Discovering Happiness

 

We moved to our country home a few months ago because of the coronavirus. We cannot thank the virus enough.

During the lockdown, like everybody else in the world who lived in an apartment complex in a city, we were feeling a bit boxed in. Fortunately for us, a few years ago, my daughter had bought a small house in a residential layout in the middle of nowhere in Tamil Nadu. The place is about an hour’s drive from our earlier home. Six months ago, we came here for a few weeks.

Now we cannot think of going back. Or going anywhere else. Since coming here, I have been discovering new sources of happiness which I had no idea about.

We came here in the mid-summer of TTTT (the terrible twenty twenty), when it was raining heavily. In spite of the showers, a neem and a pongame we had planted a year before had been nearly dead, although the trumpetbushes (tecoma) in between the two was doing quite well. The neem was stunted; its thin trunk was covered by termites. The pongame too had been attacked by pest. Its leaves were yellow-brown and withering. 

The termites on the neem were driven away, ironically, by spraying neem oil. It looks a healthy, if a little wayward, adolescent tree now. Of the pongame, I snipped off the leaves until the plant looked like a skeleton. But over the last few months, she needed only regular watering to be back to her spirited best, sprouting green leaves in the spring. One of my neighbours, Mr Mohan, who is truly knowledgeable about agriculture and plants in general, tells me the seeds of Pongame (Millettia pinnata) are crushed to produce oil for lighting lamps, while the oil cake is used as manure. My neighbour also gave me some crushed pongame oil cakes mixed in water. In a few years, therefore, I hope to earn a few bucks on the side selling neem twigs for brushing teeth and oilseeds. Please remember me if you needed either of them.

A few weeks ago, we planted a chikoo (sapota). I am trying to register its English name, naseberry /ˈneɪzb(ə)ri/, in my head. Chikoo is a delicate plant. We were a little careless for a few days and she was quite dead.

It showed no signs of life, but I kept watering it every evening when the sun wasn’t too hot, hoping the magic of the pongame would be repeated.

It was. Till then, I hadn’t known how much happiness the green shoots on a dead branch can give to a human being. It is no wonder that Maxim Gorky named his autobiography “In the University of Life.”

Moving from the local flora to the local fauna, a stray dog, Chintu and her two sons, Sonu and Monu are a source of immense joy for us. Chintu has twitches, which was diagnosed as distemper when a vet visited us. We have known Chintu since she was a puppy, struggling to survive in the wilderness with just a few families settled here then, which meant very little food supply for street dogs. Distemper is incurable. I don’t think Chintu will live long. Sonu and Monu, however, are handsome young lads now, and exceedingly well-behaved. I guess quite a few local female dogs will have a crush or two on them.

Our small dog Singham, a Shi Tzu who takes his name a little too seriously than he should, believes he is the Ajay Devgan of the animal kingdom. His biggest joy in life is going to the first-floor terrace and barking at all four-legged creatures he can see around: dogs, sheep, or cows 20 times his size. When we go out for walk, Chintu and her sons give us company. Singham barks at them if they come closer than 10 feet. His snooty class-consciousness makes me cringe.

The latest addition to our extended family is a cow, who I believe has a very high emotional quotient. She was tethered to a post behind our house yesterday, on the other side of the boundary wall. When she saw my wife and me, she came forward confidently, fixed a loving gaze on us, and licked my wife with her rough tongue. In a language that is species-neutral, she also told us she was bored of eating grass.

Singham kept jumping up and down and barked viciously from this side of the wall as we gave the cow two buns and some rotis, whatever we had, which she ate without much ado. The food looked so disproportionately small; she hardly knew she had eaten anything.

Armed with a dozen bananas, I look forward to her visit this afternoon.

11 March 2021

 

Poetry is …

 – Al Mahmud

 

Poetry is the memory of adolescence; my mother’s sad face

Drifting up; the yellow bird swaying on a neem tree

Siblings chatting around burning twigs through a sleepless night

Abba coming back, the clink of the cycle bell, ‘Rabea, Rabea!’

The door on the south opening with my mother’s name.

 

Poetry is going back, crossing the river below my knees

The alleyway covered with mist or the smoke of burning stubble

The smell of the bloated sesame in the stomach of a pancake

The smell of dried fish, a fishing net spread on the courtyard

Brother’s grave in the bamboo grove, covered by grass.

 

Poetry is the unhappy young adult growing up in 1946

Bunking off school, meetings, rallies, banners, freedom

The dismal story of an older brother, who’s just returned

A destitute; from the bizarre flare of communal riots.

 

Poetry is a bird on the sandy shoal of a river

A duck’s egg found by chance, the smell of grass

The gloomy face of a young woman who’s just lost her calf

Letters scribbled on secret paper in a blue envelope

Poetry is the girl with untied hair in my school, Ayesha Akhtar.

 

[Translated on 21 March 2021]

 

*

 

কবিতা এমন

– আল মাহমুদ

 

কবিতা তো কৈশোরের স্মৃতি। সে তো ভেসে ওঠা ম্লান

আমার মায়ের মুখ; নিম ডালে বসে থাকা হলুদ পাখিটি

পাতার আগুন ঘিরে রাতজাগা ভাই-বোন

আব্বার ফিরে আসা, সাইকেলের ঘন্টাধ্বনি–রাবেয়া রাবেয়া–

আমার মায়ের নামে খুলে যাওয়া দক্ষিণের ভেজানো কপাট!

কবিতা তো ফিরে যাওয়া পার হয়ে হাঁটুজল নদী

কুয়াশায়-ঢাকা-পথ, ভোরের আজান কিম্বা নাড়ার দহন

পিঠার পেটের ভাগে ফুলে ওঠা তিলের সৌরভ

মাছের আঁশটে গন্ধ, উঠানে ছড়ানো জাল আর

বাঁশঝাড়ে ঘাসে ঢাকা দাদার কবর।

কবিতা তো ছেচল্লিশে বেড়ে ওঠা অসুখী কিশোর

ইস্কুল পালানো সভা, স্বাধীনতা, মিছিল, নিশান

চতুর্দিকে হতবাক দাঙ্গার আগুনে

নিঃস্ব হয়ে ফিরে আসা অগ্রজের কাতর বর্ণনা।

কবিতা চরের পাখি, কুড়ানো হাঁসের ডিম, গন্ধভরা ঘাস

ম্লান মুখ বউটির দড়ি ছেঁড়া হারানো বাছুর

গোপন চিঠির প্যাডে নীল খামে সাজানো অক্ষর

কবিতা তো মক্তবের মেয়ে চুলখোলা আয়েশা আক্তার।

Jai Modiji Ki!

My wife and I walked into a “Primary Rural Health Centre” not far from our home in Tamil Nadu and stood before a counter secured with wire mesh. Before I could say ‘Vac…,’ the guy behind the mesh shot two questions in quick succession: my name and age. After jotting down the two pieces of information, he looked up and muttered the third, ‘Male,’ and added the third piece too. 

After handing me over a chit of paper with a number and my name written in Tamil, he pointed at another room. Significant other obtained another piece of paper.

In the other room, a young woman was at a desk with a register and a few elderly people were sitting in plastic chairs around her. Each elderly visitor was holding an AADHAAR card – for some unfathomable reason – in exactly the same way. I followed their style and waited. Within 10 minutes, I had my second round of interview. The young woman at the desk jotted down my name from the AADHAAR and asked for my phone number.

I forgot to tell you, a nurse too was there all the while, moving around briskly and pushing injections. As I was being interviewed, she (the nurse) asked me to pull up my left sleeve. She gave me a jab before I knew what was happening.

I am getting on in age, the reflexes are becoming even slower. Post-facto, I asked the nurse what vaccine she had given me, Covishield of Covaxin? For the uninitiated, these are the brand names of the two COVID-19 vaccines approved by the government of India so far.

Clearly unprepared for the question, the nurse replied, ‘Vaccine.’

I told her, anyway, I had had my jab, but I would like to know which vaccine I’d got. I repeated, “Covishield or Covaxin?”

A lady doctor in a white coat was passing by. Overhearing and not hearing part of the question, she turned around sharply and asked me, ‘Where did you get Covaxin?’

‘I don’t know if I’ve got the Covaxin. I’ve just got an injection here, I wanted to know what I’ve got.’

I must quickly add that with my limited understanding, I believe both the vaccines are fine, although one of them isn’t recommended for people with certain conditions. I also think there is some doubt in the mind of people about the Covaxin, the first indigenously produced COVID-19 vaccine, which is sad because we Indians ought to be proud of this phenomenal achievement by Indian scientists. The indigenous vaccine has been produced by a private company, Bharat Biotech in collaboration with the Indian Council of Medical Research (ICMR) and National Institute of Virology (NIV). It ranks alongside vaccines produced by massive pharma giants (Pfizer, Astra-Zeneca, Moderna, Johnson & Johnson) as well as by state initiative of huge countries like Russia (Sputnik V) and China (Sinovac). I believe the lack of confidence on Covaxin is only because our government – in its wisdom – approved it when there was no data in the public domain about its efficacy.

The doctor opened the thermally insulated can, checked the phials and said, ‘It’s Covishield only.’

I am a staunch critic of Modi ji, his government, his style of governance, and of course, the large number of goons among his supporters. I believe there are excellent reasons to be pissed off with the government. However, as I was leaving the health centre, I unreservedly commended the achievement of sending the vaccine to far corners of a large country so soon. The enormity of the challenge can be put in perspective by considering what much wealthier and sparsely populated countries have done so far. I have a former classmate who lives in Canada now. Just today, she has told me she doesn’t know when the vaccine will be available to them. In contrast, in India, we get it in an unassuming rural health centre far away from the capital within five days of beginning the process. I chanted “Jai Modi ji ki!” in my mind several times.

Tamil Nadu government too deserves credit for delivering the vaccine so efficiently. The public health infrastructure is excellent here. The primary health clinic I went to was sparklingly clean, much cleaner than some private hospitals I’ve been to. And it has a dialysis unit. We entered the main hall of the facility after taking off our shoes, like in temples. So in my mind, I also chanted “Long live Puratchi Thalaivi Amma.” (She is not alive, but in Tamil Nadu, not a leaf falls without her approval as long as her party is in power.)

*

I have a nephew-cum-friend who is senior healthcare professional. His scientific work doesn’t stop at his office; he has been urging people to get vaccinated as it is the only way to push back the pandemic. He has even taken a new, yet untested vaccine as part of a second-stage clinical trial, which I believe, was brave of him.

He was genuinely happy when he knew that we had got the jabs. In the evening, he called me to express his happiness. As I told him the the “Modi ji ki Jai!” bit, he said, ‘Hang on, don’t rush to congratulate Modi ji.’

‘Why not?’

‘India has a robust vaccine delivery system. It began with small pox vaccination and has been perfected over more than half a century. The finest example was the pulse polio vaccination drive, when health workers visited individual homes to vaccinate infants. … In a huge country of our size. Modi deserves no credit for getting you vaccinated. You can praise Nehru if you wish!’

I looked back and thought of the small pox vaccination which I used to welcome as a child because it often resulted in mild fever and a reprieve from school. Then the cholera jabs and something called TABC. Later, my children got immunised over five years in a systematic manner against all sorts of evil eyes, and the facility was available to every child in government hospitals for free. I also recalled that the relative failure of the COVID virus in India has been connected to the BCG vaccine given to Indian children systematically and widely.

The revelation also brought in a touch of sadness for me. I had thought for a change, my numerous Modi-leaning friends will be happy with what I write.

My bad!

6 March 2021

This place near our village you see in the picture is what Time Square is to New York, Flora Fountain is to Mumbai, or Esplanade is to Kolkata. You haven't missed the garbage dump in the bottom right corner, have you? The health centre I have written about was even cleaner.  

The Poet of Famine

 

The revolutionary Bengali poet Sukanta Bhattacharya, born on 15 August 1926, died before he was 21.

The Wikepedia contains a brief page on him. It summarises his life accurately though inadequately in the following words:

“As a poet as well as a Marxist he wielded his pen against the Second World War, the famine of 1943, fascist aggression, communal riots etc. His poems, which describe the sufferings of the common people and their struggle for existence, look forward to an exploitation-free society.”

In a poem in his collection of poems titled The Passport (ছাড়পত্র) Sukanta wrote,

“Yet, the inevitability of starvation

Spreads through me terrible blight.

I am a poet of famine – in my nightmares

I hear footsteps of death every night.”

(তবুও নিশ্চিত উপবাস

আমার মনের প্রান্তে নিয়ত ছড়ায় দীর্ঘশ্বাস –

আমি এক দুর্ভিক্ষের কবি,

প্রত্যহ দুঃস্বপ্ন দেখি, মৃত্যুর সুস্পষ্ট প্রতিচ্ছবি!)

The self-proclaimed “poet of famine” possibly died as a result of starvation, of tuberculosis, two months and two days before what would have been his 21st birthday (and the Independence Day of a new republic), at Jadavpur T. B. Hospital in Kolkata.

Sharing my translation of an iconic poem of Sukanta. Its last line has also become a catch-phrase in Bangla.

I do not know who the great prophet was, who Sukanta addressed in this poem. Could he be the greatest poet of Bengal who had spread a message of love and beauty through his life? Rabindranath Tagore had been 66 when Sukana was born. The Bengal Famine that killed three to four million people happened two years after Tagore’s passing. It is impossible that Sukanta was uninfluenced by Tagore. Rather, like every educated Bengali, his social sensibilities and intellectual development would have been deeply influenced by the seer.

To the Great Prophet

Great Prophet! The hour of poetry is over,

Let our book be prose from cover to cover.

End the rhythm of words and rhyme,

The hammer of the prose – the call of our time!

The softness of the verse I shall tell,

Poetry, I must bid you farewell;

In the land of the hungry and the dead

The full moon is a lump of burnt bread.

 

 

হে মহাজীবন

হে মহাজীবন, আর এ কাব্য নয়

এবার কঠিন, কঠোর গদ্য আনো,

পদ-লালিত্য-ঝঙ্কার মুছে যাক

গদ্যের কড়া হাতুড়িকে আজ হানো!

প্রয়োজন নেই, কবিতার স্নিগ্ধতা–

কবিতা তোমায় দিলাম আজকে ছুটি,

ক্ষুধার রাজ্যে পৃথিবী-গদ্যময়ঃ

পূর্ণিমা চাঁদ যেন ঝলসানো রুটি।

 

Translated on 2 March 2021