Sanu Deema (Small Granny)
I would smell that un-mistakable pine terpene, the resin that gives happy fragrance. Then I would hear the spluttering of pine sticks burning on the slate stone kept at the edge of hearth. I would open my eyes and see the simmering dawn, stars still bright and twinkling gracefully. Far away, I would see red fire burning, may be the pine sticks burning......may be someone's Deema is up already. I never heard her singing but she talked to herself all the time, the yammering and muttering was way away from my comprehension. My Dewa, (Grand father), popularly known as BagBir (as brave as tiger!!!) had two wives and two families. He use to oscillate between these two wives. He built this house for his second wife, incidentally the younger sister of his first wife. I would not say my grannies lived in harmony, that a women never share a man. I use to visit my Sanu Deema once or twice a year at Salari, Kapasey, Tsirang Dara. Bichgoan to Salari is just about 3 hours hiking but it used to be an affair. I was just about five, and my Mama jiggled me up from the slumber. Then I found all of them were ready, lunch pack, bamboo basket filled with dried pork, Gundruk, the fermented green leaves, sufficient bottles of home brewed liqueurs, (hengwamaa=alcohol) readily assorted for the long walking drink and the one for gifting to Sanu Deema. Before the sunup, we would start this neat procession of about eight persons. The grand old man, Deewa, Mama, Dema saily (aunty), Chhana kanchi, Prakash daju, Nana, Bhakta Bua (Bua=brother) and myself. I would with a small Bhotay Zola (bag with a sling) would take the lead, as I was small and bubbling with energy. I would sprint and wait for the adults to catch on. Mama would ask me not move too fast or will get tired before half way, which seemed meaningless to me then. We would slowly peterout this long trail, adults in their own personal gossips and agendas, while I took onto watching birds and animals on the way. Wayfarers we were, we would cross, Salami School, dipping down to lower Salami. I would see people in their affairs, plowing, trilling, mulching, looking after herds of cattle, or just whistling. Dewa would put me on his horse, Seti and give me the ride, long anticipated. We would then cross the lowest point on our half section of out trail.....Damphu kola near Lapsibotay. Then we would start walking up, on the stony path to Lapsibotay Bazzar. Famous for being the old administrative hub for Tsirang. The shopping spree would spin for a time in a great rush, its already 9:30 am. At great hurry, sweetmeats, bananas, sugarcane, sachets of nuts, coconuts, soap and salt are being scooped. Someone would scout announcement, that we have to hurry and try to cross that long uphill climb afternoon otherwise it would be late night. The formation would take place and there we walk again. Deewa, now at his own would race his horse and wizz off, we have to catch with him in the evening at home. Prakash daju, only 11 months elder to me would teach me how to catch dragonflies on the way and what to look for in the fig tree. The long horizontal path now would slightly curve downward at the base of Suntaley, vertically falling about kilometer to Chanchey river. At the meeting of this geometrical opposite, we would take a rest. The adult party would indulge themselves in bottles while Bhakta bua, Prakash bua and I are given bottle of water milk. The offer would be gracious and we would drink like fish. The vegetation starts to differentiate then, the blue pine in the wind would advertise the monotonous Swah sound....that tingled my emotion. So lonely whispers that they are still ringing in my ears. The sighting of langaurs and makaks were exciting. Lovely cousins on the trees with long tails and prehensile abilities. We would bend our knees on the vertical slop and smell the Artemis and ivies. The villagers would watch our procession in awe or with great degree of curiosity. The kids hid themselves behind the door and peeped from the distance, the animals acknowledged our walk while we sweated the downhill climb. Finally, the bridge would show its majesty, we would pick some green leaves and put at the first pillar of the bridge, invoking the guardian deity to safely fare us to the other bank, The deity always listened to our submission. The bridge was tall, long and swaying in full. We carefully would maneuver with short and firm steps while taking care not to trip. The other side of the river, terraced field would amply give us space to picnic. We would sit around and take lunch in luxury. The pork intestine steam and garnished, the choti rice, peppers boiled in whey, tomato catch up, and water milk, served on banana and fig leaves. The adults participants would go through one or two more rounds of their assorted Hengwamaa sessions and then we would pick uphill climb. The Sun is just right, at our back and we would start slugging forward on dusty, warm sandy path. Both the side of the trail would be covered with jungle, flat sharp stones and some squirrels startled at out sudden presence. The smell of dark warm dusty mud is but far too lethargic. Harrah, bitter nut and guava trees would pleasantly stare at us. Sweating and panting, there is less talk, less cacophonies or less gossips. The steeper the path becomes, shorter the steps we take, less we talked and less we wasted our energies. By and by we would throw forward, the back pack becomes as heavier and the path ever longer. I stood there to take a breadth, I could see the Tshokana slope, spotted with houses. The evening din has already begun, the cicada in full nocturnal call while the birds are home. I could see the herders tending their animals and tying up the loose. I could see the man or woman with pail, rushing to milk or could spot a young lady armful of timber split for the hearth. She would stand and watch us climb....the show continuous. As the evening matures, the pines becomes louder, more monotonous and more somber. The foliages settles to becoming still while the last bees returned. Finally, I could see the house. My sanu Deema's house, double stories mud house with kitchen outside. At the pond from where she would draw her water is still, with animal footprints and hardening mud hills. Then we would, like a marathon runner, give our best walks for the last distance. At the foyer, I could see Sanu Deema smiling and extending her best hospitality to our retinue. Seewa Deema, I would seek her bleesing with others and settle down for the evening chore.
I would smell that un-mistakable pine terpene, the resin that gives happy fragrance. Then I would hear the spluttering of pine sticks burning on the slate stone kept at the edge of hearth. I would open my eyes and see the simmering dawn, stars still bright and twinkling gracefully. Far away, I would see red fire burning, may be the pine sticks burning......may be someone's Deema is up already. I never heard her singing but she talked to herself all the time, the yammering and muttering was way away from my comprehension. My Dewa, (Grand father), popularly known as BagBir (as brave as tiger!!!) had two wives and two families. He use to oscillate between these two wives. He built this house for his second wife, incidentally the younger sister of his first wife. I would not say my grannies lived in harmony, that a women never share a man. I use to visit my Sanu Deema once or twice a year at Salari, Kapasey, Tsirang Dara. Bichgoan to Salari is just about 3 hours hiking but it used to be an affair. I was just about five, and my Mama jiggled me up from the slumber. Then I found all of them were ready, lunch pack, bamboo basket filled with dried pork, Gundruk, the fermented green leaves, sufficient bottles of home brewed liqueurs, (hengwamaa=alcohol) readily assorted for the long walking drink and the one for gifting to Sanu Deema. Before the sunup, we would start this neat procession of about eight persons. The grand old man, Deewa, Mama, Dema saily (aunty), Chhana kanchi, Prakash daju, Nana, Bhakta Bua (Bua=brother) and myself. I would with a small Bhotay Zola (bag with a sling) would take the lead, as I was small and bubbling with energy. I would sprint and wait for the adults to catch on. Mama would ask me not move too fast or will get tired before half way, which seemed meaningless to me then. We would slowly peterout this long trail, adults in their own personal gossips and agendas, while I took onto watching birds and animals on the way. Wayfarers we were, we would cross, Salami School, dipping down to lower Salami. I would see people in their affairs, plowing, trilling, mulching, looking after herds of cattle, or just whistling. Dewa would put me on his horse, Seti and give me the ride, long anticipated. We would then cross the lowest point on our half section of out trail.....Damphu kola near Lapsibotay. Then we would start walking up, on the stony path to Lapsibotay Bazzar. Famous for being the old administrative hub for Tsirang. The shopping spree would spin for a time in a great rush, its already 9:30 am. At great hurry, sweetmeats, bananas, sugarcane, sachets of nuts, coconuts, soap and salt are being scooped. Someone would scout announcement, that we have to hurry and try to cross that long uphill climb afternoon otherwise it would be late night. The formation would take place and there we walk again. Deewa, now at his own would race his horse and wizz off, we have to catch with him in the evening at home. Prakash daju, only 11 months elder to me would teach me how to catch dragonflies on the way and what to look for in the fig tree. The long horizontal path now would slightly curve downward at the base of Suntaley, vertically falling about kilometer to Chanchey river. At the meeting of this geometrical opposite, we would take a rest. The adult party would indulge themselves in bottles while Bhakta bua, Prakash bua and I are given bottle of water milk. The offer would be gracious and we would drink like fish. The vegetation starts to differentiate then, the blue pine in the wind would advertise the monotonous Swah sound....that tingled my emotion. So lonely whispers that they are still ringing in my ears. The sighting of langaurs and makaks were exciting. Lovely cousins on the trees with long tails and prehensile abilities. We would bend our knees on the vertical slop and smell the Artemis and ivies. The villagers would watch our procession in awe or with great degree of curiosity. The kids hid themselves behind the door and peeped from the distance, the animals acknowledged our walk while we sweated the downhill climb. Finally, the bridge would show its majesty, we would pick some green leaves and put at the first pillar of the bridge, invoking the guardian deity to safely fare us to the other bank, The deity always listened to our submission. The bridge was tall, long and swaying in full. We carefully would maneuver with short and firm steps while taking care not to trip. The other side of the river, terraced field would amply give us space to picnic. We would sit around and take lunch in luxury. The pork intestine steam and garnished, the choti rice, peppers boiled in whey, tomato catch up, and water milk, served on banana and fig leaves. The adults participants would go through one or two more rounds of their assorted Hengwamaa sessions and then we would pick uphill climb. The Sun is just right, at our back and we would start slugging forward on dusty, warm sandy path. Both the side of the trail would be covered with jungle, flat sharp stones and some squirrels startled at out sudden presence. The smell of dark warm dusty mud is but far too lethargic. Harrah, bitter nut and guava trees would pleasantly stare at us. Sweating and panting, there is less talk, less cacophonies or less gossips. The steeper the path becomes, shorter the steps we take, less we talked and less we wasted our energies. By and by we would throw forward, the back pack becomes as heavier and the path ever longer. I stood there to take a breadth, I could see the Tshokana slope, spotted with houses. The evening din has already begun, the cicada in full nocturnal call while the birds are home. I could see the herders tending their animals and tying up the loose. I could see the man or woman with pail, rushing to milk or could spot a young lady armful of timber split for the hearth. She would stand and watch us climb....the show continuous. As the evening matures, the pines becomes louder, more monotonous and more somber. The foliages settles to becoming still while the last bees returned. Finally, I could see the house. My sanu Deema's house, double stories mud house with kitchen outside. At the pond from where she would draw her water is still, with animal footprints and hardening mud hills. Then we would, like a marathon runner, give our best walks for the last distance. At the foyer, I could see Sanu Deema smiling and extending her best hospitality to our retinue. Seewa Deema, I would seek her bleesing with others and settle down for the evening chore.
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