A little chronicle of intimacies

 Old Taus and Tais would pour out their hearts to me. I have been lucky to listen to their very personal tales, the exciting chronicles of their youth. Dozens of old people from the village shared very personal stuff with me. For the sanctity of their trust, I would keep their names secret and call them Tau A, Tau B, Tai C, etc. I don’t think that even if I mention them by names there would be any big scandal. These are routine things in the countryside in the lives of the farming community. But still from my own code of conduct I should keep the identities secret. Most of them are gone and a few survive almost like God with that marvelous surrender and cool detachment. But it’s exciting to imagine that they were once warm-blooded with hormonal excitement. Further, you never know some semi-criminalized grandson of one of them might break the hand that writes about the histories of their forefathers.

I remember Tau A fondly retelling those glorious old days when society was simpler and the sense of brotherhood among clan members and extended families ruled supreme. ‘Those were real good days! Brothers shared a great bond. We tolerated very easily most of the things for which there would be bloodshed these days. See son, I would be out during winter nights irrigating the wheat crop and would return after midnight. And most of the time I saw my younger brother hurrying out of the quilt of my wife. I knew it. But I always pretended not to see it. Most of us pretended it and allowed the younger brothers to have good fun with our wives. Where would they go?’ he told it so easily in full flow without slightest inhibition.

I was pretty small then but I recall the episode pretty clearly. Tai B was telling the episode when intimacy was forced upon her by Tau C—good lord, was it the same Tau C who appeared so disciplined after joining an ashram during the old age. It was clearly a case of enforced intimacy but her hollow-cheeked laughter makes me feel that she had long forgiven if she carried any anger. ‘I was cutting fodder one noon. There wasn’t anyone around in the fields. He came very politely and asked me to help him tie his fodder bale. I followed him to the place where he indicated his fodder was lying. He kept saying a bit further into the furrows of tall Jowar. Then I found there was nothing to tie down. It was a ploy to untie…my cord. Once it started I thought there was no point in resisting. If it is so, then let it be! There were bigger issues for us to sort out than this. At least he wasn’t bad at it!’ she laughed nudging at the old ribs of another woman. All of them heartily laughed. ‘If it can be passed so casually, where would ‘rape’ fit in then?’ I wonder now. Well, it depends upon people’s own choice. It started without her consent but ended with her approval so much so that she compliments Tau C who is no more and must be feeling proud of his virility in the other world.

Tau D was too proud of his wee-wee. He would pretend to urinate when young women passed. Getting tongue-lashed was very normal for him. But then he ran out of luck and got more than a tongue-lashing. A Banjara woman—an audacious gypsy woman—hit the item of his pride with a mulberry switch. He nearly fainted. His flashing escapades withdrew. Maybe the concerned anatomical item withdrew into its shell after the strike.

Tai E was very liberal in the matters of intimacy and explored the groins of many farmers during her prime. Now all of them were drooping with age and fragile bones. I remember her as a petite woman. She wasn’t hesitant about publicly discussing how much milking she had performed on a particular bull. We remember her doing her duties till the fag end of her life as she would unabashedly visit an apish Tau F who seemed to be still active in his old age.

Tai G was more comfortable without her skirt than with it on. So we need not repeat the obvious. She was known for her rivalry with Tai E for the much-in-demand Tau F. He must have been a good bull for milking because everyone agreed that he was still active in his eighties.  

Tau H had lost his wife many years back and thus carried a big load of lust in his bulky body. In his late seventies he lunged at a chance to vent out all his pent-up lust. A middle aged Banjara woman was roaming in the streets asking fodder for their cattle. It was a hot noon. Tau H got her into the barn on the pretext of giving her fodder. He was successful in his mission. But he turned a miser at the time of payment. He had promised her a big bale of fodder and thought of duping her by giving just a little amount of wheat husk. I think he underestimated the audacity of these gypsy women. There she was shouting expletives at the top of her voice. The little amount of fodder was put in the streets and her top-voiced denouement of Tau H went sashaying across hot air. The people came out of their houses. ‘See-see, this is what this shameless oldie has given me! Just a fistful of fodder for all that devilish *** he gave me!’ she was shouting. She was putting up her stick to notify the measurement of Tau H’s endowment. So everyone came to know how much Tau H measured and what he did. ‘He is a cheater!’ she declared.   

The first and the last lady don of the entire area from our village, Tai I, can fill up entire chronicles full of her sex trafficking, robberies, charity, bride abduction, armed squad and much-much more. She ruled the prime land of Jat patriarchy during the thirties to the sixties of the last century. Those who were born after her demise still know her name. So that gives the idea of her popularity. I tried to gather material on her from the old men in the village. But they were all dismissive about her. It’s understandable because she had hit very hard on their wee-wee at a time when a woman was considered even lower than a buffalo in a farmer’s house. If I get enough material I plan to write a book on her sometime. Regarding intimacies, it’s understandable that she was far-far advanced than her times. 

Tai J turned out to be a pioneer in the art of intimacy. She was reputed to be very beautiful in her youth and carried faded traces of that charm even in her seventies. One of my classmates from the village school was eying her granddaughter. He was around fifteen at that time. He started visiting Tai J's house quite regularly. Tai J, experienced with age and full of wisdom, smelt the hormonal storm going inside the teenager for her granddaughter. As a wise matriarch she channelized the direction of the storm towards herself. The boy was expertly seduced and looked very happy during those days. Tai J looked even happier on having a lover of her grandson's age. I came to know about the reason of their happiness when only the old neighborhood dog and me were left out of its knowledge. He shared the information a few years back only. 'You didn't know? I thought only the cattle, dogs and cattle were out of the loop of this open-source knowledge!' he wondered when I shared that I never had any clue to this. Tai J carried the most contended smile among all the elderly women of her generation. In fact, I interpreted it as the smile of a sage. Now I know the worldly causes of the saintly smiles. God must have been very creative in fabricating such an interesting world. 

You are special

All of us are gifted. All of us are blessed. All of us are extraordinary. All of us are adorable to mother existence. With one condition attached—all of us are unique in all these blessings. But our senses are outer bound. We are looking at reality through what we see outside of us. That makes us forget all our unique gifts and blessings as individuals. Most of our pain and suffering is born of comparison of the self with others. We find ourselves in a hostile environment, surrounded by the superior or inferior competitors. Long before we realize, we are part of the rat race that is forever taking us away from the incomparable self. The comparisons widen as we move further on. Judgments—both for the self and others—creep in. We are then in a perceptibly hostile environment. And how will one feel at ease by staying in an apparent hostile environment? There is always threat, fear, anxiety. We are always on our toes. I know that we have to be part of the rat race to meet the basic necessities of life. We can do it if we always remember that all these are the means to an end. The end is one’s own self. So stay in the rat race but irrespective of what are the results always remember that you are unique. You are gifted, blessed and extraordinary. The moment we compare ourselves with others this blessed feeling vanishes. We have to practice to feel blessed, loved, gifted and extraordinary. Just telling the self all this on a regular basis will be sufficient.   

From the old book of wisdom

 These are the precious gleanings from old granny’s book of wisdom. Shining like golden letters on the placidly plastered dull surface of sweet-sour simplicity and teasing uncertainties of village life. They are not pricey things. They are age old but still wonderfully carry compellingly contemporary relevance. I sometimes use them and they come like reloaded revolutions against little nagging problems confronting we the common people. These are not the elements of super-reality. These are little faded diamond, emerald, onyx and jade of mother earth lying very close to the ground reality.

Put dry chili on clothes. It keeps away bugs. But be careful when you wear the clothes. The bug-guarding chili agents may take you as a bigger bug and strike where you are most vulnerable, eyes.

They say an onion under one’s armpit gets you fever. Students, during the punitive old schooling days, would look forward to it. I tried it a few times but failed to induce a fever. I carried bad smell in armpits though.

One can use turmeric as an antiseptic on one’s bruise. Maybe the bruise is deeper than mere skin. It will ease festering on the skin and that maybe will save the bruise from taking deep roots and get embedded in the bedrock of our ego.

Massage desi ghee or oil in your belly button, navel, to get well-hydrated, moisturized lips. The navel is a major junction of nerves. It was the door to our nourishment in mother’s womb. In spiritual practices it’s a key spot. So making it feel better with a gentle massage definitely spreads the strand of wellbeing across our self.

Some fruits that have met expiry dates in your estimation can be used as agarbatti stands. Who knows some of the lower gods, that’s the guardian angels, might take them as fruit offerings. Maybe they aren’t bothered about expiry dates because they operate in a dimension free of space and time differentials.

Cloves stuck in lemon slices repel mosquitoes. The mosquitoes cast almost an evil eye on our peace so lemon slices scare away the slick movements of bad luck aiming us through the dirty snout of a mosquito.

Use coconut husk for washing and scrubbing utensils. They are hard spongy fibers and come down heavily on the oily smudge on the kitchenware.

Toothpaste can be used for light burns and pimples. Why should the gums and teeth have all the fun? The pimples have their unclean teeth also. Toothpaste is handy for that. And when applied on the burn the coolness cleanses a lot of pain.

Rice water can be used to starch clothes. With starched white clothes you can have a feel of empowerment like powerful politicians do. You carry the smell of paddy with you and become a son of the soil. With the ‘son of the soil’ tag one can easily become a father of many destinies.

Squeeze orange peel into the eyes. I think it serves as a nice eye cleanser, especially those who don’t see the beauty in you. It’s a suitable eye-cleaning exercise to remove the debris from their vision.

It’s advisable to look for further opportunities—in terms of utility—which your fruits and vegetables seem to offer you. Why throw them immediately. Keep them for a couple of days. You may need them against unruly neighbors as catapults from the citadels of your balcony. 

Romancing with loneliness

The house carries a vulnerably wholesome air; carrying even some kind of spiritual underpinnings. There was plenty of love in the air for the lizard couples. As a proof of the deeds of the glamorous creepy lovebirds, dozens of tiny baby lizards are scampering across the house. One baby lizard made its territory around the stack of old newspapers in the verandah. It had its luck and would crawl out to take a nibble at some careless fly. It would then vanish around the paper stack, its castle. But sadly it ran out of luck or maybe the rockchat was luckier that day. As the ambience of a fly-topped breakfast came acalling, the little lizard crawled out of its castle and turned into the rockchat’s breakfast. We can say that even the fly was lucky that day because its predator became a prey. We must not forget that nature’s soft hand carries talons also. The rockchat couple that makes good use of the old, open countryside house, carrying an antiquated aura, is enjoying feasts of baby lizards these days.

The blistering heat and drowning humidity of June does wonders for the love appetite of koels. The female koel gives a rippling, tentative, anxious series of notes. The male is melodious, letting out sweetly cadenced notes as a proof of the effervescent authenticity of its eligibility and mating claims. Maybe males are more in demand in this species. A few lady koels are spreading monsoony, pining, lonely notes for the last few days.

The little room in a corner on the terrace is my writer’s hideout. It’s pretty hot inside during the summers. However, the solitude here makes up for all the heat-born discomforts. Life is only a few ‘plus’ things coupled with a few ‘minus’ at all points. For a lonely writer it’s a highly appropriate hideout. The room has a little verandah to protect against the sun and rain. There are not-in-use bulb holders and hooks on the walls. Many wire-tailed swallows fly in to inspect the site for their mud-nest. Then they peep in through the window and carefully observe the struggling writer inside sitting like an old recluse spider and fly away. Maybe they don’t find me suitable enough to be their neighbor. Once, when I happened to be away for some time, finding the room empty one couple started making their mud nest, drawing a muddy arc across the both ends of the bulbless holder. Construction work was in full swing when I arrived with my typical mankind disturbance. With an energy-exuding aura, they were enthusiastically ferrying mud in their beaks from the pond. But when they found that this fellow keeps sitting in the room looking at us all the time, they abandoned the project unfinished. The way we have tempered with mother nature, maybe our very presence evokes some illegal ingenuity against the natural laws.

In a verandah downstairs, the electricity meter has an iron box cover. There is an inviting doorway in the tin box for the electricity man to note down the meter reading. It seems a cozy house to many birds. Two sparrow couples are squabbling over the property. One of them would surely win the rights to own it for nesting. No problem in that. I’m impartial to their respective claims. But occupancy would mean they would stuff handfuls of grass into the meter box. To a sparrow couple their nest might appear ornately enchanting but from the human, and more so in case of an electricity meter, it would be a soggy mess. There may be a fire and the verandah might be smoke-suffused long before the hatchlings jingle with their frail chirps. So I cannot allow them the rights of this particular portion of the house. I fix a dark pink polybag over the box. It ruffles in the wind making an effective scarecrow, ‘scaresparrow’ sorry. One couple instantly leaves. I’m sure it’s the one that would have lost the rights to it anyway. The other couple shows more staying power. They make love on the nearby wire, staring at the pink house. They try to sneak in but the door has been closed so they fly away to seek a place somewhere else. 

A smart worker

 She is short, chubby, dark, funny-featured with a clearly discernible moustache. My niece has fever and we are sitting in the waiting hall of a hospital at the town. There are dozens of patients on the steel chairs. She carefully scans the scene. A smart hunter who knows whom to approach without dicing with danger too much. The target is locked. A struggling countryside writer is most eligible to be hunted. She reaches me, wincing with pain, looking like someone in urgent need of medical attention. ‘Can you please give me fifty rupees?’ she asks. ‘Are you running short of money for the doctor’s fee?’ I ask with full sympathy and complete bookishness.

Writers are very imaginative so my imagination saves her from the trouble of explaining her woes. With my fragilely inflated sense of pity, I see myself opening my wallet and giving her fifty rupees. She waits for three or four minutes then gets up with an effort. ‘I think the doctor will take some time to arrive so in the meantime I can take some fresh air outside. It’s suffocating here,’ she informs me. I shake my head mutely. After all she looks so confident about her act. She goes out, never to return. Well, she will of course return but not till we are supposed to be here.

All I can say is that begging is getting improvised. Poverty is always busy in the act of fervent procreation of miseries for those falling in its grasp. She has to be innovative. The business rivalry is picking up. Attractive, scent-laden, panoramic transgenders with tight-fitting jeans, gaudy shirts, colored hair, luscious red lips and jutting pointed bust—a bubbly assemblage carrying starry ambience—get far more in alms than dirty mothers with malnourished infants suckling their dry breasts. True tears and silent screeches hardly sell in the market of alms and charity. It has turned plaintively exasperating having run its miserable course over the centuries. The real show of genuine poverty is a prodigious waste in eliciting emotions these days. Maybe it has become too normal, a routine thing to see stray dogs and dusted, dying humans by the pavements.

But I reckon this sweet imp has plenty of skills to survive in the game where the dogs of hunger are perpetually preying upon those without a roof over their head.