A Slice of Magic: Kal Boishakhi.

I do believe that Moses parted the Red Sea. I also believe that Hanuman knew this secret air tunnel from Chennai to Sri Lanka.

It is not difficult,to believe so, if you note the Rains. It Rains every Janmashtami night. It rains every winter, for the winter paddy and on the aam Bakuls. It rains every April, the kaal baishakhi.
This scribble, shall be about the kalbaishakhi.

The geographic explanations are unchallenged. And the meteorological historical data shall remain unchallenged.
But the jhor. There are some words, which have no English. The Jhor is one of them.

A Bengali jhor, is very different from any Hawaiian hurricane, south Indian cyclone or the Goa -Kerala Monsoons.

A bangali jhor , is one which sends the babumoshai’s dhooti all a fluster. ( damn Microsoft word for correcting dhooti to dhoti EVERY SINGLE TIME !!! I WANT to write dhooti.) A bangali jhor trumpets itself in ripples across the many water surface patches. The bou ma shall scurry to gather her stiffly starched sharees from the rooftops. A little boy will abandon the “onko” that he was doing…. Perhaps fractions from a K C Nag ( ??) and look outside the window. A maid servant will hurry to gather up the sun drying slivers of turmericed green mango and salted “kool” ( ber, I believe is the Hindi word for it), and she will slip into her mouth a few tart pieces of fruit. The Kitchen chorai ( sparrow) shall scurry to find a narrow border of a parapet, plenty to be found in a bangali baari.

Notice the stout bel tree and the guava tree? The one adjacent to the hibiscus? They all seem to craning to their maximum, as if to see if the clouds are really coming, or are they just imagining it.

In some south Calcutta, the churan,muri,cha and eggs-and-bread wala gather up their tin boxes that magically fit into each other and become one compact thing. The more urban bangali babu will make sure his new Maruti Zen is not left out in the streets.

A bangali jhor is different. it blows up no dust, like all other storms in all other parts of the country. It threatens nothing; it is a playful thing, in defiance of summer.

Much before it comes, you smell it. You smell the bheja maati. Imagine wet slit. Mud that has been brought in by the river. A layer that has been paddy-ed and mustarded, till green and yellow becomes golden brown and dry. A mud that has more mineral that any other.

Then you sniff the rain. No this is not a metallic grey steely rain. This is a young fresh rain. That carried in a little salt from the oceans, a little spring water fragrance from the mountains. It has a little cologne-like freshness of a jambrul, and the sweet water density of the taal gach. ( I don’t know the Hindi/ English to taal or jambrul).it is just a whiff. One that flirts with your olfactory. One that teases the mind. Are you imagining it, or do you really smell the rain?

Then the wind blows in. Each thread of wind a spiral, a zig zag, a hummer, a siren. Each wind winds its own channel. Each flies like a kite on an unkown thread. Swoop. Swirl. Dive.Duck.

Far away, the horizon is starkly demarcated by a line of dense palms. Not tall, bent and solitary like you see in the ads of Kerala and Goa. These are short, squat….. can you visualize a palm jungle. With a lot of overgrown undergrowth? It is like that. Beyond the very first line of trees, the palms; their trunks and the fronds become a jumbled mass. A thicket . But in the wind, these shorties get into the beat. They dance like a voodoo dervish. Their fronds are twirl, one like a skirt, one like a plait of hair.

And with the fronds setting the chanda ( rhythm) the rest of the world settles to dance with the jhor.

It is funny, ( or is it funny?) that the crow, which normally shies away from the rains, actually stays perched, as if to swoop down and prey on the jhor: vulture like. The street dogs and the stray kittens fear not a chill. They find them selves a garbage pushcart ( no there are no garbage bins in Calcutta, not yet). They find themselves a door step. A spot on the pavement, where they can soak in the rain. The beggars , too. Just so that they can watch the jhor, not a need for shelter.

Then the wind hits the streets. And threads of winds grab a partner. A plastic packet, a newspaper scrap, an empty bag of chips….. They all rise off the surface of the road. They somersault. Do cart wheels. Mementos of human civilization. A bolder spiral of wind will waltz with a flat piece of cardboard,as if pedalling . Or will drag along a white synthetic piece of plastic sacking. The younger, more playful little wisps shall ruffle your hair, and get into the sweat pasted shirt on your back. It shall unsettle the newspaper that you were just getting into after lunch. There is a tomorrow to every daily newspaper, it shall whisper to you.

The Kacha mangoes shall drop to the ground with a thud. No, that is the English word. What is the Bengali word for the sound of the mango falling? The daab ,too, shall fall. The kalo jam gash bright pink as they fall and patter to the rain. Yes, it is raining by now.

And the little boys. The bustee boys and changra boys. Who wear no shirts. Perhaps a singlet if they have strict mothers. They shall run and whoop with the rain and the wind. Gathering the fallen fruits. No not gathering. Stealing. The wind shall add speed when they are running away from the be spectacled grouchy owner of fallen fruit. The boys stop. Look over their shoulder with a grin that is now a fixture on their faces, and ask the wind, your way or mine?? I know this street better. Race?
And the wind tells them saucily …. Ill see you at the end of your street. And then may I choose the direction?? By the way… that coconut tree there??… What say??

And the South Calcutta boys ? they will lounge around. Or initiate an idly slow cricket. Not football. Not yet. They shall watch the bathroom windows of flimsy glass shatter in the wind. They shall watch the buildings. Smell some spice. Some musk.
And if you are living anywhere beyond the 5th floor, o bliss… see how the city instantly perks up? The women on the rooftops, the maze of lanes that look narrow, the far away dusky dusty buildings. Kaal boishakhi is just for everyone. And you smile as you feel the bangali jhor.

And they all scurry and drift. And perhaps a happy street dog will run with them. Just because its fun to run in this jhor. Not because you have to get anywhere.

And an old woman. She shall sit indoors.in her little bostee baree shack. She might be scared. That her roof will blow away. Or that her house will be ravaged. But she hears the wind whistle through her khokhori. The wooden shutter can keep the summer heat away, but not the jhor. She brings her sheetal pati woven mat to her window. And she shall sit on it. Or a chair if she has one. And she shall open her window and look out of her iron barred window. The wind will not be rough on her. It shall not rip through her home. It shall not even spray on her. A little of the scent of the bheja mati will settle into the the fine lines on her face. Like sandalwood and cucumber. And she shall feel.

and then later, when you are drying off, you Ma shall make you Cha. And Muri makha. With the pungency of onion and the sharpness of mustard oil. Tele bhaja? is it the time for a Tele Bhaja? Sliently while you sip your cha, you contemplate on how the sky is clearing up, and the Jhor will quieten down.
it shall be another Bikel Bela, where i shall go round up the Para boys to play cricket , or Carrom. And take the dog for a walk at Shandhya.

the drains wont overflow. and the buses will still ply. this is just playtime for all. nothing, apart from that south cal bathroom window shattered. Calm returned to our little Bangali worlds.

Kal boishakhi. Every year, it rains.14th and 15th April. If I’ve been in Nasik, in Gujarat, or in Nagercoil ( some Tamil Nadu piece of land). Isn’t that a slice of magic?? Do you now believe that the Loch Ness could exist?

This year, in Delhi, I forgot. I forgot that the jhor would happen.. I forgot to expect a jhor. I saw the “aandhi” instead.

(aandhi...To be continued ….)