Those Summers of Modhu, Mangoes, Magic and Memories !!!

[I received the email from my friend, Mr. Tannu Chowhan, ZorbaBooks, at around 7 in the even. I have been writing since then! I have to post this story tonight at any cost. The rest, Readers, especially those from Jiaganj, is in your hands.]

Those Summers of Modhu, Mangoes, Magic and Memories !!!

AS I look at the inert body of my nephew in the hearse, I say a silent prayer asking my best friend to forgive me for not being able to love him the way he had always loved me. I am still lost in all those bitter-sweet thoughts of our days together at Jiaganj when someone taps me lightly on the shoulder from behind, out of my reverie. It is Dama, one of my nephew’s friends now turned into a Police Officer at Lal Bazar.

“Mama (he calls me Mama as I was a universal mama, uncle, to the friends of his deceased friend), aai, ekjon tor khoj korchhilo.” (Mama, come with me as someone was looking for you.) He, with those tear stains still visible under his eyes, cries out. As I follow into his footsteps, my eyes soon fall upon a familiar face, standing by another lady on the cemented platform in front, looking expectantly at me.

“Kemon achho, Modhu? Ki adbhut bhabey abar dekha hoye gelo!” (How do, Mithu? How strangely Fate makes us cross our paths!) I quip.

She smiles and as she does so my mind goes back to one of those glorious summer days in Jiaganj in my childhood………..

The Jiagang-bound Lalgola Express was storming on at a brisk pace. Sitting by the window side with Ma on my left, I kept looking at her amidst the constant, cacophonous noise of the vendors, fellow passengers and the rhythmic jhik-jhik sound of the train. I wanted to have the jhal muri (spicy puffed rice) that the pony-tailed girl on the opposite seat, seemed to be relishing. I did not know what irritated me more – whether it was the sight of the girl enjoying the muri, making some queer sounds in her mouth in the process while chewing it or, it was the unbearable din in our compartment!

Ma had already informed me that we would have it after Krishna Nagar, a busy town some three hours journey from Kolkata. But to me, Krishna Nagar looked very far away right then. The train had only crossed Ranaghat, the midpoint between Kolkata and Krishna Nagar!

“Please, kiney daona Ma,” ( Why don’t you buy me a packet, Ma?) I keep nagging Ma non-stop. Looking at my fallen face, Ma, the most kind-hearted mother in the whole universe, uncoiled a many-folded ten-rupee note from the folds of her sari and asked the vendor for a packet. I snatched it from the proffered hand of the man, once he had finished adding all the ingredients and spices, and put the first handful into my mouth, making some equally loud noise with my mouth before casting a look in the direction of the girl, who had finished eating by then. I caught her pouting next and put the packet forward to Ma.

There were only four of us by the time the train crossed Baharampur, an hour’s distant from Jiaganj, our destination. Finding the quiet in the compartment quite overpowering, Ma turned to the middle-aged lady on the opposite berth.

“Apnara kothai jachchhen?” (Where are you headed?) She asked the other lady. Soon they were talking quite animatedly, having learnt from one another that they were not only getting off at the same station but had a common relative in my Jamai Babu (brother-in-law), Advocate Prabha Shankar Bhatta. Theirs was to be a friendship that lasted for ages! They were so engrossed in the conversation that I could not stay mum any more.

“What’s your name?” I asked, turning to the girl.

She looked up at her mother, who nodded, before replying, “My good name is Modhuchhanda but everyone calls me by my nick name – Modhu.”

That was how I came to be acquainted with Modhu. As our rickshaw turned to the galli on the right, I saw them getting into the first house at the start of the galli, on the street. The next moment the whole of the Bhatta Bari was awakened as my Bardi (eldest sister, the one who got married to the second son of the Bhatta Bari) came out on the path to lend a helping hand to Ma.

What a sumptuous dinner we had before hitting the bed like dead! The sparkling sunrays of the early morning streamed in through the chinks in the curtain as I heard my brother-in-law moving towards the ghat for his early morning bath. He would chant some mantra before spending some time in the outer chamber with the myriads of clients waiting outside since the wee hours of the morning. He would leave for the court at around eight in the morning. My day at Jiaganj would begin long after Jamai Babu’s departure.

The summer days in the sleepy town of Jiaganj were full of fun, frolic and feasting. In addition to the store room being filled with those mouth-watering fruits, the floor under the beds in jamaibabu’s bedroom, was strewn with the ripened mangoes, jackfruits and what not! My nephews, I had three of them, would steal some in the afternoon and share them with me. The sight and taste of the delicious mangoes like langra, himsagar, gulabjamun, dilkhush, just to name a few, would make me go mad.

Those were the days of my life! Eating, sleeping, being invited to the relatives’ and friends’ houses and making merry. Right now, I can see through my mind’s eye the three of us, my nephew, another nephew who had accompanied me to Jiaganj another summer and I, sitting patiently on three wooden stools, while the daughters-in-law at the residence of Turu Kaka, a prosperous businessman and close friend of my Jamai Babu, were collecting the mangoes from a basket, washing them in a bucketful of water and having cut them into pieces on a sharp bati, were serving them on the plates in our hands! I beat the other two that day hands down, devouring a record twenty-one mangoes!

At around ten in the morning, the friends of my nephews like Bhagwat, Ashim, Jowan and the nephews of my nephews like Shibram, Buro, Rumu would gather in the ground just in front of the Bhatta Bari and we would play cricket till the ball got lost or a quarrel erupted amongst us.

Another summer down memory lane, my eldest nephew, an SBI employee by then, was getting married. If my memory serves me right, my Jamai Babu, who was extremely fond of his eldest son, spent lavishly on the wedding. The whole district of Murshidabad was invited to the marriage. Nearly fifty of our relatives from Kolkata, if not more, visited Jiagang on the occasion. After the fun and fiesta of the marriage ceremony had subsided a bit, some of the relatives who were touring Jiagang for the first time decided to go to Khosbagh, where the remains of the last independent Nawab of Bengal ( though there are many historians who consider Mir Kasim, the son-in-law of Mirzafar to be the last independent Nawab) were buried.

It was a gorgeous afternoon when we left for Khosbagh. We had to ferry across the river Bhagirathi to get to Ajimgunj, a thriving town in Malda district of West Bengal and from there we had to walk to our destination. Khosbagh is a historical place in the truest sense. Once we got inside the crematorium, we sauntered along the passageway, up the steps to where the graveyard of the Nawab is found. People from all walks of life, come to pay their respect to the Nawab. His graveyard was covered with flowers of all kinds. As we were coming back, another unattended graveyard outside caught our attention. People were throwing stones and chappals at the graveyard. We could even see some visitors spitting on it. On enquiry, we were told that the graveyard belonged to Mirzafar. History never forgives the traitors!

We were getting back to the ferry ghat at Ajimgunj through a massive mango grove, when some bubbly ladies in the group noticed the huge mangoes hanging from the trees. I do not remember who thought of having it first but soon I noticed Bapi, the daredevil of a nephew from my father’s side, leaping up, getting hold of a mango the size of a watermelon and plucking it off the stalk! We should have known better. No sooner had he landed back on the ground than we heard the barking of some onrushing dogs. There were at least eight of those monsters being followed close at heels by their masters. Soon all of us were surrounded by them.

“This is a very costly mango and you have stolen it without our consent. Now you’ve to pay five hundred rupees.” The senior most of them, bare chested, in a lungi, shaking his head and looking like the Lord of Death, uttered the verdict without any emotion!

“ Five hundred rupees!” My aunt, Bapi’s mother exclaimed. “That’s outright cheating. This mango cannot cost more than five rupees in the market.” Mind you, Reader, I am talking of the eighties of the last century when with five rupees one could buy more than a kilogram of rice. But the owners of the mango grove would not hear of anything and they were reluctant to let us go until the money, five hundred rupees to be precise, was paid.

Somesh Da, a distant relative of my brother-in-law, tried to intervene. “ Arey baba, bachcha chhele na bujhe chirey feleche, etey eto dosher ki hoyechhey? Kakima din otherkey panch taka diye din…” ( My god! What’s the harm in a child plucking a mango mistakenly! Kakima, give them five rupees and let’s get done with the whole thing.)

But the Messengers of The Devil would not budge an inch! They wanted five hundred and five hundred it had to be!

“You don’t know what a bad omen it is for us, I mean, tearing the mango from the tree. It’ll spell the doom of whatever high hopes we’ve had so far of reaping a rich harvest this summer. The Head’s been too generous. Five hundred is too less. He shouldof asked for a few thousan’ at least….” Said another, much younger. Things were coming to such a head that Kakima started beating Bapi black and blue out of sheer frustration. Finding the sun had gone down behind the other side of the river Bhagirathi, some ladies in the group, started crying out pitiably.

Then someone in our group remembered my brother-in-law. No sooner had his name been mentioned than an apparent change came over those villains surrounding us. Somesh Da, clever as a crow, having noticed their reactions, did not, could not let go of this opportunity :

“Dekhun bhai, era sabai Prabha Shankar Babur atmiya.” Somesh Da paused here for a while looking around at the reactions of the faces at the mention of the name of my brother-in-law. “Onar chheler biyete eshechhe. Apnara erakom apoman korechen janley, byaprta kintu anek dur abdi garabey, khub bhalo habey na……” (Look bros, they are all relatives of Prabha Shankar Bhatta. They have all come to attend the marriage ceremony of his eldest son. If he comes to know how you have humiliated them, the matter may have far-reaching consequences. It will not be a good thing for you all…)

The mention of my brother-in-law’s name worked like magic on those thugs.

“Oh, Ohoho! Apnara Bhatta Babur atmiya? Agye bolben to. Bhatta Babu ekjon debatar maton manush. Ei, sar, sar, sar. Onderke rasta korey dey….” ( You all are related to Bhatta Babu? You should have told us earlier. Way, get away, get away, make way for them..) The leader of the pack, yelled at his henchmen.

We heaved a collective sigh of relief finally. As we scurried out of their baston, one of them cried out, “Babu, amti liye jaan…” (Master, please take the mango with you.) Hardly did the words come out of his mouth and Bapi was about to snatch the mango from his hands when Kakima, still seething in anger, kicked the mango out of Bapi’s hand, hissing at the man, “Lathi mari tor ei amkey..” (Your mango be damned.)

Though most of the relatives left after a few days, Bapi and I stayed back and Bapi, the eternal trouble-monger, came running to me the very next day, looking excited and out of breadth : “Bappa, tui Modhu’r katha bolchhili na? Ajke or baritey giyechhilam. Or bhai Rana niye giyechhilo. Modhu er sathey chhadey chutiye…..” (You’re talking about Modhu, right Bappa? I was taken to their house today by her brother, Rana. Had a great time on the roof with …) Looking crestfallen and feeling envious, I tried switching the topic. Bapi was always way ahead of me in everything. Some of my nephews’ friends were there listening to Bapi bragging about his latest conquest.

Next day, it was pouring down cats and dogs. Standing at the entrance gate of the Bhatta Bari, I was watching, hypnotized, a mere lad picking up a snake (sorry, I have forgotten its name), a venomless one, forcing its mouth open by placing his hand under and over the area of the neck or whatever and putting the tail of the snake into its mouth thereby making a ring and throwing it in the puddle of water on the path gleefully, when I could see Modhu heading back to her house from the ghat. We smiled at one other and as it was raining, I asked her to get inside my Jamai Babu’s house.

We had scarcely proceeded to Bardi’s room near Jamai Babu’s outer chamber when one of my nephew’s friend, Bhagbat, latched the door from outside. They wanted me to win Modhu rather than Bapi! That day sitting face to face with the most decent and beautiful girl I had had the pleasure of coming across in my life till then, we talked about almost everything under the sun. What struck me as strange was the fact that she was such a sweet-natured girl despite her horrendous reputation. Having spent some forty-fortyfive minutes with her that afternoon, I realised one of the simplest truths of life – that beautiful girls with a bad reputation, are not always bad at all! A realization that helped me later on in life.

Modhu wrote to me once I got back to Kolkata like she promised. Written in a lovely hand, it was a nice letter from the heart of an innocent, honest girl. Being young and the braggish-type, when I showed the letter to Bardi, she rebuked me : “But I won’t let you marry her. She can’t be a wife of the Bhattacharyya household.” That put paid to whatever hopes I had had of wooing and winning the love of one of the most charming girls I met in life.

“Ki bhabchhen?” I was again brought back to the real world by Modhu cutting into my thoughts.

“Modhu to ekhon Kolkata te achhey. Oito tor dadar barir kachhei thake O. Khub nam korechhey. Keno tui Modhuchhanda serial dekhis na?” (Modhu is settled in Kolkata now. Lives near your brother’s. Isn’t she famous now? Why, don’t you watch that serial “Modhuchhanda…?)

But I was not listening to Dama any more. I was back in Bardi’s room that glorious summer while Modhu was casting her spell on me.

The end