My Slingshot Catapult.....it happened to be the most expensive one.

In those days, we had lots of outdoors. I grew up playing football....atypical ones. Just anything that was worth dribbling and kick-able would be a good football. Fruits, especially citruses, ball of plant wool, spider net or cobwebs, inflated animal bladders, tufts of dub-grass (dactylon) and just anything. The other being bird hunting. We would form a teamster of about six to nine boys and would chuck out strategies and grand war plans on bird hunting. The teacher would miss out classes and that would give us finest congeniality for hatching ambush. In the south, wild dove, bulbul, pegions, cookcoos, peasant and other birds were aplenty. We would go for dove because they form a huge cadre of about 20 and more birds. Through out my regimentation as slingshot shooter, I never hit a bird. The ammunition for my Slingshot would be of amazing variety; pebble, mud-balls, steel-balls, bearings, marbles or anything that would leave the sling with perfect aerodynamics. For me, steel-balls were the golden bullets.....would use for assassinating only high profile game like peasant and queen dove. I would prowl with perfect stealth accessing the distance and the angle of my trajectory. At about fifteen meters with perfect angle, I would pull my sling up to my ear and release the marble like a sniper. To my dissatisfaction, the missile would take on quick turn and my sling would bungee up buckling in its own length......the bullet would land at the back with a thud, the dove on the branch would not even notice the air. One day, I settled on making one of the finest Slingshot catapult of my life. I researched whole of the vicinity looking for the best slingshot handle, a branch of tree that is "Y" naturally, stout and resilient. I hack-sawed one best from citrus tree, with sheer mathematical  intelligence. I then seasoned my weaponry with the edge of Khukuri and file away all the rough granules, made it smooth and beautiful. I tugged the bungee sling on the handle with rubber bands cutaways. This could be done with, football rubber, balloons, even condoms would do the securing of the arms. The only resource deficit at that moment of making was the strap. I tried to find and ransacked rooms and trunks with little luck. Later I realized that the providence was too smart  because I had the biggest luck awaiting for me at the corner of the staircase, The lather shoes. Without further ado, I just picked up the luck, and went to my workshop and neatly cut away the leather of this Moccasino, picked up eyes on the strap and secured at my sling. It was beautiful with mechanical redemption. I exercised my regular hunting with bunch of wolves. That evening, my old man, Deewa (grandpa) was carpet searching for his beloved pairs of shoes. I remember his expression and countenance of despair in losing expensive Italian Moccasin, inverse lather shoes, gifted to him by one of his Natees who been to west for study. The left out of the shoes, sole and the reinforcing I put inside the firewood stacks.........it was like the taliban hidout in the mountain of Hindukush.....only this time, the secret would spill over like an elephant under the carpet, as the stack of firewood receded........when later the leftouts were finally discovered by Mama, the all out blame went to biggest rat in the house......I still remember my old man laughing his heart out with slightly emotional sweet pain conjecture.............

The  mysterious, mischievous Macavity from Eliot's pen would be the near perfect definition of a young boy learning the ways of the world. Then, that was me a very long time back......almost three decade and half winters back. Thin stature that no one in the family would believe me to grow in girth. Kiran, an equally mischievous and mathematically intelligent, immediate sibling who never would take me by three winters was a company, friend and my brother. Smart and temperamental in his natural best. We would hang around the house playing a boyish gun battle and a tricycle that Papa would have got for us from Gwahati. I would steer and peddle till my knees gave up, while he would occupy the stepney seat, hooting in great enthusiasm as we roller costed the slop behind our house. Then, we would let the gravity do the job, take a turn and come to the same point, routinely as ever. I don't remember, getting tired of this function till some one in the house, intercepted our brotherly round the world, in tricycle. Our contemporaries would watch and jeer us play and may be borrow turns for the ride. It depended, sometime they would get, or otherwise, we simply rejected the sweet tongues. We would play and play and play mischievously till some we get into trouble of being caught in the action or being reported of. We would reap away the birds nests and take a pleasure in crushing their progenies. We would climb tuft of plants, thick bushes or orange branches just to break into the bird's nest and spoil their families. The orange trees were lean and just, we would swing and lay them into ground. We had these plants, from the time our ancestors threw seeds on this land. The favorite of all the trees was the one near the brook, shadowed by the bamboo reeds, overly at the cardamom nursery. While the orange sprouted and started to flower, cardamom spindle would watch and envy......I being elder, I would often monkey the tree and vandalize the dove, bulbul or faista's nest, That day, we were in inaction spree and we had Kombies, bent sickles with blade like scalpel out of operating theater. Bubu, there shouted Kiran in excitement. Without wasting a second, I jumped into the tree and started my hands on Kotera bird. Poor birds, the nest was ofcourse, with the baby birds, just about few days. With my expertise, I ransacked these unfortunate birds and vollyballed to the ground. The poor chicks, six or seven in counts were naked, still delicate and pinkish with dots of eyes. They would open their beaks, quivering and with great hopes of maggots and worms. I would take them one by one and execute them by running their tender neck through the razor blade, position them horizontally to the edge, slightly push and slide them. The razor would shear them like water.....they would never feel the pain but the very act would be painful. I would giggle in excitement, mutter and execute another.....till the last bird. Just then the execution of the last chick finished, I found my self being missiled by stone pebbles and hard mud. There was that monstrous voice shouting at us and as I lifted my head up, found Bhakta bua, pelting another mud bullet on my way. I ducked and jumped and sprinted like a deer in-front of a lion. He was home from college as accidentally found our vicious endeavour. Having stalked for a while, he punished us by pulling our ear and rendering us few slaps, and delivering us of discourse covering the value of innocence, helplessness and life at large. Today, as I write this piece, I understand him then, that he was just scaring us by short-putting stones at us.....and yes, I learnt to save life......often, when we meet and over the barrel of beer, we talk and laugh these things. He is my Rimpoche, presently he is a professor at CNR!!!!

 The beauty of verbal innuendos is as glorifying as it can be and I love the sharp double edges that it bears.....it is like the marriage between Japanese Samurai sowrd and legendary Khukuri in the hand of a Seal.....it exposes the intelligence of the executor and the indulgence if the executee....its like a baby tooth....deciduous but bites u like a 15 tonnes shark....its just beautiful and overtly addictive.....like a pornography in the mind of teenage.....just shakes you off till you bleed with unfathomable ecstasy........Naked as I can be and would wait in between the sheets.....with billions of floating dreams....and anticipation. I would suggest to myself as how should I complete my tonight. The angle, the depth, magnitude, do I use pillow, switch on or off the glaring lamp, am I going to sweat or shiver....do I lie on the back or hit from the top, am I going to groan and moan.....all alone. She would without conscious effort let me inside her softly and with gradual progression lull me like an opiated miracle. She would dissect me to my atomic level, as I start to fall apart.....as my eyes droop down and finally close in that infinite dimension....I enter the oblivion. She takes over my cerebrum function cowboying me through the heaven and hell of the dream.....and of-course, in-betweens. She hangs me whole night with little suspension to my nature calls.....to drink, to eat, to lick, to squat or to stand......the need. I would float and sail smoothly through the ocean of her empathy.....some night it would be nightmarish and I would shout my guts....or detonate in silent depth. Warm and blissful. The hidden balls in the jungle of glued skin roll and skew....the skin starts to shear apart and the touching trihocysts longs for departure...the balls come out and my conscious life begins then. I leave those cozy moments in between the sheets....blasting passion of life and the nirvana of the night. The 'Sleep'. Tonight she came late and left early.....skinned me to total nudeness of my soul.......

The brook, Shongbhen Kholsa,  remained perpetual and flowing but during the winter it became anorexic and thin like thread.  Hidden beneath the Utis, Siris and devil's trumpets, it whispered happily and gave me my childhood company. I would rush with a "Batcha Kombi", small sickle basically Rainees keep handy for obvious reasons. With lots of effort, as it may of a boy of five, would cut the best bamboo shoot-let and make a split to install water ways. I would, with my tiny fingers bulldoze mud and scoop out sands, make a large dent. The water would pour in and raise rapidly, flooding away the embankment for which I would work again. With my starred shorts and torn away t-shirt, I would work and smear away my nasal discharge quite at quick successions. Only this time, the muddy water would raise up to the brim, spill over the bamboo split and run through it and fall like a tiny waterfall. I would wonder and engineer more of such feats. I would not realize that my Mama would be freaking searching for me everywhere, except for the place where I remain engaged. She would call me "kailash" on top of her voice. Then I would stop thinking for a  moment, leave everything as it may and rush out of my workshop. She would be waiting for me with a stick at hand, for I know she would use it purposefully for about three to four times. I would beg her not to but she would not like to spare the rod. I would sob and forget as earnestly. Such drama would last my childhood, only the circumstances would change. Then she would call on for lunch. We would have early lunch at village because the three quarter of the day is tremendously important. Today, I am going with Nana Kanchi, Sister, to cattle graze and tendering. I would eat my meal fast enough and follow Nana. She would ask me not to trail her but for me, its a fun. I would beg her, Nana please let me come with you......after few disapprovals, she would allow me to accompany her to the vicinity. The Punri, Ramree, Sindure......few of the cows and buffaloes names I could remember. For certain reasons, buffaloes were kept in my family then. Ramree was that buffalo, a Gujrati breed, supposed to be the best for milk and cheese, and yes, she was the best. For me, it was gentle and sober, would allow me to ride on her back while she would graze and graze on. The animals would go to the brook to drink, and I see them vandalizing my hard work and complicated water ways that I created the other times. I would wait on the high ground so that when this Ramree passed, I would jump at its back and stick there for as long as I could doze away. She would allow me to do so and shear through the jungle of thorny vines to the open green grass. By the time we would come out of our plant tunnel, I would be covered with leaves, sticking through my hairs and shirt. Then she would dig her head in grass while I would try the flute Bhakta bua giftee me. Nana, would climb some fig trees and prune of some branches, I could see that the animals would run around for the feast. Occasionally, tussling and stealing a branch. I would listen to folk songs, while she sang on. I could see horn bills as big as it could be, beating air with a huge pair of wings, almost creating whirl wind around. Some other time, my Deema would tell me the tales of these wonderful birds. The sun at its zenith would treat us brutally, we would scoop pond at the marshy landscape and wait for a moment for the sediments to precipitate and clear out. Then with bamboo straws, drink to our thirst. We would share with animals......the month of  may would be the most lethargic one, basically the concoction of hot sun, long monotonous cicada cricking and the opeating planting auxin in the air would make you drowsier than a score of beer. Nana, would check on her citizen, and would announce its time to go home. She would give a call and all animals would fall in a file and start home. The heat on the bull would be nasty, and he takes chance on the line, creating a chaos. Nana would pelt a stone and shout at him to pacify him. The line would terminate as these animals would take their own place, for the nose to go in. For today, we would be done. I would rush home, almost running and sprinting. Mama, would be waiting me with black tea and puff corn. The menu changes often from sweet potatoes, pan cakes to fried rice. The in-between snack did magic and I would wizz off to play foot ball in the field. It would be always the biggest terrace in the field, rolled by playing football for half of the year. It presents dusty but remarkably popular field. Village boys have already gathered with football made out of some cloth pieces covered by slices of rubber bands and covered by spider net. It is the most priced possession as of now.....and I would fight for this ball. Playing football, the infamous experience of any of my contemporaries. I played and lost my toe nails more than often. We would play till we could see the silhouette of the ball on its trajectory to opponent's goal post......diluted in the air, I could hear Mama calling home for the dinner. We would disperse away, without the promise to see tomorrow, but we would play the game. At the threshold, Mama would be waiting for me and would tease me of the lashes........  

Chapter 6.

Mama (My Mother)

She stood at the trunk of the fig tree and gazed. In her hand she was clutching a piece of paper and was wondering about her endeavour. She was restless, anxious and dazed. There came a man who is the friend of her lover. She waved at him and with a smile she passed on that piece of paper to him. Tell my man not to fail me daju……she asserted in her maiden voice. Ok bainee, the man gave her a quick smile and walked out. It was Sunday, November, 1974. The social structures at villages were still too conventional. They came from Rai families who are supposed to be very traditional in their ways of life and marriages. Village headman was the rule……..every word he spoke ought to be listened. Girl children were protected and were given in marriage to a man of their consent. She was nervous about the evening when her man would be summoned for the acid test. She crossed her fingers and prayed. The sun slowly made his way to the horizon. It has become big ruddy and simmering. Red hue blanketed the sky while birds flew to their broods. She fetched water from the pond, closed the coo door of her chicken and went inside and waited. She sat on the threshold and expected. A man of his age, tall slender, mustached and fashionable was preparing for the meet. In jeans and neatly tugged cottons, he is but a handsome man, almost like Greek god. Mr. D P do not get nervous, teases sharply by his friend, Mr. Pradhan. Well, I am not, in slightly in-confidence retorts D P. In a moment, two men were trailing the foot path, slightly hurrying, slightly hesitating. They walked through the tea garden, crossing brooks and Fhagu Khola. They walked up hill stoned steps, straight replica of Mayan builders. Finally, their steps took last stride; they stood standing on the small grassed uneven court yard. There host, a man of 60s was sitting on a stool and enjoying his smoke. He got up folded hands in response to exchange Seewaroos, Rai ways of greetings. A lady of mid 50s came out from the house and greeted these lads, with a slightly doubting smile. They looked at each other. His most anticipated host was missing, he felt flat and test-less.his eyes roved and rolled….his friend caught the message instantly. They sat still, exchanging conversations with their hosts with his attention diverted to and absentee. Almost by providence, an angelic persona in her late teens bubbled up with a tray of Darjeeling teas and Tibetean cookies. Cascading hair, average build, Mongoloid eyes, apple cheeks and red chilies lips. She is but more than beautiful….pleasant nature and charismatic voice. Please, have tea she tries to present herself as much normally as possible but she obviously is shaky, nervous and excited. As she serves her guest, she catches his eyes, locks for a moment and shies away. The old man queries their coming, where from and other petties to drag this conversations. They answer each question with brutal obedience that old man is already impressed. They sat on the foyer of double stories wooden bungalow, sipping tea and consuming in conversation. The pretension is that they knew the crux of this meet. Slowly, evening at puberty started to mature, the hills seems bigger and ghostly. Dot by dot stars started to appear in the sky, happy moon in his youth lazily crossing the sky smiled, birds chirping in collection, parliament of owls cooking politics of catching insects and bugs, rodents and rats in their evening din. Invitees gathered one by one and groom is called on. The family head tallies bride and grooms horoscopes and consents over home brew beer and eateries. The ceremony dragged unnecessary longer and longer as they drank more by the gallons. Finally, the bride, their daughter was declared taken with traditional but symbolic handing taking formalities. It’s a common tradition in Rais to transfer the death responsibilities towards bride’s side. This is done by invoking Maang and hitting the bell metal thrice. By the time it was ante meridian one; every one dispersed and went to bed. Januka, the bride, went to her room and packed her belonging for next day journey to Bhutan. Unknown, tiring and long. She held memories of her birthplace tightly and broke into tears till she went to oblivion.

The next morning was a sad, emotional and weeping affair. Januka was given a ceremonial farewell, queue of friends and relatives waving her good byes. She waved her red kerchief and tiny hands. As she walked, her eyes became blurred, smudged and in a moment everyone disappeared. She walked in deep silent, heavy heart and unknown. She stopped and turned back for final glance of her village. She gazed for a long time as to catch every details……then unwillingly walked with her man, never to look back again…..