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All about picnics..

The other day my daughter came home from college and announced happily that they would soon be going for a picnic. The whole idea of picnics in this hot and humid weather put me off. And when I heard that the whole affair would be in one of those biggish houses on the outskirts of the city, I was tempted to dissuade her from going. However, I refrained from doing so, but told her emphatically that it was not my idea of picnics.

What was my idea of picnics then ? To me, picnics are meant to be enjoyed  in scenic places such as woods, lake sides, hill tops and valleys. And food is either meant to be packed or cooked in the open. My thoughts immediately turned to the happy days of my childhood in Shillong where every place was fit to be a picnic spot.

No sooner did winter set in than we began making plans for picnics. The person who took the initiative in chalking out plans and bringing a smile to our face was my aunt, my father’s sister , who we lovingly called Chhoto pishi . Always full of beans and never one to shy away from adventure , eager to traverse the road less travelled, it was her infectious enthusiasm which made it possible for us to see so many beautiful places.

Once the venue had been decided upon, and I must say we were spoilt for choice , the picnic hamper or the basket would be arranged. Then, saucepans, knives, spoons, ladles, forks, plates, glasses, would be meticulously packed. Table cloths and kitchen towels would jostle for space with sweets and biscuits and even rubber balls which my brother stealthily put into the basket !

Picnic at Umtyngar

There were many picnics that we went to, but a few are etched in my mind. One picnic that I shall never forget was the one we went on a Christmas eve to a place called Umtyngar. About 20 kilometres from Shillong, the place is pretty as a picture  with a gurgling river passing along, thick pine forests and darkness beyond. We spent the entire day chasing butterflies, frolicking in the waters, gathering stones of various shapes and sizes and savouring every bit of the finger licking mutton and rice cooked to perfection by my aunt and my mother . And it seems incredible now that the food was cooked over a roaring fire which we ourselves lit with twigs and wood collected from the forest! But it is also true that food seems to taste better outdoors, especially when  spread on a sheet in the grass and shared with loved ones…

While some of us sat and enjoyed the beauty of Nature, my brothers always had a penchant for going deeper inside the woods. I remember I got particularly scared when my uncle, in a bid to frighten me, spoke of being able to get a distinct feline smell in the vicinity. I held on to my father and refused to let him budge, lest he should fall prey to a clouded leopard ! For me , watching leopards at the mini zoo at Lady Hydari Park was a safer option !

The most exciting part of the picnic was our return to Shillong . The last bus had left and we were left high and dry. Can you guess how we got back home ? Two trucks laden with coal were on their way to Shillong and the drivers were kind enough to offer us a lift. We chatted with them and wished them a hearty ‘thank you’ when we were dropped off at Police Bazar.

Another memorable picnic was the one we went to at Dawki, a small town bordering Bangladesh . Its chief attraction is the absolutely sublime beauty of the crystal clear water of the Umngot river. After a 95 kilometre drive through deep gorges and ravines, we headed straight to the river for boating. Being afraid of water, I was reluctant to step into the narrow boat, as the water, though a beautiful emerald green seemed perilous. However, staying alone on the river bank didn’t appeal to me either, so I perched myself precariously on the boat and decided not to look here and there. Rather, I chose to focus attention on the hills and verdant greens in the distance. Alas, that was not to be! My aunt, having just discovered a shoal of fish under the crevice of some boulders in the clear water wanted to share her delight with me. The more I riveted my attention on the green water, terror seemed to seize me.I counted minutes to return to the river bank , but the journey seemed endless !

This time too, our return to Shillong was beset with problems. Those days the Shillong-Dawki road used to be a one way road and many anxious moments were spent as the bus strove hard to reach the mid point within the stipulated time. We had our hearts in our mouth as the skilful driver tackled hair pin bends with expertise and mastery. Here we were, filled with anxiety and panic ,but the Khasi driver was a picture of elan and confidence. In his smart leather jacket and woollen cap with a pipe dangling from his mouth ,he looked poised and confident in this dangerous terrain.

The drive from Dawki through deep gorges on one side and rugged hill sides on the other truly seemed endless . Only the large green ferns and tiny white and pink flowers on the damp hill sides brought prettiness to the picture. By  the time we reached Shillong we were a bundle of nerves and completely exhausted. I still recall falling asleep in the taxi and being picked up and put into bed by my father. It gives me a warm secure feeling to the day.

If I rummage through my memories I remember many other picnics that we had in Mawphlang ,Golf Links ,Umiam Lake,  Happy Valley…the list is endless .As I pen down my thoughts , some sights and sounds flit in and out of my mind ___gathering pine cones from the damp earth full of the scent of pine ,the sound of gurgling water , the aroma of fresh oranges and above all the enduring image of my father wrapped in woollens , the transistor slung over his shoulder ,listening to Anand Setalvad’s voice- Andy Roberts, right arm over the wicket , bowls to Gavaskar…..

Once upon a time…

A book that I like to read time and again, specially in these troubled times, is Rahul Pandita’s “Our moon has blood clots”.Browsing through this memoir of emotional turmoil in strife torn Kashmir took me to disturbed times in my hometown,Shillong.

The year was 1979 ; it was the month of November. Although I cannot recall the exact date, I do remember that something happened on that day which changed our lives forever.For the first time in our lives we heard words like “outsider”, “non-tribal”, “curfew” – words which made the air heavy with hatred , animosity , confusion and uncertainty.

Schools had shut down, final exams were cancelled (We were in class 8 then ) and only ICSE examinees reached school amid heavy security . Curfew was imposed in the city and there was tension all around. The desecration of an idol of Goddess Kali in the Laitumkhrah locality was apparently what triggered incidents of violence. Cocooned in the confines of our homes, we could fathom little of what was happening in the town. Our teenage minds could hardly understand the reason behind this sudden outbreak of violence and we thought naively that our idyllic days of yore would soon be back.

With the imposition of curfew, a new phase began in our lives. Our peaceful tranquil life, bordering on somnolence, suddenly became turbulent. Arson, murders , looting seemed to have become the order of the day if newspaper reports were to be believed . Yet, we were able to brush aside everything and spend the days doing nothing except play,chat and listen to music. We could not go out for days on end and there were standing instructions from Baba- don’t leave the house without tuning in to the regional news broadcast on AIR Shillong every morning at 8.25. It seemed that our lives were guided by the sinister sounding updates given by Esther Booth and June Pariat !!

Shillong returned to normal in a couple of months but certain things had changed forever.Although our roots in Shillong could be traced back to the middle of the 19th century when my great grandfather was born, we, the non tribals were referred to as foreigners or “dkhars” – but how could we be called foreigners when Shillong had been our home for four generations ? My great grandfather, Kailash Chandra Das, was among the prominent members of the Bengali community which settled in the locality of Laban. It was he who took the initiative to bring Swami Vivekanda to our house in Laban in 1901 (https://www.assamtimes.org/node/10815) . My grandfather Sudha Sindhu Roy, born in 1894 in Shillong was a sportsman par excellence and was one of the founder members of the undivided Assam Football Association. He was also instrumental in forming the Assam Cricket Association on 30th November 1947 and became one of its founder secretaries. (http://www.assamcricket.com/history)

Swami Vivekananda at our Laban house in 1901.
My grandfather,(in the second row, left hand corner ) with the victorious Town Club team.

The hill station, established in 1874 as the Head Quarter of Assam Province, was born as a cosmopolitan town because the British needed occupation specific communities to run the administration. Bengalis had been making Shillong their home for centuries- via Assam in the North and from Bangladesh in the South. To the Bengali, mostly in colonial government service,the town’s appeal lay in its wonderful difference from the plains and he gladly made himself comfortable in his cozy wattle and daub house amidst the rolling hills and tall pines.

The disturbances of 1979 resulted in an exodus of non tribals from Meghalaya to other states of India, primarily West Bengal. Amidst all this darkness however, I must say that I was lucky that none of this bitterness and animosity could affect our relationship with tribal friends and acquaintances with whom we had grown up. That we could rise above narrow parochial feelings certainly had something to do with our Catholic upbringing in Loreto Convent, Shillong.

For the next eight years, life was normal and disturbances were few and far between. However communalism raised its ugly head again in 1987. I was then a Masters’ student at NEHU. The beautiful Mayurbhanj campus of the University (which now houses IIM,Shillong) with its erudite professors gave us delightful experiences.No sooner had I begun to revel in its wonderful ambience than trouble erupted and matters became so serious that the University shut down for what seemed like an eternity.

The final nail in the coffin was an incident which took place on the 13th October, 1987. I remember the date because it was the day the legendary singer, Kishore Kumar passed away. Chitrahar – the ever popular programme on Hindi film songs was airing popular songs of the great singer. My mother and I, in spite of an imposed blackout by a powerful student union, continued to watch the programme. Minutes later, a flurry of stones pelted on our glass window panes shattered not only the silence of the night but instilled in us an unspeakable fear. A day later, there was an attempt by miscreants to set fire to our electric meter box. That was indeed the last straw.

The next morning when Baba came from Guwahati, there was a strange firmness in his voice as he spoke of leaving Shillong and moving to a place where we would not have to live in fear and panic. Not in his wildest dreams did Baba think he would one day have to leave his home and hearth and become a refugee in his own land. There was no other place we could call ‘home’ and it wouldn’t be wrong to say that we felt dispossessed, displaced, homeless and uprooted.No matter how many words I use to describe our plight, nothing can truly express how traumatized we were.

On a cold December morning when we were leaving Shillong for good, fighting hard to hold back tears, we were not just leaving a city to move to another one,we were extricating ourselves from a labyrinth of emotions,ties and bonds.

It has been a little more than 30 years since we moved to Kolkata but I wonder if we have been able to loosen or disentangle ourselves from the ties which bind us to the pretty little town we still call home.

The Shillong of my childhood is gone forever but I still pine for its pine trees, church peals in the evening, the azure blue sky and even the ‘angtha’ lit with charcoal, holding its fort in the middle of a room….Thankfully , there’s a new word that I have learnt – “hiraeth”, that aptly describes this longing. It is a Welsh concept( Isn’t it interesting that Shillong and Wales also have an indelible connect) and means, quite simply, a kind of homesickness, nostalgia and yearning for a home that one cannot return to. So if you find yourself pining for Shillong, at least you’ll know how to describe the feeling !