Watchman Nicodin

Tea estates are a talent pool for sports , I say it with assertion due to my enriching experience of a life in tea. The young tribal youth are excellent footballers, born runners and supreme archers . 

Inter estate football tournaments were an annual fixture. Friendly matches between the management and workers always helped in fostering better work environment. The girls had their own soccer teams and played as well as the boys. A girl from our bungalow complement was a talented centre forward herself. If only authorities knew where to look for talent. 

Our postings in the estates brought home to us the reality of sheer tribal strength, so also their simplicity. Their courage and loyalty remain distinctive of their character. A veteran tea planter was heard saying , " If they like you, they can cut their heads off for you and if they don't, you can be on the receiving end!" 

Yet, they have a unique sense of humour and the estates abound with instances of such hilarity. 

During one of our postings in a picturesque estate in the Dooars, the deputation of a new watchman in the Manager's bungalow, created a bit of a buzz among our bungalow staff. For starters, we found his name , Nicodin, interesting. So, watchman Nicodin was a tall man in his forties probably. His legs began where his chest ended and his vision was more aerial than anyone else's in the estate. A brick red, fitted pullover, deep brown trousers and worn out black, slightly undersized sandals; this was the ensemble I remember him in. 

Anyway, the reason why Nicodin aroused interest and curiosity among his peers could be attributed to the fact that he was the only man in the estate who could shoot three arrows at time! His skill in archery was put to test and soon, we found the act a source of great entertainment too. Often, acts of imitation ended in embarrassment with one arrow shooting out while the other two failing to escape the bow strings! Thus, Nicodin earned a place of pride for himself. 

I remember how we learnt archery or at least tried to, when the bungalow staff made bows and harmless arrows for us. My sister and I would spend some afternoons practicing archery in our lawns . 

In all these years, I am yet to come across an archer as unique as Watchman Nicodin, the man who shot three arrows at a time, and guarded us while we slept peacefully on our king sized beds .

The Woman

Out there somewhere 

Is a Woman of the world 

Who can have the 

The Devil run for cover

Oh Man! She's a Woman 

If you try to fathom 

The depth of her heart 

You'll only see a blur 

When she loves you 

Just know it's true 

Believe and love her back 

That should suffice 

For a Woman of the world 

Just when you thought 

Your life's calm as the seas

She storms in and 

Holds your heart hostage

She's a bomb shot cocktail 

A Woman in a Man's world.

Passionate and fierce 

She gives it all she has

But can take it all back 

Still think you're in control ?

But you've been jägerbombed!

By a Woman of the world.

Intoxicating and potent

Bitter and sweet 

She's here to survive 

In a world, so cosmetic 

Cause she's a bomb shot cocktail 

Who's jägerbombed your 

Glass of mundanity!

A Woman beyond compare.

M.Neog

( Dew drops)

Merry Mix Ups

I must've been around 10 or 11 years of age then . It was when I was making a delicate transition to adolescence . Fancy clothes and cosmetics began to influence my taste. I preserved my mother's empty perfume bottles in my cupboard and often stared at the pretty bottles, holding them against the light. I had trapped my rainbows in them ..

I waited for a chance to apply my mother's lipsticks; I found the shades so flattering. All this on the sly because I was told that one applied makeup only after stepping into college. I have a confession to make about the kohl pencils though ; the first time I applied it, I had frightened myself ! No matter how carefully I tried to line my eyes, I always looked hideous! 

It was actually in college that started applying kohl and lipstick with my mother's official sanction. My first shade of lipstick was a 'hypnotic rouge' from Lakmé . 

This incident occurred sometime in my pre teens. The washroom was a place where I could spend hours, reading the literature in all the toiletries . With three women in the house, the shelves barely had space for my father's shaving kit. 

Also, my father had a propensity to apply the wrong products on himself. And so it happened one day that when he went in to shower, he took a little longer than usual. Since he responded on being called , there was no panic. 

Almost after an hour , he came out rubbing his scalp in disappointment. He asked us why the shampoo hadn't lathered up at all despite massaging it on his scalp for a good ten minutes . My mother sensed potential tragedy, she went in to check what he had applied. To her utter horror, she discovered that he had picked up the bottle of a hair removing lotion labeled ' Soft and Silky' instead of 'Sunsilk' shampoo; both pink in color and placed on the same shelf !! There was no time to waste after that . There were repeated head washes to remove any residue of the solution from his scalp. 

We looked at him in disbelief. That night, we slept with an unpleasant anticipation . We couldn't visualise him all bald the next morning.. 

On waking up the next day, he only had to look at our expressions to get his answer . He had a close shave , quite literally ! Our cheerful faces provided him relief before he looked into the mirror. 

 

The Goat That Ate My Loaf

Back in my primary school years , passing a test or an examination was always rewarded with sweets or chocolates. Unlike the present times when we feel compelled to buy more 'substantial ' gifts for our kids, we seemed content with a packet from the local confectioner . Growing up in a Bengali household, sweets were central to our celebrations, irrespective of the scale of our achievements. Thus, receiving a national award called for an earthen pot of ' Roshogollas' as much as passing a grade at primary school. 

Times changed and the 'Roshogolla' was ignominiously replaced by pastries and puffs that found favour with our generation. 

On one of the many such moments when we strode out of the school holding on to my progress report jubilantly, my mother rode me to the only bakery in town, for a treat of cream rolls and pineapple pastries . I rarely catch a sight of cream rolls in the plush bakeries these days. 

She parked the scooter close enough to be within her view and we went into the bakery. Along with the pastries and rolls, she picked up some dinner rolls and a loaf of bread for the house. She carried the packets out and put them in carefully into the front carrier. The loaf of bread just about made it into its spot. Then, she felt the urge to buy some chocolates as well and went back into the bakery, asking me to stand guard over the purchases. 

From the corner of my eye, I sensed a shadow lurking around the scooter. That shadow turned out to be a large black goat that was too close for comfort. I don't know whether the goat was too large or if I was too small to shoo it away, but it stared at me almost threateningly and came straight for the loaf of bread which was wrapped in paper. Before I could gather courage to react, our visitor had treated itself to half the loaf ! Meanwhile, my mother stepped out of the bakery and paused in shock and amazement , both at my goof up as well the audacity of the goat ! It saw her and cantered away , bleating with a sense of victory. 

That year , I had done surprisingly well in Mathematics and I shall always remember it , for, the goat ate my loaf !!