I have read lots of love stories and visited cities which seduce one to fall in love. I have tread in the company of enchanting women. I have seen the ever-changing emerging patterns of passion that is tender and violent. But one experience had stood out for me till this day amidst all other insignificant ones. It happened in my life not so very long ago.
I was born in a relatively well to do household of a banker father and a doctor mother. Being the only son and offspring it’s needless to say I was spoilt. A trait which still remains rampant in me and causes irks in people who come into close proximity of me. A reason why I always cocooned myself in a cordon of solitude. I grew up in Calcutta and was sent to a public school. My insolence went alongside me and although I was academically tolerable, my shenanigans had caused the teachers considerable amount of infuriation. So during one such incident (which may be another story) I was asked to vacate my candidature at the school.
This had greatly upset my parents and I was sent off to my aunt’s at remote place in Orissa with a purpose of reforming me in a more Spartan settings. It was a village called Rengalipaly, an off shoot from the Ghanteswari Temple Road in the Talamad district of Orissa. The nearest town of any caliber was Sambalpur which was over 40 Kms. It was secluded, alien and a god forsaken land. The only establishment of any repute was my aunt’s bungalow and the post office. The Mahanadi River flowed right in front of our bungalow. The landscape was molten green as the monsoons were just about done. My aunt’s husband was a nonchalant, non ambitious and a simple man who worked as an Engineer at the nearby Chiplima Power Project. They had a daughter who was only 2. The only neighbours around us were a few employees of the Power Plant, who kept us at bay as my Uncle was the boss. The other were the Kandha adivassis (Tribals). Needless to say I was not in a social ambience that I was used to.
It was the Wetlands and had varied array of flora and fauna. But surroundings were mainly forests. Although it had extreme summers but October to March were quite pleasant. The river was the main source of water for the animals and the migratory birds who flocked in. There was no TV and the voltage used to drop to abysmal levels during evenings and could barely support 2 bulbs and a fan. So I used to spend most of my evenings at the river bank gazing at gazelles, birds and bison with my binoculars. I was no ornithologist but I had nothing else to do. Nightfall was relatively early in such a surrounding and dinner was regimented at 8 PM.
In the mornings I took leisurely walks on the river bank after breakfast mainly as that was where I could smoke a clandestine cigarette or 2 without causing uproar with my aunt; for I was only 13. Nobody spoke to me during my sojourns and I liked that. I was anyways resenting my exile. Besides my city bred looks and clothes didn’t seem very welcoming to the tribal denizens. Another reason for me to populate the river was to see tribal women bathing. A welcome perk at that age. I used sit there for hours. Lost. Forlorn. Sad at my predicament. I was reclusive but polite. I used to return the questioning looks of the village folks with smile. It seems my presence there had created quite a sensation.
The tribal girls, I know used to look at me with awe as I strolled the length from Kapurthali to Cheraki Bazar pensive and poignant. There were many a time that I have turned and seen them staring and breaking into giggles at being found out. But probably the girls knew that their admiration would never be reciprocated by a Sahar Babu. But still the heart of a teen age girl irrespective of her demography rarely acknowledges the improbable. The girls used to dress their best on Friday, the market day to probably get some admiration from the opposite sex. But I guess their teen age heart was right. The impossible happened. I started looking at them with a bit of admiration when they were washing clothes or fishing. It was then when I met Mangli for the first time.
I don’t remember the details implicitly now as to how or when we spoke to each other for the first time. I just know that we were introduced by a Pakora vendor at the market. In a short time and through sparse interactions Mangli made me realize that my heart had really turned bitter and contemptuous of the paint and mascara covered coquettish society girls that I used bump into at my social circles at school or at home. I was besotted by her simplicity and resignation. I readily opted for the chickweed to the scented lily. But she was not the prettiest of all the tribal girls. Mangli couldn’t ever imagine that I would be paying her so much attention after all. But she was not ugly. But that was of no consequence to the two teen age hearts that met every evening at the river side.
I fail to assume the happiness and pride she felt being with me in spite of her repeating the same. But she was not proud of her conquest and was almost shy and reticent about our acquaintance. A quality that was extinct in the girls that I had known till then. But I used to be as pleasant with the others as well to save her from any envy or jealousy. It was a romance encrypted in silence and sensitivity. We rarely spoke. In the day she went fishing with her mother and in the evening she came down to see me after finishing her household chores and we looked at the river or discussed what she had cooked for her father. I am no writer and do not hold the capacity to express how this unalloyed romance had blossomed with no intervention of the body or any modern medium. But I enjoyed her company thoroughly and her simple cookery almost every evening.
Well my time in exile was slowly coming to an end. My father had successfully employed one of his bureaucratic allies to find me a seat in another school in Calcutta and I was given the marching orders. Finally it was the last evening before my departure. She had rushed in to see me. That evening her tears had gushed out heavily in silence. My repeated consolation to her seemed ineffective that I would be back soon. Maybe somewhere she knew the improbability of the whole thing. But I was adamant with my belief that I would be back once the Summer Vacations are on. But someone who had loved with all heart, heal and absolution can probably see the lines of fate as clearly as a fate himself – so Mangli was inconsolable.
‘What do I get for you from Calcutta?’ I asked her. She was quiet.
‘Please tell me what do you want from Calcutta?’
‘Nothing. Just come back.’ She had whispered.
‘Nothing!’ I had exploded. ‘Everybody has asked for something or the other. See! I have even noted them down on my notebook. But for you I would the best, the most expensive thing of it all. Please tell me what do you want?’ I entreated.
‘Nothing.’ She repeated in the saddest of tones.
I had to struggle a long time to make her say what she wanted me to get her from the city that is about to engulf Mangli’s only adornment for ever with the cruelty of a holocaust. But finally she gave in and said. ‘Well then get me a scented soap from there.’
I was bewildered. A scented soap! She wants a scented soap. I could have gotten her the most expensive dress from one of the boutiques. She wants a scented soap.
‘But why do you want a soap?’ Quizzically I asked her.’ I have never seen you being too engrossed in your clothes or make up. I have never seen you flock excitedly at the ornament shops during the Friday Market. But why do you want it now?’
Again there was no reply.
I said ‘Come on please tell me.’
Then she looked away and said ‘Fine then don’t get me anything.’ And in tear strewn voice just said ‘Just come back again’
‘I would surely get you the best soap available at New Market’ I told her reassuringly. ‘But I’m just surprised why you wanted just a scented soap?’
Then Mangli had looked earnestly at me and said. ‘Babu all these days you have never as much held my hand. I know we are fisher women and we stink of the fish all the time. I want you to get me the soap so that I can come to you fragrant with its perfume so that you at least hold my hand when we meet again’
Fate didn’t give me the permission to return to Rengalipaly again. A grief that probably would go to the grave with me, that I would never get to hold Mangli’s hands smelling of an expensive toiletry.
I was born in a relatively well to do household of a banker father and a doctor mother. Being the only son and offspring it’s needless to say I was spoilt. A trait which still remains rampant in me and causes irks in people who come into close proximity of me. A reason why I always cocooned myself in a cordon of solitude. I grew up in Calcutta and was sent to a public school. My insolence went alongside me and although I was academically tolerable, my shenanigans had caused the teachers considerable amount of infuriation. So during one such incident (which may be another story) I was asked to vacate my candidature at the school.
This had greatly upset my parents and I was sent off to my aunt’s at remote place in Orissa with a purpose of reforming me in a more Spartan settings. It was a village called Rengalipaly, an off shoot from the Ghanteswari Temple Road in the Talamad district of Orissa. The nearest town of any caliber was Sambalpur which was over 40 Kms. It was secluded, alien and a god forsaken land. The only establishment of any repute was my aunt’s bungalow and the post office. The Mahanadi River flowed right in front of our bungalow. The landscape was molten green as the monsoons were just about done. My aunt’s husband was a nonchalant, non ambitious and a simple man who worked as an Engineer at the nearby Chiplima Power Project. They had a daughter who was only 2. The only neighbours around us were a few employees of the Power Plant, who kept us at bay as my Uncle was the boss. The other were the Kandha adivassis (Tribals). Needless to say I was not in a social ambience that I was used to.
It was the Wetlands and had varied array of flora and fauna. But surroundings were mainly forests. Although it had extreme summers but October to March were quite pleasant. The river was the main source of water for the animals and the migratory birds who flocked in. There was no TV and the voltage used to drop to abysmal levels during evenings and could barely support 2 bulbs and a fan. So I used to spend most of my evenings at the river bank gazing at gazelles, birds and bison with my binoculars. I was no ornithologist but I had nothing else to do. Nightfall was relatively early in such a surrounding and dinner was regimented at 8 PM.
In the mornings I took leisurely walks on the river bank after breakfast mainly as that was where I could smoke a clandestine cigarette or 2 without causing uproar with my aunt; for I was only 13. Nobody spoke to me during my sojourns and I liked that. I was anyways resenting my exile. Besides my city bred looks and clothes didn’t seem very welcoming to the tribal denizens. Another reason for me to populate the river was to see tribal women bathing. A welcome perk at that age. I used sit there for hours. Lost. Forlorn. Sad at my predicament. I was reclusive but polite. I used to return the questioning looks of the village folks with smile. It seems my presence there had created quite a sensation.
The tribal girls, I know used to look at me with awe as I strolled the length from Kapurthali to Cheraki Bazar pensive and poignant. There were many a time that I have turned and seen them staring and breaking into giggles at being found out. But probably the girls knew that their admiration would never be reciprocated by a Sahar Babu. But still the heart of a teen age girl irrespective of her demography rarely acknowledges the improbable. The girls used to dress their best on Friday, the market day to probably get some admiration from the opposite sex. But I guess their teen age heart was right. The impossible happened. I started looking at them with a bit of admiration when they were washing clothes or fishing. It was then when I met Mangli for the first time.
I don’t remember the details implicitly now as to how or when we spoke to each other for the first time. I just know that we were introduced by a Pakora vendor at the market. In a short time and through sparse interactions Mangli made me realize that my heart had really turned bitter and contemptuous of the paint and mascara covered coquettish society girls that I used bump into at my social circles at school or at home. I was besotted by her simplicity and resignation. I readily opted for the chickweed to the scented lily. But she was not the prettiest of all the tribal girls. Mangli couldn’t ever imagine that I would be paying her so much attention after all. But she was not ugly. But that was of no consequence to the two teen age hearts that met every evening at the river side.
I fail to assume the happiness and pride she felt being with me in spite of her repeating the same. But she was not proud of her conquest and was almost shy and reticent about our acquaintance. A quality that was extinct in the girls that I had known till then. But I used to be as pleasant with the others as well to save her from any envy or jealousy. It was a romance encrypted in silence and sensitivity. We rarely spoke. In the day she went fishing with her mother and in the evening she came down to see me after finishing her household chores and we looked at the river or discussed what she had cooked for her father. I am no writer and do not hold the capacity to express how this unalloyed romance had blossomed with no intervention of the body or any modern medium. But I enjoyed her company thoroughly and her simple cookery almost every evening.
Well my time in exile was slowly coming to an end. My father had successfully employed one of his bureaucratic allies to find me a seat in another school in Calcutta and I was given the marching orders. Finally it was the last evening before my departure. She had rushed in to see me. That evening her tears had gushed out heavily in silence. My repeated consolation to her seemed ineffective that I would be back soon. Maybe somewhere she knew the improbability of the whole thing. But I was adamant with my belief that I would be back once the Summer Vacations are on. But someone who had loved with all heart, heal and absolution can probably see the lines of fate as clearly as a fate himself – so Mangli was inconsolable.
‘What do I get for you from Calcutta?’ I asked her. She was quiet.
‘Please tell me what do you want from Calcutta?’
‘Nothing. Just come back.’ She had whispered.
‘Nothing!’ I had exploded. ‘Everybody has asked for something or the other. See! I have even noted them down on my notebook. But for you I would the best, the most expensive thing of it all. Please tell me what do you want?’ I entreated.
‘Nothing.’ She repeated in the saddest of tones.
I had to struggle a long time to make her say what she wanted me to get her from the city that is about to engulf Mangli’s only adornment for ever with the cruelty of a holocaust. But finally she gave in and said. ‘Well then get me a scented soap from there.’
I was bewildered. A scented soap! She wants a scented soap. I could have gotten her the most expensive dress from one of the boutiques. She wants a scented soap.
‘But why do you want a soap?’ Quizzically I asked her.’ I have never seen you being too engrossed in your clothes or make up. I have never seen you flock excitedly at the ornament shops during the Friday Market. But why do you want it now?’
Again there was no reply.
I said ‘Come on please tell me.’
Then she looked away and said ‘Fine then don’t get me anything.’ And in tear strewn voice just said ‘Just come back again’
‘I would surely get you the best soap available at New Market’ I told her reassuringly. ‘But I’m just surprised why you wanted just a scented soap?’
Then Mangli had looked earnestly at me and said. ‘Babu all these days you have never as much held my hand. I know we are fisher women and we stink of the fish all the time. I want you to get me the soap so that I can come to you fragrant with its perfume so that you at least hold my hand when we meet again’
Fate didn’t give me the permission to return to Rengalipaly again. A grief that probably would go to the grave with me, that I would never get to hold Mangli’s hands smelling of an expensive toiletry.
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