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deepakchoudhry
December 25th, 2006, 05:15 PM
Wishing Jatlanders a very Happy New Year. :)


A New Year’s Prayer
May God make your year a happy one!
Not by shielding you from all sorrows and pain,
But by strengthening you to bear it, as it comes;
Not by making your path easy,
But by making you sturdy to travel any path;
Not by taking hardships from you,
But by taking fear from your heart;
Not by granting you unbroken sunshine,
But by keeping your face bright, even in the shadows;
Not by making your life always pleasant,
But by showing you when people and their causes need you most,
and by making you anxious to be there to help.
God’s love, peace, hope and joy to you for the year ahead.


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning. ~T.S. Eliot

choudharyneelam
December 25th, 2006, 08:44 PM
Wishing you the same...very nice poem:)

Wishing everyone a very happy and prosperous New Year!!

devdahiya
December 25th, 2006, 08:46 PM
GOD BLESS YOU DEEPAK for these great thoughts.So nice to feel the reality of life in the proximity.Keep up the spirits dear. God bless!MY BEST WISHES FOR A HEPPY AND PROSPEROUS NEW YEAR TO ALL JATLANDERS AND THEIR FAMILY MEMBERS.

vijay
December 25th, 2006, 08:50 PM
Very nice Deepak. May GOD bless you and all Jatlanders with the same :)

cooljat
December 25th, 2006, 08:56 PM
great poem Deepak Bhaisaab!!
Happy New Year & Merry Xmas to all of u!

Rock on
Jit

bls31
December 27th, 2006, 01:46 PM
Thanks for the thought, while wishing all of us a very happy and prosperous new year, it would be intersting to recall that to with nostaglia as what life was way back in our villages from some of us have emerged to be where we are. Nostalgia is what was seen with jou and pleasure by a growing-up child those days, No Video games, No TV, No Radio No Electricity but it was fun

Brig lakshman Sin

PART ONE

My earliest memories are that of my mother's village. It was in the thirties, then being five or six years of age and the youngest child, my mother always took me with her whenever she visited her parental village.

The modern age was still in future, the village pond was the favourite playground of my cousins and I was always a fascinated invitee. A pebble playfully thrown in the pond would make the green moss covering its placid surface part and the water break into ripples. The long reeds, bulrushes, growing around the pond, swaying in the breeze, Dragoon flies buzzing around, the butterflies fluttering aimlessly to my young eyes, the humming of the bees and the plaintive call of the Koel. It was here among other wonders of village life that I was initiated in the art of smoking a clay pipe, crafted from the wet earth of the pond and a small section from the reeds, for city bread, it was all pure thrill and fun.

There was always a herd of buffaloes in the pond, with just the nostrils and eyes showing above the surface, enjoying the cool water. Some times the children would also jump, stark naked, gleefully and join the buffaloes, to beat the heat. The houses ware all constructed from the mud taken from the pond that is how the pond had come in to being in the first place consequent to the mud dug for constructing the house and later the dugout got filled with the rain water during the monsoons.

There was a lot of engineering even those days, Simple solutions for simple problems devised by the simple villagers.

Before the advent of monsoons the already shimmering, in sun dwellings were given an additional coating of mica powder mixed in mud paste, to prevent damage from rain and reflect the summer heat away.


This was preventive maintenance and thermal engineering.
The rainwater would collect and fill the pond, this was water harvesting.
which also prevented the flooding of the village lanes and houses during heavy rains, this was flood control and disaster management.
The lanes and allies were dry and clean, water for drinking and other household requirements was drawn from the village well, and strictly conserved, the task was assigned the young unmarried girls of the house and new brides. The village well was a popular venue for many budding romances and love affairs as also a meeting place and exchange of gossip for the village bellies. Of course, I was too young to under stand all this at that time.

Memories of coming to the village of things smells and sounds, the mud house of my maternal grand-parents, still fresh, of the picture, that of a railway train, printed on art paper, peeled-off from some bolt of cloth purchased, some times earlier and pasted on the massive wooden door of the inner room. The pale yellow light emanating from the flame of the burning cotton wick dipped in mustard oil in the diva, flickering, due the disturbing of the air when some one opened the door and at other times burning steady, the sole source of light in the dark room, on those winter nights as I lay snuggling to my mother, under the rough home-spun cloth quilt, heavy with cotton filling, mesmerized and steadily gazing at the source of light, lost in my own thought, what was going in my mind, while my mothers, aunts and grand mother continued talking late in the night. I wonder now.

The early morning sounds, sights and smells of the village. In the house, that of the grinding of the wheat-grain with the manual Chhaki. I would also, at times, add my puny strength to the effort, by the young aunt or the female cousin, gripping the handle, possibly more of a hindrance than help, yet tolerated in good spirit, the typical smell that of the burning, dried cotton bushes or the Khoi, in the stove, that of the cow-dung outside the chirping of the house sparrows,outside, that of the village folks proceeding for working the fields, steering the bullocks, articulating in a language well understood by the animals, the loud shouts combined with the tinkling of the bells round the necks of the bullocks, the cry of an odd bird or the call of the rooster and the bark of the stray dog, All this combined to completed the three Dimensional picture of sight, sound and smell of the real world around me.

The community- well, hand pumps, yet to appear in the villages, the sole source of drinking and washing water where the young brides and unmarried girls gathered to draw water for the home, more importantly to exchange gossip, with, I am sure, the village Romeos definitely lurking around.

My Mama's, maternal uncles, flock of pigeons, his passionate indulgence he had built a small mud abode for the birds on the terrace, reached by a wooden ladder, and also erected a loft for the pigeons to perch upon, I would join him morning evening to see him launch the birds on by one to fly in sheer ecstasy, do aerobatics in the sky and return when he called them back. The birds understood his language and he theirs.


Also the summer nights, the Grandmother, a AJ Rowling of her day, with her collection of fairy tails, telling stories to the cousins and me lying next to her, all ears in rapt attention, the ink black sky, as the back drop, with myriad of stars, some shining bright others twinkling, bringing the fairies, demons, Rajas and Ranis, the ordinary folks, in the stories, like the Dhobi and the Taili, animals like the fox and jackal, all alive in our child's mind, the imagination running rout. The same stories requested and repeated night after night becoming more and more vivid and fascinating as our imagination grew. Slowly her voice would become faint, our periodic response and acknowledgement to what was being told, an essential part of story telling and listening, becoming fainter and fainter as I slipped back in to sleep and into the child's dream world where the stories becoming real. Then some one would lift me and take me to my mother.

The early morning trips to the field, the breakfast, Roties and a piece of Jaggery' for the uncle working in the field, tied neatly in a clean piece of home spun cloth, the aunt carrying it on her head, the pitcher of butter milk in one hand, the other holding my small hand, balancing gracefully on those narrow dividers of the fields. He on seeing us approaching would stop whatever he was doing, in the field, tilling, irrigating or weeding at that time and approach us with half a smile. We would sit on the side of the well under the shade of the tree or in the sun depending the season, I would also got a share, the second breakfast of the day and it tasted so different, the taste still lingering in the mouth.

Being too young, possibly, I was not aware of the joy the two young soles were sharing, the few private moments, privacy in the village being at a premium, possibly the
daily trips to the fields by the young bride was a stratagem designed by the knowing elder ladies, who had themselves passed that stage to provide some private moments to them
pl see part two

bls31
December 27th, 2006, 01:56 PM
Part TWO
My mother had a huge collection of silver jewelry, designed to cover every part of the human anatomy, always a fascination to my young eyes. But more fascinating was when the women of the house replicated the ornaments in mud from the local pond at the time of the Dussera festival, ornaments to adore the Devi, or Sanji as it was called, pasted on one of the walls of the dwelling.

Visits to my father's village were more formal and seasons bound. The family visited the parental village during the long summer and winter vacations. Coming of the festivals and advent of seasons was heralded by change in the location of beds for sleeping ;summers we all slept outside in the court yard, on the Dussera day the beds were shifted to the verandah and on Diwali in side the rooms, Chrisms brought the long holidays when Father and the family visited the village to be with our Grandfather, grand mother and the uncles ,aunts and the plethora of the cousins ,members of the joint family,

My Grand mother a tall, taller than my Grand father, towering personality would preside over the breakfast ritual, one of the younger aunts on duty making the bread, that of Roti, Gur, buttermilk and white butter. My grand mother's favourite, I was always rewarded with an extra dollop of butter,

My Grand father though not very tall, did have an imposing personality and presence, respected and feared, except by me, being the youngest of his eldest son had its advantages, we would argue and disagree on many subjects. His pride in his eldest son, my father was so transparent so visible when he came visiting us.

The children did not have much to do in the village except run in and out of the house aimlessly, I in tow, much to the annoyance of the ladies of the house and the peacefully sleeping dogs who fell in our random path. I do recall that the young of the village knew enough about the birds and the bees, possibly due to the confined quarters and close proximity living, and were extra keen to share their superior knowledge of the taboo subject with the ignorant cousin from the city.

These visits did have one special charm for me; it gave me a chance to listen to the fascinating anecdotes from vast collection of anecdotes that my father had...

He, a brilliant student, the eldest son, on top a government official, first generation out of the village, was always the centre of attraction during our visits to the village. The privileged village folks would gather around him, he sitting on the cane chair, others huddled together on the cots placed around, listening with rapt attentions, some times seriously others laughing rapturously to what ever he was narrating at that time.


The village at that time was a self-contained and self-sufficient society, a world of its own, only the infrequent visitors like us opening small windows to the outside world.
There was Gopi Swamy to cater for the spiritual and religious needs of the denizens. Then there were Jats, the owners and tillers of the land. The labor force of Kahars and Chamars, who were paid in kind not in cash, lived across an imaginary dividing line. They had there own well for the water, own culture and way life, the area seldom frequented by the residents from the other side.

There was Haria, the `Naie', the village barber, the only person who could hold the chin of the most important person in public, his more important function was that of a match-maker, he knew the details of all the eligible girls and boys ready to tie the matrimonial knot, of the families from the villages around. He was also the village courier for exchanging messages and conduct the delicate negotiations leading to sealing of the deal.

The village washer-man, albeit with no pressing service, the weaver, the Teli with his oil-press, extracting oil from the mustard-seed, in his one room abode shared with the bullock and the oil-press. I remember the bullock going round and round with eyes covered with blinkers, the extracted oil slowly pouring out from the sprout of the press and getting collected in a vassal kept for the purpose.

There was also the Pansari, the grosser, with his limited stock of commodities, selling spices and daily need of the kitchen as also herbs used for minor illness. The Halwai, the sweet mea- maker, named Moni who normally sold his produce like Bundi-Laddo and Barfi on the stall at the local Railway Station

There were occasional hawkers catering to the extra needs of the village, I recall the Watermelon seller, trading in barter, one thin slice for one fist-full of wheat grain, we the kids would run in, pick a fistful from the store, run out with part of the grain escaping and trailing behind us, the first greedy bite in the sweet red inner, black seeds and all, the seeds to be spitted out, the juice trickling down the chin, gnawed till the red became white and nearly touched the green rind.

There were no roads to the village the privileged Govt. officials, like my father could drive down the canal bank with official permission and the huge key to open the lock on the chain across the canal bank. The only mode of transport available was the
SSLR ( Sahadra -Saharanpur Light Railway) with its head-office in far of Calcutta. Maddening slow paced and always overcrowded. About the speed of the train it was said that an agile young man from the front compartment could jump down, go to the nearest bush, do his trick and have enough time to get in the last but one compartment.

The passengers, along with a train of friends and relations to see them off, would start arriving much before the scheduled time, and wait patiently for the arrival of the train, time moved slowly those days there was no hurry. The women in colorful skirts, bedecked with silver jewelry, some with faces covered, depending on whether they were the brides or the daughters of the village. Some holding the children by hand others in their laps, the children some wailing others excited in anticipating the ride in the train, the men mostly dressed in white, Doha Kurt with turbans tied in the local style.

At last,the discarded piece of rail, serving as a bell, would be struck a couple of time with a similarly discarded heavy bolt ,announcing the impending arrival of the train. I, if with my, waiting in the station masters office rather on the platform, would be a
witness to the mysterious happenings in the office. Little understanding the significance of the sudden clicking of the telegraph, the reply being tapped on the answering key by the station master , the steel ball falling out of the huge machine with a clang, the swinging needle in the glass covered dial , indicating line clear from the previous station. The Khalsi would on a signal from the station master unlock and pull the massive liver towards him, dropping the signal drop-down.

The crowed would stir, anxiously looking towards the direction from which the train was expected, spying the engine in distance someone would shout 'The train is coming',

Soon the engine pulling the compartments would chug- in, bellowing much steam and repeated blowing of the whistle as if announcing the joy of arriving, in actual fact it was to warn the multitude to move away from the railway line. As it steamed in noisily click clacking, I would be holding to my mother's skirt for dear life.

Soon the engine would detach itself to take water from the over head tank, and the passengers till now waiting patiently, would rush helter-skelter, in tearing hurry towards the already overcrowded compartments, agitated men with the women in tow, pulling behind the excited children by their hands, a hectic activity to find a place in the already over-crowded compartments. Once settled, then started the ritual of wailing and crying by women, those who had come to see-off and also those leaving. A cacophony created by the babbling of so many combined with the shouts of the hawkers selling Pahalwan brand biris, Scissors brand cigarettes, monkey nuts, Desi Pan and not the least Moni selling his Barfi and Laddos made without or little milk and ghee a recipe known only to and perfected by him.

The guard blowing his whistle and waving the green flag, the station master also now outside his office with his own green to see of the train off, the train left, once again with much blowing of the whistle carrying its burden of now settled passengers. Peace would once settle, the station now dead, dead as a station without a train cam be.

The sad lament of the engine's whistle, more so as heard in summer nights while sleeping on the terrace had a lot more to do with both of us Jeet and me, in later life. It caused so much pain by announce my departure, by the same train, late in the night, I would leaving Rosy behind, tearing my self from the last embrace, words unsaid, to answer the call of my second wife that Army. I can only visualize her feelings that would have been at that juncture, but I know that I was utterly miserable while walking in the dark night to the station to catch the train.


Sorry for the typos in part one, will be careful next time BLS
pl see part three if still interested

bls31
December 27th, 2006, 01:59 PM
.... Still Interested
I do confess that somehow I enjoyed my visits to my mother's village more, may be there was more love and affection possibly more to do with others of my age.

The villages by themselves were monotonous, with flat-roof houses constructed by un backed bricks with a thick coating of the same mud, nothing much to look at but ideally suited for the extreme climate, from freezing cold of the winters to the searing heat of the summers, unfortunately now replaced by backed brick-houses- a status symbol-ugly to look at, esthetically a disaster and totally unsuitable climate wise, ice boxes in winters and burning-hot like an oven, with the radiated heat from the sun-backed walls, courtesy the relentless and merciless beating by the summer sun..

Cultivated fields, with various standing crops, wheat, maize or cane depending on the season surrounded the villages, interspersed with Mango groves, with a few Peacocks and Peahens, dancing the mating dance, the colourful feathers, spread like an extra large fan during monsoons and calling each-other with their special call. The kids with me in tow would run to the fields at times to go and watch the Persian-wheel, drawing water from the well for irrigation. Centrifugal water lift-pumps, diesel generator electric motors were still very much in the distant future. The pair of bullock running the wheel, going round and round-totally unawares as to where he heading, the chain of buckets, the filled ones ascending, with some of the water leaking back in to the well, and after pouring their content, in the irrigation channel and empty going down back in the well to fill-in once again, an endless loop, unwinding and winding fascinating to look at. Some times my uncle or who so ever was manning the well and place and place me on the log connecting the going round bullocks to the mechanism of the wheel. A ride free on the merry- go-round was thrilling, albeit a bit frightening experience, for child that was I.

The irrigation canal flowing near the fields, was another source of fun and joy for the kids. They would jump, one after the other in the placid, slowly flowing muddy water of the stream, come out, roll in the hot sand and jump back once, repeating the ritual again and again, till too tired and hungry once again and heed back to the home. I do not recall if I ever joined in their antics, possibly not, I a sissy from the city in the eyes of my cousins.

There was nothing much to do in the afternoons, it being the most boring period of the day, with the elders having a shut eye, the women, busy relaxing with the spinning wheel, cleaning the wheat grain and the seniors gossiping while smoking the `Gur-guri'. A portable Hukka, made with dry coconut shell holding water, filtering the tobacco smoke passing through, popular with the ladies of the house.

Come evening the village would come alive with the children busy playing `Gulli-Danda', `Gindu -Tora', `Ankh Michoni' or on the swing depending on the season and the phase of the moon maximum activity being on or near the full moon.

Some time` Swang" the village theatre would come or was invited to perform on special occasions like weddings, always a big occasion for the village folks people came even from the surrounding villages. The most famous and more popular was `Bully's' the owner and the hero of the days play. Young boys, dressed in heavy skirts, faces covered with colourful cotton shawls and decked with silver ornaments, borrowed from the ladies of the house of the host,. played the female characters. The action was slow, mostly in verse and song, still enough to excite the mostly male audience.

The performances could never hold my interest possibly due to exposure to music from films like Achhut-Kanya, Kangan, Bandhan, Pukar . No doubt, the festive atmosphere with the disinterested kids running around aimlessly, being admonished time and again by the elderly who were getting disturbed, was exciting and fun.

rockyjat
December 29th, 2006, 07:06 AM
Uncle, very lovely prayer!
Happy New Year to Jatland!

bahadur1
December 29th, 2006, 04:14 PM
Very good poem,

I also convey my best wishes to all Jatlanders to be A VERY VERY HAPPY AND PROSPEROUS 2007 to you and your dears.

Aap saBaI kao nayaa saala maMgalamaya AaOr KuiSayaao sao Bara hao, yahI maorI kamanaa hO .

Bahadur Sinsinwar
bahadur isahM isanaisanavaar

cooljat
December 30th, 2006, 11:04 PM
Respected Brig Uncle,
New Year Greetings!!!

Well, Salutations to u for postin sucha memorable article...It reminds me of my gud old childhood days...those were the days when we used to spend our summer vacations in the villages...its always gives me immense pleasure to remember those golden days!


thanx uncle! & keep sharin such gratifying tales!!

Rock on
Jit




.... Still Interested
I do confess that somehow I enjoyed my visits to my mother's village more, may be there was more love and affection possibly more to do with others of my age.

jattejram
December 31st, 2006, 12:24 AM
A Very happy New Year to All Jatlanders!!

May 2007 bring you and your loved ones Peace, Good health, Prosperity and all kinds of Joys. May you have occasion to smile very often!

May the new year brings along all that you long for.

Regards and best wishes,
Tej Ram

vinodks
January 6th, 2007, 04:31 AM
That more or less defines new year's meaning for me. Ofcourse many wont agree but there are diff layers of truth and diff prespective to look through. Got in a list.

"The Year"

What can be said in New Year rhymes,
That's not been said a thousand times?
The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.
We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.
We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings.
We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our prides, we sheet our dead.
We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that's the burden of a year.

-- Ella Wheeler Wilcox