drip-drip you had in Delhi. Rains which came and went with everything looking more or less the same afterwards. Out here it felt like someone overturning huge buckets in the sky in a nonstop relay race! Ugh! Tinku didn't like rain even in Delhi. It meant horrid puddles in the roads, shoes getting wet, clothes feeling clammy and uncalled for traffic jams. But here, in this out of the way, back-of-nowhere hilly wilderness it was downright unbearable!

Tinku's dad was a professor in Delhi. He was writing a book about some rare plants which grew in these hills. They were of great importance to medical research. Tinku's father had discovered them here at Duliatal during a trekking trip. But it was necessary to live here so that he might be able to study them properly. So he had taken this little house for a whole year. And brought Tinku and her mother along with him. Tinku's mother loved visiting out of the way places.

Duliatal was truly and literally out of the way! For one, it was perched on a part of the Kumaon range which was quite difficult to reach. It hardly had any proper roads and just a few buses passing by. There was a small cluster of cottages and houses around the oval lake from which the place got its name. It had the bare basic facilities, of course. There was a hospital, a post office, two or three schools and several small churches set up by the missionaries when Duliatal had been part of a cantonment, a cinema house, a club house and quite a few shops, among other things. But there had been a kind of 'division' right from the beginning, with the 'Whites' living on one side of the lake and the 'locals' living on the other. The main reason why Duliatal hadn't 'grown' was because other tourist spots nearby were so much easier to go to. And were, therefore, far more popular. Tourists always passed it by in favour of Nainital, Bheemtal, Almora or Ranikhet.

People who had landed up at Duliatal from other parts of the country, mostly tradespeople and government officers on transfer, were those who had to for some reason. They now stayed in the colony once set up by the British. Of course there were no British people now except for one or two who had chosen to stay behind even after Independence. The Hilltop School, set up by one of them, was said to be good. So Tinku's parents felt that she could very well study there for a year at least, since she was just nine years old. But Tinku, suddenly uprooted from Delhi and her friends, felt very differently! She felt both indignant and miserable. Grown-ups were so unfair! Why couldn't they have asked her if she wanted to come or not? She would have certainly stayed back in Delhi!

'Tinku, aren't you ready yet? It's time for school' said mummy coming into the room. 'Good heavens, you haven't even got your shoes on as yet! Here are your gumboots. Get into your raincoat. Quick!'
'It's not raining now' said Tinku frowning, 'And I hate gumboots. They look so clumsy.'
'Don't be silly, you'll need them if it starts raining again. It's bound to, just look at the sky! Remember, there's no school bus here. You'll have to walk up to your school.'
'I wish I were back at Delhi with all my friends, waiting for our lovely green school bus at the corner of the road.....'
'You'll like it here after a while, dear. See if you don't' said mummy hushing her up, 'It's such a lovely place .... when the sun is shining.'

There was an impatient knock on the door. It was Ram Vilas, the gardener. He was to take Tinku to school which was about half a kilometre away on a higher shelf. There was no real need to do it because a crowd of children went to school by the same path. But mummy had said that Ram Vilas should also go and keep an eye on her, just in case she found the climb difficult at first.

There was a short cut to school by the narrow track along the hill and most of the children took it. It had a wall of solid rocks and boulders on one side and a steep drop to a lower shelf on the other. 'It's lucky I'm not scared of heights' said Tinku as she buttoned up her raincoat, 'But I hate the slush and the puddles. It's so slippery!'
'Mind your steps and be careful' said mummy.

A small crowd of children stood outside the low wicket gate. All of them were in their raincoats and gumboots, carrying waterproof school bags.
'Hurry up' said Ritu, the oldest of the crowd. Her dad was a police officer and lived right at the top of the hill.
'Your raincoat looks quite nifty' said Mona, 'Better pull on your hood, though. The rain comes on quite suddenly sometimes. You wouldn't like to go to school with dripping hair!'
'Got any newspapers?' asked Ricky.
'Newspaper?' asked Tinku amazed, 'What for?'
'You'll see' said Mona looking mysterious.

Everyone burst out laughing. Tinku shrugged. She wasn't interested in their silly secrets. She didn't like them. She didn't like anything about this horrid rainy place. Nothing at all.
'Why do you frown all the time?' asked Ashish, 'Got a tummy-ache?'
'Of course not! Don't be rude' said Tinku, 'I just don't like it raining day in and day out.'
'Why not?' asked Ricky, 'Not made of sugar, are you?'
There was a trill of laughter.
'Tinku is afraid she will melt' cried Mona and Ashish together.
'Oh look!' cried Bablu who had rushed ahead, 'Just look at our stream! It has become a regular water-fall!'

Tinku looked curiously. Just in front of them was a break between the boulders. A thin trickle of water which flew silently along the track at other times was a regular torrent now, falling through the break in the boulders on the slope down below. 'Where's the newspaper?' asked Ritu, 'Give Tinku a sheet'.The others were already making paper boats - single ones and boats with sails. Bablu's and Ricky's had double sails. Everyone put theirs in the stream. The boats rushed along the water, falling down... down.... down! The boats were in line now, moving forward, one after the other. Everyone clapped. Tinku was the only one who didn't know how to make a paper boat.

'Don't you know how to make boats?' asked Ricky surprised. Tinku shook her head. She really wished she did. It was fun floating them in the water and see them rush away.
'Here, take mine' said Ashish giving her one with double sails. Tinku took it and threw it on the gushing stream. Whoosh! It fell down the break in the boulder along with the others. Perhaps some little wood fairy would ride it! Tinku fell a thrill down her spine. Of course there were no fairies these days! .... But what if there were? And if one of them really rode Tinku's boat?

'Hurry up, folks' shouted Ritu, 'The bell will ring in a minute and I don't want to be late.'
'I'll teach you how to make boats' said Mona falling in step beside Tinku, 'We could float them on our way back.'
'I'd like that' said Tinku smiling at her.
'Look behind you' said Bablu, 'There, just where the water's falling down'.
Tinku turned. A streak of sunlight was struggling through the clouds and along the spray of water was a little rainbow.
'How beautiful!' cried Tinku. She had never seen anything like it in Delhi. Nor had she ever floated paper boats before.

They were in front of the school gate now. My new school, thought Tinku, feeling interested despite herself. She looked at the sloping roof made of red tiles with wild roses climbing all over it. The garden rose in a gradual slope round the school building. Tinku also saw the wild riot of colour against the velvet green grass. All the flowers seemed to be in bloom. She had never seen such vivid colours before. As she stepped inside the gate with the rest Tinku told herself that the new school might not be quite so bad after all!

Those who are interesed in reading more about Tinku may get the book"Tinku at Duliatal" directly from www.orientlongman.com

The Story of Red Fort (Chapter -2)

2007-12-28T03:43:00.000-08:00

Chapter 2

After ruling from Agra for eleven years Shah Jahan decided to move his capital to Delhi. It could be due to many reasons. Many historians think that it was because he found the streets of Agra too narrow and congested for his grand state processions. And also because he found the climate of Agra too humid and oppressive for his liking. Or it could have been because he wanted to escape from the memories of his beloved Mumtaz Mahal. But the most important reason may have been because the artist and builder in him craved to create more. Percival Spear writes in his History of India, Volume ll. –“ Shah Jahan was a man of great executive ability to which he added a love for the magnificent and a refined artistic sense, specially for architecture. He was in a special sense the architectural director of his day”.

And this time he wanted to create. not just a beautiful mausoleum but an entire city.
Shah Jahan decided to build his new capital at Delhi, complete with citadel and a royal residential complex. "Delhi has been the capital of Hindustan from time immemorial," he wrote in his memoir as he finalized his plan, "It shall again be the seat of the Mughal Empire. Here I shall raise a mighty fort which will be the envy of our friends and the despair of our foes.”
Din-e-panah, the sixth city of Delhi, remained a painful reminder of Humayun's tragic death. So he decided to build his new city and fortress somewhere else. But he wanted a new site that would also have a pretty landscape.

So Shah Jahan sent his Mir-i-Imarat (supervisor of buildings) to Delhi to select the site of the new city. After looking around carefully he finally chose the area around what we now know as Talkatora and Raisina Hill. But when Shah Jahan sent Ustad Hira and Ustad Hamid, two of his most expert masons, to take a look at the selected site, they turned it down at once. They told the king that the soil was too full of minerals, especially saltpeter, which would damage the buildings. They selected an open space on the right bank of the river Yamuna, close to the Salimgarh fortress that had been built by Islam Shah Suri. They said that the soil there did not have any minerals and was just right for building. The Mir-i-lmarat agreed with them. And Shah Jahan gave his final approval.

He sent architects and labourers from all over the empire. Stones for building the fort were brought from a place near Agra and carried to Delhi in enormous carts. The carts jammed the roads (something like the traffic jams you now find in Delhi!) and made things difficult for the ordinary traders who had to wait for ages to reach their ware. Sometimes it led to utter chaos and confusion and the entire neighbourhood suffered as a result. Even the English factories at Agra could not move their goods to the coast! But the people had to put up with it. After all no one could fight against the Emperor's orders!

The foundation stone of the new city was laid in 1638. The construction started under the supervision of Izzat Khan, Alah Vardi Khan and Makramat Khan, with Ustad Hamid and Ustad Hira at the helm. Mir Baqr Ali Khan, one of the best known story-tellers of the time, gives us an interesting account of what happened after the work began in earnest. According to his story, both Hira and Hamid disappeared as soon as the foundation was laid. No one could find any trace of the two. The news reached the Emperor who was frantic with worry. And he was very, very angry with both of them.

In fact, he was about to order that they should be arrested and put to death immediately when they turned up as suddenly as they had disappeared. And they explained why they had run away. They said that it was because they wanted the foundation to remain open to the elements for a certain number of days. This would help the soil get properly seasoned to support an everlasting building. They were both sure that this time gap was something the supervisors would never allow. Because they were so very keen to complete the city as fast as possible! The Emperor, who had great knowledge about buildings, saw their point at once. So he forgave them for playing truant.

Gradually the fort began to take shape. First of all there rose the battlements, one and-a-half mile long, over sixty feet in height and octagonal in shape. Next came the royal apartments. There was the Nakkar Khana or the music room that marked the entrance to the royal enclosure. It is here that the musicians played different kinds of music (using many kinds of instruments) five times a day. A wide open space led to the Diwan-i-A m, which was the hall of public audience. The pillars and ceilings of this hall had rich ornaments of gilded stucco. It was covered with heavy brocades. Beautiful carpets covered the entire floor. There was no furniture as people sat on the carpets. The Emperor's throne was placed on a richly carved marble platform that was inlaid with semi-precious stones.

The six main palaces were built just behind the Diwan-i-Am. Only five of these palaces remain now. The first is the Mumtaz Mahal. The building is now the Delhi Museum of Archaeology, which is known for its rare Mughal exhibits. Those of you who have been to the Red Fort must have seen it already. The Rang Mahal or the palace of colours has six apartments including the glass-studded Shish Mahal. The Khas Mahal, which once consisted of the king's main living quarters, included the Tasbih Khana. This was his private room of prayers. He prayed here with the help of beads (tasbih). It also included the Khwabgah (the chamber of dreams) which was his bedroom, and the Baithak, his drawing room. The Khas Mahal has a beautiful marble lattice screen portraying the scale of justice. It was from here that the Emperor and his queens watched the elephant fights on the bank of the river. In case you are wondering which river I’m talking about, I must tell you that the river Yamuna actually flowed by the Red Fort in those days, though it changed its course subsequently and moved far away!

Diwan-i-Khas was the hall of special audience. The Emperor used it for meetings with specially chosen courtiers and visitors. It is here that the famous Peacock throne stood.
Then there were the Hammams or the royal baths. These are in fairly good condition even now. The floors are covered with “stone embroidery” which are really beautiful. Visitors are not allowed inside but you can peep through the window panes and catch a glimpse of the baths. Finally came the towers - Musamman Burj (the octagonal tower) and the Shah Burj (the Royal Tower) - followed by two monsoon pavilions, Sawan and Bhadon.

The fort was finally completed in 1648. Shah Jahan rewarded the masons by giving them pieces of land. You can find many of the lanes named after them. The are all around the Jama Masjid. Ustad Ahmed Lahori, another famous architect associated with the fort was given the title of Nadir-ul-Asr (wonder of the age).

Moti Masjid (The Pearl Mosque) was added later by Aurangzeb, the third son of Shah Jahan. Hira Manzil - the last addition to the fort proper - was built by Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last of the Mughal Emperors. There were other additions too. But they were less significant.

Emperor Akbar had built the Fatehpur Sikri in red stone. Shah Jahan himself had built the Taj in white marble. When building the seventh city of Delhi, he turned to the red stone once again. The lofty ramparts, the tall gateways, the music hall and Diwan-i-Am were all built with red stone. But the major royal apartments had white marble as well. The fort also included office buildings, cantonments, markets and the living quarters of the people who worked in the palace.

about myself

2007-12-27T20:22:00.000-08:00

hi!

I'm happy to join the bloggers' group at last.
I'm a writer.... and I hope to post samples of my writings.
Pieces that have been published already and also stories/chapters from books that are now out of print. Anyone who wants to read stuff written by me can do so on this page and are most welcome to send me their comments or if they'd like me to write anything specific.
Bye for now and looking forward to hearing from you!