THE TAMARIND TREE.

The sweet chirping of birds used to awaken us daily from our sleep during our childhood days. The Tamarind Tree was a huge structure providing shelter to them all round the year. It was just outside my bedroom window, obstructing my view of the road. A few gaps in the foliage however gave us clear view at times during autumn. The crows used to build their nests with all the available twigs and babies used to be nursed by the happy mothers who used to feed them small morsels of food brought by the father crows. During this time the cawing used to be less shrill and melodious. Soon the baby crow would fly away and the cycle used to continue so on and forth. The sweet sparrows used to flock in groups, but never nestled here in view of the dangerous thieving crows. We used to sprinkle grains for them on the window sill. The squirrels used to play hide and seek untiringly on the large branches of the tree with their usual gay abandon. The meek doves sadly avoided this tree.
The kids would come armed with their sling shots and aim for the mouth watering sweet n sour tamarind. A stray stone would often break window panes of the members, which would be repaired with news paper and adhesive tapes.

The spirits always preferred this tree in the night and we used to shut our windows tight. The fear used to quadruple during stormy rainy nights. A couple of bats used to hang upside down at dark scaring us. We would shiver and sleep in the comforting arms of our brave parents.
The tree used to be a magnetic attraction for all the paper kites which used to entangle and soar in the air but with their anchoring thread firmly rooted with the small branches.
It was a vibrant and a colourful tree, full of life.

One rainy afternoon, I heard sobs of an elderly couple beneath the tree. They were sitting with all their belongings wrapped up in small cloth bundles. A small kerosene stove was getting wet under the steady downpour. Their clothes suggested a lower middle class status and their faces were sullen, with the tears matching the flow of the incessant rain. As the rains held up, a few people inquired about them. The wrinkled father in a slow staccato manner revealed their sad story.
Their son was an unemployed rogue who had promised them a bigger home and made them sell their small one. He had asked them to wait under The Tamarind Tree where he would pick them up. A day had passed and there was no trace of their son. He had duped them of their money and shelter. They had nowhere to go now. Soon, a crowd gathered and a plan was made to shift the aged parents to the old age home in our town. The samaritans in our town got them tea and chapatis which were devoured by the hungry couple in minutes. Slowly, they ambled to the old age home. They accepted their tragic fate, cursing their only wasted son.
A few months later, a new sad spirit joined The Tamarind Tree.
He was destined to stay there for a long time, like the entangled kites.
The devil would never liberate him.
It was the spirit of the rogue son who had died in a strange mishap, unheard of, in our small town.

THE COIN COLLECTORS.

RAJU
The hit movie was playing to full houses all over our small town. The cash registers were jingling with money. The songs were always accompanied with the disco lighting on the side of the faded white screen. Probably, years of cobwebs had gathered on the screen to give the hue. Each song elicited a shower of coins and the whistling jeering crowds would dance in the aisle. Raju was a very happy man. This movie meant a lot to him,especially during the festive time. He would buy his grumbling wife and runny nosed kids some shiny clothes. He felt relieved. Raju's pockets were full with loose change by the end of the show. He had to, unwillingly partake a small share for the usher. He was a sweeper in the theatre and was grinning from ear to ear. When a curious somebody asked him the plot of the movie, he replied casually shuffling the beedi in his mouth, he had hardly seen the movie! He was busy collecting coins.
SANJU
The procession was a long one with everyone dressed in their finest white linen clothes. A great industrialist had expired and along with his dead body rode his entourage of well wishers and family. Sanju lived in a slum along side this posh road full of sky scrapers. A death in this locality meant good news for him. He would wear his only pair of white faded clothes and accompany the funeral procession as a concerned mourner. Nobody had time to stare at him. As the relatives marched, the prodigal son leading the procession was spraying the path with flowers and coins which he had carried in a big plastic bag. Sanju was a busy man, crouching all along the road collecting coins for himself and his poor family.
MANJU
Manju was a small girl outside our town temple who used to sell small flower beads kept in a small wicker basket for our town ladies to adorn their henna coloured hair. The flower beads used to cost 5 rupees each and by the end of the day, her small cloth purse would jingle jangle wih the coins. She worked hard and was tired by the time she reached home. Her mother had passed away after her birth and her father along with her little brother used to stay in her small shanty of a house. The coin purse used to be promptly snatched by her father who would buy booze to fulfill his addiction. Her beatings were inversely proportional to the amount of coins. A new day would see her perched outside the temple ready with her basket and empty, once coin filled purse.

The coin collectors would collect and count coins, all through out their lives.
The jingle in their pockets,music for their ears, propelled their hard lives.

TOMATO-GANPATI. FORTUNE COOKIES.

My paternal granny was a typical Maharashtrian lady, dressed in a nine yard Saree with a big kumkum bindi on her forehead and a long mangalsutra with a cloth bag in her slender hands. An aluminium box with betel nuts-leaves, lime and tobacco used to be her constant companion. She used to walk very slowly and was addicted to her weekly dose of vitamin injection, which used to recharge her for the entire ensuing week. She was non pretentious and a happy go lucky person in life. Her favourite pastime was seeing old black-white Marathi movies while massaging a small copper utensil on her tiny soles of her feet. An evening barefoot stroll in our garden used to be her exercise. She had a pure heart, devoid of any materialistic longings.

It was the summer of 1985, She had come to stay with us for a fortnight or so. She, in a concerned tone mentioned that she had left the tomatoes in the cane basket while leaving her home. We told her to forget about it. Anyway, she left after a fortnight and reached home. A pleasant surprise awaited her.

All the tomatoes had withered, except one. The Tomato had developed a long snout on its body, starting from the top and deviating to the right at the middle portion like an elephant's trunk. She cried a lot in amazement and disbelief. Lord Ganesha had visited her humble abode. It was a miracle. We rushed to her place and found ourselves standing in the back of a long queue of devotees eagerly awaiting the darshan of the 'Tomato Ganpati'. The news had spread like wild fire and my grandparents' home soon resembled a holy shrine where people of all walks of life turned to pay obeisance to the lord with a small hibiscus flower in their hands.. The Tomato had survived intense heat of summer for a fortnight or so. The skin was shiny and turgid as if it was still an un plucked vegetable from a creeper. Of course, the snout was like the Lord Ganesha's trunk. We knelt and become prostate and took the Lord's blessings.

This Tomato survived for 3 months!

Later, with tears in their eyes, they immersed it in a nearby lake. There were no news hungry TV channels to cover the event. My granny did not want any commercial or social mileage for the event. She was a simple lady of humble means and needs.

This miracle bestowed a lot of blessings and good fortune on our middle class family. We got what we wanted. We gradually ascended the social ladder of life. My aunt got married, dad got promoted and we excelled in studies. The goal oriented focus was back in our lives. My granny was all smiles. She was a kind soul and the Lord hence, had graced her humble home. She had an indirect role in our prosperity and well being. Her good deeds and a selfless nature sowed seeds of success in our life.

We used to visit her house every Ganesh Chaturthi when she used to make the most delicious modaks for us. Each modak was like a fortune cookie with a small 50 paise coin inside it. She usually put the coin in every modak, so as to make all her eager grand children happy. We would carefully keep the coin in our study to give us good luck. It always worked for us.

A decade back, my granny passed away.

Every Ganesh Chaturthi, I miss her loving, caring and the fortune cookie modaks.

Her garlanded photo watches over me, in each and every step of life.

PUZZLES.

I was staring at the enigmatic puzzle from all angles, The Rubik's Cube was pleading me to help arrange it's disarrayed structure. The colours were all mismatching and cried for their proper alignment and location. I believed in communal harmony but the colours were adamant, They wanted their sovereignty badly. I tried twisting, rotating and revolving the cube to solve it but after an hour's effort gave up. I just could not concentrate and lacked further patience. I had to admit defeat to this particular small inanimate cube. I kept the cube in my rack gracefully.
I was never a whiz kid in my whole life and now at this greying stages of life, it was an insurmountable challenge.
I reflected on my school days. I was a topper through out my academic life but just could not fathom puzzles. I never taxed my brain to solve them. Chess was my proverbial Waterloo where my opponents would lick me in minutes. Surprisingly, Math problems were dealt by me quickly. I never grumbled and grew up to become a doctor.
I deal with numerous patients daily and treat their ailments, much to their delight. Once I encounter a difficult undiagnosed patient, I never give up chasing the diagnosis,come what may!My entire thought process revolves around their puzzling ailment and through out the day the thought of the elusive diagnosis grips my mind. I sleep on the bed, eyes open, thinking about the patient. Sometimes, I dream about them too. I'm preoccupied, nothing else matters. A clear dedicated approach eventually bears fruit and the healing process begins. I sleep with my eyes closed that night, happily. My indoor patients' reports are all intact in my memory. It doesn't take any extra effort.
God gives ability to every individual on this planet to solve complex puzzles.
In my case, I solve the intricate puzzles of the human body.
The multi-coloured Rubik's Cube sits quietly on my rack in a blissful disarray.
I have understood my limitations and have learnt to live with them .
I think, everybody should.
My 5 month old son gazes at the cube, picks it gently with his little fingers and puts it in his salivating mouth. He bites it hard.
I smile, Maybe, one fine day he will solve it.

ASHEN HAIR-RED EYES...

Ramjibhai was an elderly gentleman who used to hang around our town's crematorium, all round the year. He used to stand as the guardian at the gates, but was not aware of the further transit of the soul of the dead body, hell or heaven, he never bothered or cared.

His only job was to help the kith and kin of the deceased in conducting the cremation ceremony. He was laid back in his life but the sight of the funeral party used to propel his ageing feet to action. As the dead body entered the gates, he would take over. The garlands would be carefully removed, the ghee in the plastic bag smeared over the body and then a careful placement of the body on the pyre. He would comfort the heir before torching the pyre. As the flames leapt up, the relatives would shy away from the pyre but Ramjibhai would stay there arranging the burning body parts with a long bamboo stick to ensure a proper and an even burning of the flesh, leaving only the bones around in the end.

As the heated skull broke open, you could hear a crackling noise of the liquified brain oozing out with a gush. That would be the end point of the funeral for the relatives who would rapidly walk out of the crematorium trying to catch up their lost time. Ramjibhai would stay there till the ashes. He would lovingly wrap the ashes in a red cloth and hand it over to the relatives, the next day to be immersed in the holy waters. A bag of grains and some cash used to be his meagre earnings.

Ramjibhai always had ash in his greyish white hair, it used to gel well with his hair colour and on closer inspection only, be visible. But you could never miss his constantly lacrimating, angry red eyes which bore the brunt of the heat of the pyres. He would await, patiently with a small beedi in his mouth for the arrival of the next funeral, Then, the entire cycle would go on. He would sleep there only, all alone with the souls, in case of any nocturnal death-services.

I met him once and asked him the reason for such a unique service, that too without any substantial wages or comfort, so very much desired, by the people of his age. He told me that he had decided to offer this service voluntarily and in fact, was attuned to it. He could not bear to work for the living population of our town, who may have not been good to him in the past. He preferred working for the dead. He denied having any family of his own.

He stayed there in the scary confines, as he had nowhere else to go.

As he neared his end days, he made a decision to visit the city of holy waters. He bowed to the almighty before taking the plunge to his eventual death. He wanted to die in the watery grave.

His body could not take the heat, any longer.

DAHI-HANDI- SKULLBONES AND COCONUTS.

It was a rainy morning that Janmashtami, we were small kids in our building, chipped in 5 rupees each, to gather the materials for our dahi handi program. We were all excited as it was our first effort to celebrate this festival. I decorated the clay pot with flowers and leaves,crowned it with the customary auspicious coconut, the rope with garlands, fruits and balloons. We requested our 1st floor members to let us tie the rope between their windows. The rope looked resplendent and the pot was inviting us to have a shot at it. I was the tallest and looked strong, (But I am a very meek hearted person) hence was the automatic choice for the base of the pyramid. Despite numerous amateurish attempts, we could not succeed in breaking the pot. The parents were also exasperated and getting impatient.

The rope was lowered by our kind 1st floor members and at the height of 8 feet, the pot was broken with the coconut much to the relief of the gathered parents. The small kid who had climbed on my able shoulders, in all excitement threw the coconut down, bang on my shoulder. I also left him hanging on the rope in retaliation. His poor parents rescued him and he vowed to never attempt this breaking ceremony again. That was our first and last attempt at the dahi-handi ceremony.

We felt victorious like some soldiers and rushed home to grab our meals. We decorated ourselves with the garlands too. It was all unadulterated media unexposed fun. The erstwhile hanging small kid left the crowd, shivering inside.

It was a rainy afternoon, when I got a call from my hospital that a 18 year old boy, named Sanjay was admitted in a comatose condition with a grievous head injury. He had fallen from the top of the human pyramid during the dahi handi celebrations and the crowd could not arrest his fall. He fell from a significant height and the skull bones of his head just split apart on impact on the hard concrete road. He had a hematoma in his contused brain. He was operated by a team of skilled surgeons and after a month, walked away home.

His widowed mother, incidentally was a staff nurse in my college hospital where I had studied. She thanked me profusely with tears in her eyes. I gave her a small memento, a piece of the coconut shell which had accompanied Sanjay during the time of admission to the hospital. The coconut shell protects the soft kernel inside like the skull bones protect the soft brain.

Sanjay still wears a locket with the piece of the coconut shell inside, as his protective amulet.

It was a rainy evening in our KEM hospital, we were posted as interns in the casualty department. It was a busy night with all the dahi handi revellers getting admitted for poly trauma in various states of drunk stupor. They were in a state of euphoria despite the fractures and injuries. They were all ordinary working class people. I thought that, just alcohol alone could not be responsible for their pain free state. Someone from the crowd told me that their team had won the first prize in the dahi handi competition for the tallest human pyramid formation.

Money was their biggest anesthetic and analgesic!

Next day, all of them got discharged, proudly flaunting their hard white plaster casts. There was a swagger in their limp also. They would be feeling rich, albeit for a few days.

Nowadays, dahi handi celebrations begin in rainy nights with pomp and music. They are well covered by the news hungry media. Each street has a dahi handi, affiliated to the local politician. There is a lot of money to be given away by the pot bellied politicians.The flop TV stars and out of work movie side kicks grace this festival. They have glamourised the festival and given it political hues which upsets me. The sanctity and the purpose have been relegated to the back ground.

The innocence of celebration has been snatched away from us.

I still recollect the 5 rupee contribution, from our pocket money, which we had made in our childhood.

I try to sleep, amidst the din of the blaring loud speakers.